Since moving to my dream home in the country a month ago, I’ve only had to fight a parking dispute, a right of way dispute, a council tax dispute and a dispute over my neighbour’s loft room being several feet inside my house.
‘It’s going well, isn’t it?’ I said to the builder boyfriend, as we sat slumped on the dusty sofas in our front room overlooking the idyllic village green at the end of another hard day’s country living.
‘What is that lump sticking out of the plaster up there?’ he said, looking beyond me to the right-hand corner of the ceiling.
‘I don’t want to know,’ I said. ‘All things considered, if it’s not a part of their house coming into our house, or an improvised explosive device planted there by militant villagers in protest at the space our car is taking up outside our house, I’m going to ignore it.
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