It’s now been five years since we moved out to the sticks. One day we were enjoying city centre living like pigs in the proverbial, the next we were in the smallest cottage in the county surrounded by the stuff. Such is country life in the Norfolk flatlands.

We’ve been invaded by ants, spiders, moles, slugs and rabbits, been charged at by a seriously pissed-off heffer and kept awake by bloodcurdling screeching and the unforgiving dawn squawk. We’ve also endured fierce storms, leaks and the occasional power cut. And like everyone else, we were put under house arrest by a pandemic.

Local wildlife of the human kind is mostly friendly, though. No doubt, the odd blue-crested bigot still lurks in the undergrowth, but they’re an endangered species nowadays.

It’s our sixth move since we met that fateful evening 18 years ago in a West End gay bar, and unless we end up in a maximum security care home for the bewildered, I reckon this’ll be our final resting place. Never did I imagine as a young gay about London town that I would end my days in the middle of nowhere. But I’ve never been happier or more satisfied with my lot. I feel blessed.