Sunshine at the Comfort Food Cafe. Debbie Johnson

      The gardens and shrubberies are overgrown and tangled, but someone seems to have been making some headway. Whoever it was must have had a machete, and possibly an army of Oompa Loompas to help him. I automatically start singing the Oompa Loompa song at that point, which isn’t quite as melodic as the background sounds of birdsong and the breeze ruffling the leaves of the oak trees.

      It’s very strange to be back here, and it takes a lot to qualify as strange in my world. If I close my eyes, turn my face up to the sun, and stop singing the Ooompa Loompa song, I can almost travel back in time. I can hear the sound of my brothers and sister laughing; their footsteps scudding across the gravel; my mother chanting something insanely silly that she tries to convince people is a sign of deep spiritual awakening while a bunch of teenagers try to stifle their giggles.

      That particular memory – the one of my much younger mum – makes me feel a tinge of sadness, so I try and put it away in a box and jump on its head. I’m wearing Doc Martens mentally as well as physically, so I give it a good old stomp to make sure it stays down.

      It’s been a mad twenty-four hours, and getting no less mad now I’m here, after that brief and possibly hallucinogenic detour to the pond in the woods first. I know I’m tired, even if I don’t actually feel it – I’ve trained myself out of noticing fatigue in the last few years, but it still lurks inside me, like a jack-in-the-box waiting to spring up and catch me. And when I’m tired, my thought processes tend to trip over themselves, impossible to follow.

      Yep. It’s been a weird start to the day – but now I have to make it better. Only I can do that, and I need to focus on the sunshine and the birdsong instead of taking a trip on a memory train that will deposit me in a lonely station at the end of the line.

      I re-read the list, and think it’s a fairly good summary of my day. I also seem to have accidentally created my very own psychedelic acid trip without the need for any pharmaceuticals at all: the neon pink notepad and bright green gel pen are resting on my knees, and I’m wearing leggings with pictures of yellow Minions on them. Funky.

      I stretch my arms, and glory in the feel of the sun on my skin. It’s like God has reached down to stroke my face – and He’s wearing really warm oven gloves.

      It’s been a long, nasty winter, and I feel that sense of absolute amazement I get every year when the spring arrives. It’s odd, because it does happen every single year – but each time, I’m taken aback by it. Our quiet corner of Dorset has had a lot of snow over the cold months, and I’ve been used to wearing long johns and seventeen pairs of gloves every day. Now, much to my surprise, it’s warm again … who’d have thunk it?

      ‘What do you reckon, Bella?’ I say, to the dog sleeping at my feet. ‘Time to get to work?’

      Bella doesn’t answer. Mainly because she’s a ten-year-old Border Terrier, and not exactly the chatty type. She doesn’t even bark, never mind talk.

      She does get up though, making direct eye contact with me while she squats down and has a wee, as though that’s her way of replying.

      ‘Yeah. Well, I’m glad you agree,’ I say, as I walk towards my van to get my cleaning supplies.

      My van is small and white and has a rainbow painted on the side. My mum painted the rainbow, and we’re both very proud of it. There’s a dream catcher hanging in the window, and Mum decorated the back with some ancient, yellowing stickers she found in a drawer – telling people to Ban the Bomb, Save the Whales and Hug a Tree. Sound advice, as long as you don’t get them confused and end up hugging a bomb, or banning the poor whales.

      Whenever I drive it, it kind of looks like I should be giving hitch-hikers a lift to a festival in 1976, or protesting at Greenham Common, or going on tour with Led Zeppelin. It’s actually full of cleaning products, some of which I have to hide from my mother because they contain chemicals stronger than baking soda. My mother has Alzheimer’s, and often doesn’t know who I am – but she can spot a planet-killing detergent at 300 yards.

      Bella, tired from her toilet efforts, lies on the grass. She stares with very little interest at a small flight of swallows who are also celebrating the unexpected return of spring, swirling and diving around the fountain. She lets out one very ladylike fart, then curls up into a furry ball. I remain unconvinced that any part of her genetic make-up is descended from a wolf.

      I put my notepad down on the front seat, and realise I need to start a new one soon. I never expected to enjoy it so much, but I do. I start every entry with the same words – name, rank and serial number – before making my ‘What’s Happened to Willow Today’ list.

      It’s a bit long-winded, but it’s become a habit – and as habits go, it’s not as bad as, say, crack cocaine or eating your own bogies in public (in private is a different matter – we’ve all done it).

      I started the note-keeping when Mum’s case worker recommended she do something called Life Story Work. As by that stage my mum’s life story seemed to have stopped – in her mind at least – at about 1999, it seemed like a good idea.

      It’s a way of helping her stay in touch with her memories and regain an element of control – reminding herself of who she was and who she is, I suppose. Sometimes I catch her reading it quietly, glancing up at me every now and then, and I know she’s trying to re-make the connections between her little girl and the grown-up woman standing before her.

      Yes, it’s sad – but it’s happy too, in its own way. Celebratory. And she’s really good at it. She’s always been one of those craftsy people, my mum, and her book is a beautiful patchwork collage of photos and postcards and old ticket stubs and even those little plastic bracelets they put on babies in hospital. It’s part life story, part diary, part practical – amid the reminiscences and memories, she’ll add in little reminders, like her address, and my phone number, and the name of the dog. We’ve had a series of Border Terriers, and she sometimes gets them confused.

      At first, I started up my own notepad just to keep her company and make it all feel a bit less weird. But I’ve got into it – and who knows? Maybe one day I’ll need it myself. Scary diary. For the time being, it’s a bit of free therapy at least.

      I usually make lists in it, as I don’t have a lot of time on my own to sit and indulge in stream of consciousness rants. Lists keep it simple and usually make me laugh when I read them back. I once wrote the words ‘sausage rolls are brilliant’. On ten separate lines. I guess I’d really enjoyed a sausage roll that day.

      Today, though … well, today, I had lots to report, didn’t I? Especially about the imaginary Edward Cullen, who may or may not be real, and may or may not be the new owner of Briarwood.

      There has been much talk in the village about this new owner. About who it might be, and when he or she might get here, and whether they’ll be part of the gang or just play lord of the manor. About why they wanted to buy the place at all, given the state of it. We’ve spent literally hours debating it in the café. What can I say? Not much happens round here.

      Frank, Cherie’s husband, reckons it’s some foreign investor who’s going to tart it up as a posh corporate retreat for stressed executives. Frank is a farmer, but he has a vivid imagination. Edie May, who is almost ninety-two and has an even better imagination, reckons it’s been bought by Tom Cruise as a holiday home – but she’s not been quite right since her niece bought her a Mission: Impossible box set. Laura, who manages the café and is a bit of a soppy romantic, is convinced that it’s a young couple looking for a dream home to raise a family in.

      I’m here at Briarwood because I’m being paid to clean the place, by an estate agent in Bristol. My mum is safe and snug with Cherie at the café, and they’ll all be waiting for me to get back – desperate for me to spill the beans and fill them in on what I’ve seen.

      The problem is, as things stand, I’m going to have to tell them all that the House on the Hill has, in fact, been bought by an eternally teenaged vegetarian vampire. That should raise a few eyebrows.