I need you to tell me exactly where to go

Do you fancy playing God? Well now’s your chance. This week I’m offering one of you a unique proposition: you get to decide what happens to the rest of my life. Not just my life but, more importantly, the lives of Girl, Boy and the Fawn. (But not the Rat: he’s OK, he has grown up and moved out.) You get to decide where we live, and, by logical extension, who our new friends are, what we do in our spare time and, ultimately, whether or not we die hideously in a pool of abject misery or go on to experience a modicum of happiness in this vale of tears.

Here’s the deal. We’re moving out of London; we’re looking for somewhere to rent in the country but we’re really not sure where or what or how. The only definites are that we have to have fast broadband (otherwise we can’t do our jobs), we need at least four bedrooms (otherwise we can’t have an office, or friends to stay) and it can’t be too hideously remote from London, Windsor or Malvern, plus, complicatingly, Folkestone for a one-day-a-week commute.