A year on, I walked the rooms as one walks past a new haircut in a shop window, hoping for improvement rather than rearrangement. March is a blunt critic. The bathroom and the wardrobe answered before I could compose a defence.

A dark bloom on the ceiling, met by HG mould spray. Left, wiped, aired. If the black is in the wall, write to the landlord.

Nivea Creme Soft restored the shower to the idea of a clean towel, for the price of a newspaper.

Order returned to a rail by Fifty velvet hangers: velvet, slim, numerous enough that a door can close and a black garment can be found.

The closer product notes, should you want them: here, here, here.

The house did not require a personality. It required those rooms told the truth. The rest could wait, and did.