As we all know, only the best friends can deliver bad personal news. And so it was for me about six months ago, over a seafood lunch, that one of my closest pals gave me the ghastly tidings. My friend had just stayed in my small but fabulously located London flat for a fortnight, while I was travelling. He was suitably grateful, but less than effusive about the living conditions. After some humming and hahing, he got to the point. ‘Mate, your flat is a dump. Great location and all that, but eesh, when did you last do it up?!’

O for the gift to see our homes as others see them. Armed with this gift I went back to my beloved domicile, and realised, my God, he’s right. What I thought was a noble state of benign neglect – who cares if there’s a mustard stain on the ceiling (thank you, my dysp

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