I'm sticking with the ecology/ conservation theme and resolutely leaving my kitchen to nature this weekend. There's already a primordial soup forming in the bottom of the kitchen sink which will be capable of sustaining a number of invertebrate life forms by the end of the day. The dust motes in the corners will be handy bedding for small mammals and Darius is sure to remain hidden in the huge pile of ironing casting a shadow across the utility room to ensure that the top of the food chain is represented.

The rest of the house isn't far off completing a perfect little microcosm. Jack's bedroom is a bit of an environmental disaster. Toxic waste spilling out of it, noxious gases emanating from beneath the festering piles of socks and assorted sports supportware and slicks of oily greasy substances oozing across his shelf next to his mirror.

The bathroom is a misty, swampy area, emitting strange noises, thanks largely to the slap-dash plumbing. The temperature is sub-tropical.

Then there's the barren Siberian plains of my bedroom. Driven white bedding on cream furnishings, untouched by sight or sound of man. A solitary table the only feature on the horizon ( I've begun to realise how defeatist it was to buy just the one - "Expects to sleep alone").

I'm going to join my new friends from the Wildlife Trust on a Saturday morning walk around the private gardens and grounds of the late Colonel. I remember him from my childhood. A tall, thin man with large military whiskers and tweed plus-fours. He was almost a caricature from a Wodehouse novel. He never married, yet despite this I am not aware of there ever being any scandal about him and the young bush-beaters on his shoot or the many farm hands working on his tenanted farms.

I'm not particularly motivated by the prospect of being able to watch rare birds of prey swooping over the Capability Brown-esque landscape or being able to take a bark rubbing from one of the many specimen trees. It's more the chance to wander about a hidden secret corner that is closed to the general public, perhaps the opportunity to sneak a peek through the windows of the Hall, a renovation project undoubtedly crying out for attention. The closest I've ever got is to see the tall chimney pots through the thick curtain of trees behind the tall brick wall running arounds its perimeter.

And I hear he left the lot to a nephew, unmarried, made a name for himself in the City, early forties. What greater motivation can a girl have to spend the morning in the country.