I lift up my spray gun nozzle and point it at his face

1 PM, and I’m in the shower cubicle, choking on bleach fumes; my excitement at selling the house, I think [scrub... scrub], has been worn thin [scrub... scrub] by constant cleaning.

The shower door opens unexpectedly. I jump. It is my husband, shouting something at me.

He looks extremely nervous.

“What’s wrong?” I say, turning off the shower.

“You look like you’re going to shoot me with that,” he says, looking at my hand; I am pointing the spray-nozzle of a bottle of Cillit Bang directly at his chest.

“What do you need to tell me that’s so pressing it can’t wait until my eyes have at least stopped streaming with bleach?” I say.

“Put that spray gun down,” he says. “Why?” I say, lowering my spray gun warily, “what have you done?”

He rests one crutch against the wall and retrieves the phone from his shirt-pocket with a free hand.

“Guess who just called.” I lift up my spray gun and point its nozzle at his face. “Ok, ok,” he says, “one of the papers. They want to do a feature on our house.

"The woman who called said it was going to be ‘House of the Week’. I think it’s going to be a sort of lifestyle piece... you know - a ‘rural idyll’ sort of thing.”

“A lifestyle piece?” I say, “if they want a lifestyle piece, then they should take a photograph of us now and underneath it put, “Wife Naked In The Shower With Cillit-Bang While Husband Relaxes On Crutches”.

“I thought you’d be delighted,” he says, looking immensely chipper, “I mean it’ll definitely help the sale.”

“Delighted?” I say, “my sisters are going to have a ****ing field day with this.”

4pm.

The landline rings. I race in from the garden, with lopping-shears and a big red face. It’s my middle sister. Mum has told her about the lifestyle piece. It’s hard to decipher what she’s saying, what with all the laughing.

“Get off the bloody phone,” I say, “the woman from the paper is calling in a minute. In fact, she’s probably trying to get through right now.”

“Make sure to tell her about the bathrooms,” she says, “and how those antique boxes you got from that stupid flea-market never have any ****ing loo-paper in them.

"Oh and how your cutlery drawer has just one fork in it. For sharing. Get them to take a photo of your sharing fork.”

6pm.

The landline rings. It’s my youngest sister. I am remaking beds for a viewing tomorrow. “Well?” she says.

“Well what?”

“How did the interview go?”

“She wanted to know about the flower chandeliers and paintings and...”

“Yawn,” she says, “spare me the chandelier-chat, what about the linen-cupboard?” “What about it?”

“That it’s like playing Lucky-Dip? You stick your hand in hoping for a towel and come out with a ****ing shoe. And how you hand your house guests old pillow-cases and say, ‘just use that instead’.” “I did that once,” I say.

“And the fridge?” she continues, “did you tell her about the way the milk falls straight off that broken shelf onto your feet every time you open the door?”

6.30pm, and I am re-painting a patch of ceiling-boards above the wood-burner, which have been darkened by smoke.

My husband clacks into the sitting-room on his crutches. The house-phone is clamped between his teeth.

He sits down, removing the phone from his mouth, and passes it to me. It’s my middle sister again. I hand him my paintbrush and take the phone.

“Well?” she says, “what was it like?” “It was a phone interview,” I say. “And?”

“And,” I say, “she had the photos in front of her on the computer and I had to answer questions about them.”

“What questions?” “Well, she asked me about the red mantelpiece in the...” “Never mind the red mantelpiece,” she says, “what about the kitchen?”

“She asked me about the hand-painted dressers,” I say.

“Sod those,” she says, “cut to the chase.” I take a deep breath. There is nothing for it.

“She asked me to talk her through my kitchen appliances.” My sister laughs so hard she has to ring off. I resume my painting.

7pm.

My youngest sister calls back. She has been told about the appliances question.

“So tell me,” she says, “what appliances did you find in your kitchen to talk through - a slotted spoon?”