Jim’s return from the high seas meant that Shaker were able to reconvene at Mulbuie Hall and go through the new batch of songs I’d hurriedly learned in the last few days after ignoring his CD for most of the previous two weeks.

Or so I thought. All we played was the old stuff, the consensus being that we’d better get that right first. Gratifyingly, on the whole we did – although Adam suffered an embarrassingly major fret discrepancy whilst attempting to emulate Franz Ferdinand. He and Jim will hold a guitarists-only session soon.

The prospect of a real, live, paying gig in August has been an inspiration to Matt. He’s now the proud owner of a very nice rug (the design suggests it was stolen from a pensioner’s home) on which he set up his hyper-active drum kit. He’s also invested in new skins and three sets of new sticks to replace the firewood used in the past. That’s his first pay packet blown already.

Highlight of the evening was the mature lady who sidled into the hall near the end of the rehearsal. Naturally, everyone thought she’d come to tell us to turn the racket down – rather worrying as the nearest home is at least 200 yards away. The other possibility was that she wanted her rug back. But no – her son is planning a bash to celebrate his birthday (which one wasn’t made clear). Could she book us?

So we now have an unexpected gig in mid-June and about three-quarters of a gigsworth of material. We’re going to be busy.

I am doing my part in stimulating the economy by taking a cruise to Alaska next month. I know some of you must have done this before. Is there any stops or sights I should not miss?

Further insight into Matchgirl’s home life during her time alone came to light during negotiations over the next phase of The Grand Reorganisation.

The kitchen area features a selection of wall switches, one of which is left permanently on; a strip of paper bearing the hand-written command “Do not turn off” is taped over the switch. As the kitchen is my domain I’ve often wondered about this, but not enough to question Matchgirl, and as I’m not one of Terry Pratchett’s wizards I didn’t feel compelled to flick the switch to see what happened.

Now I’m officially in residence I decided that the information might be useful. She had no idea. However, I learned that the handwriting belongs to the owner of the abandoned guitar, her ex-partner’s ex-girlfriend, who left the country many years ago.

All this didn’t come as a huge surprise, for I’ve grown used to Matchgirl’s laissez faire approach to The Rural Retreat: the paintwork of one wall is scarred by a long-expired moggy, and by the doorway are children’s height-growth markings made by the Retreat’s last-but-one owner. The homeliness adds to the charm of our residence.

Her tendency to leave things as they’ve always been does raise one very interesting question – what’s in the attic? She’s never ventured inside, for fear of being mugged by mutant spiders, so any kind of treasure could be secreted there, awaiting discovery. We may be living beneath one of Picasso’s lost masterpieces or a hoard of Jacobite silver. We may never have to work again!

An exploration will be carried out eventually, when she’s found the correct Indiana Jones hat for me to wear, but there’s no rush. Anything that’s survived the close attentions of The Rural Retreat’s ravenous rodents will rest easy for another month or two.

Found myself nodding so hard in agreement with a news item on TV last night  I almost got whiplash. 

As someone who lived there for more than three years, news of the earthquake in China stopped me in my tracks as I made my way home from work last night. It has momentarily taken the devastation caused by the cyclone in Burma off the front pages. The media within China is reporting the scale of the devastation much more openly that it might have done five years ago.

Today Mr Vendor visited my house – I am now at the mercy of property consultants.

We chewed the fat for a while about property prices, market conditions and sensible expectations as a prelude to his explanation of the terms and conditions under which services are offered by his fine firm. That done, he took a snazzy laser device from his briefcase to measure the dimensions of my rooms, then nipped outside to take a couple of photographs.

He left me with a sheaf of papers (currently unsigned) bearing his promise to sell my house without cheating me and my promise to give him lots of money for doing so. He also left a warning that my passport, driving licence and utility bills would be scrutinised later to make sure that I’m not laundering money for drugs barons.

The sale process has begun. Four months to the wedding. Which will be completed first? Watch this space.

Culinary Update: Yesterday I took my first harvest from Matchgirl’s unlikely rhubarb crop, and very satisfying it was, ripping a few stalks from the earth, rinsing them under the tap and eating them barely ninety minutes later. Rhubarb Crumble – Matchgirl was in rapture, but that may have been the sugar rush. You wouldn’t believe how much the recipe calls for. Cream too. catsback the no-diet dieter will be most jealous.

Musical Update: I’ve handed my notice in to the Rhythm Devils – the lack of a local drummer appeared likely never to be rectified and life has become too busy for an almost band. This means all my hopes of rock stardom, fame and fortune rest with Shaker. Hmmm…

Matchgirl has a relaxed attitude toward household management and had not been looking forward to my new broom – needed if I am to bring more of my things into The Rural Retreat. That’s why a fresh start in a home new to both prospective marriage partners is the ideal. However, she accepted that something had to be done now the decision has been made to stay on in her place. The spare bedroom (which doesn’t actually contain a bed) was the best room in which to demonstrate my skills.

I’ve never hankered after a huge house; a small space suits me fine, which I reckon goes back to childhood. As an only boy with three sisters my bedroom was invariably the box room so I’ve been used to making best use of limited cubic capacity for a long time. (My mother may scoff at that.) In an hour or two I’d reorganised the furniture, repacked shelves and revealed an impressive expanse of floor area that Matchgirl hadn’t seen for years. I also discovered a box containing unworn spike-heeled black sling-backs, still wrapped in tissue paper, that she’d forgotten she owned. Yes – the chaos was that chaotic.

Out of the tumult emerged a study, dressing room and bike gear storage area. There’s also room to let down the sofa-bed or place a blow-up mattress for the benefit of unfussy guests. Fussy ones don’t get invitations. Matchgirl was impressed – although not enough that she wished The Grand Reorganisation to continue further that day. A girl can take only so much violation of her personal space.

She’s now promised to take a ruthless rampage through The Rural Retreat to rid herself of more junk before I turn my attention to the main living area. And junk there is in plenty: in the space beneath the stairs I discovered a guitar belonging to Matchgirl’s ex-partner’s ex-girlfriend. Before I entered her life, Matchgirl had lived alone for more than three years…

In the evening we visited Dee and Don to collect the lawnmower they’ve loaned us until Matchgirl’s machine is fully fettled by Frank Nicol or one of his minions. This turned into dinner followed by drinks, but, as Don eschews alcohol and I was driving, the bulk was consumed by the gentle sex.

The tipple of choice was a violently-yellow concoction of Italian origin which impressed the ladies in part because of its slim and shapely bottle. Almost half disappeared with little effort, even after the list of ingredients was found to include, in first place, “hidro-alcoholic solution”. Yummy. Grappa, sugar and lemon skins also featured.

Neither of the alco-pop enthusiasts could grasp that, despite its shape, the bottle contained the same volume as any other bottle of spirits, and at 30% alc was not a lot weaker. Matchgirl woke in reasonable shape this morning. Dee has yet to make contact.

An otherwise lovely weekend was interrupted on Saturday when Grace, out playing in the garden, was heard to exclaim: "Oh look - a rat!"