A dash to the mountains to open up the house for friends who are hoping for a little late ski-ing. Mr Fitzpatrick and I always have the same conversation as we labor up the final kilometer of track in first gear: what disaster awaits us? Burst pipes? Phone lines down? The house broken into by a bored youth gang and used as a venue for goat sacrifice? Or, unhappy thought, will the ghiri have taken possession?

Ghiri are small squirrel-type animals native to northern Italy. Their ancestors lived in trees but your 21st century ghiro prefers to bunk down in a nice snug attic where he survives the winter eating nuts and berries and chunks of load-bearing beam. At a push they’ll also snack on down-filled comforters, orthopedic mattresses and sheepskin boots. Come the spring they are reputed to give up these home comforts and go foraging, leaping from branch to branch as their forebears did of old. Ours though seem to have lost their folk memory. They stay put and have set up some kind of ghiro fitness center in our roof. Circuit training starts round about midnight.

We follow the example of the locals and kill the little bastards when we get our hands on them. The Friuliani say, ‘In Aosta they eat ghiri. With polenta.’ Than which there cannot be a more withering regional insult.

Our neighbors have acquired a fourth dog: yet another incontinent mis-shape who howls at his own shadow. Also two new geese and a pen full of adolescent turkeys. Did you ever really look at a turkey? Further evidence that God has a sense of humor.

A relief to get back to the city for some peace.