I think a person ought to be able to feel safe in their own home, but that ‘ought’ has some heavy lifting to do, at times.

Living in a remote location is great (nature, privacy, quiet, good mental health…) until you realise just how very far you are from assistance if you need it.

I was in bed one night, recently – using a different bedroom to Mrs Marsh because I was ill and I didn’t want to keep her awake with my endless coughing. It was around midnight when I heard the front door being opened: it tends to swell in the wet weather and pulling or pushing it open can be quite a battle.

Everyone had gone to bed at least an hour earlier, so what was going on?

In my guest bedroom, downstairs, I cast about for anything that might serve as a weapon – and all I could find was an airgun. I loaded it and went from room to room, barefoot in the dark, clearing the ground floor and listening carefully for any hint that an intruder might have gone upstairs.

I heard footsteps on the gravel driveway, approaching the house. I yanked open the front door… and it was Mrs Marsh. She’d seen on social media that the northern lights were putting on an exceptional display and she’d slipped downstairs and gone out, not putting on any lights so as to preserve her night vision as much as possible. Sure enough, the aurora borealis were spectacular – and I had some explaining to do!

Sometimes, when you expect trouble, good things still happen.