As I am a veteran "blitz kid" from World War II who experienced dive-bombing by the Luftwaffe, the sound of a Fletcher top-dresser buzzing overhead, barely missing the chimney pots, is horribly familiar and slightly traumatic.
The first time it happened, my instinct was to leap out of bed, gather the children and scuttle down into the nearest air-raid shelter.
The caregiver, of course, thinks I'm being over-sensitive about country life, and constantly reminds me how noisy life was in the city, with commuter trains clattering past our apartment windows and container trucks revving up on to the motorway, plus the usual medley of all-night banshee sounds, such as police sirens and car alarms.
"Those were comforting noises," I whimper, as I huddle under the duvet waiting for the next Stuka to strafe the house.
"You need to toughen up," she says. I get the same reminder at breakfast, as I complain that the smell of silage drifting through the house is putting me off my cornflakes.
The only card I still appear to possess in my flimsy argument for scuttling back to the city is the lack of mobile phone connection in an area I've renamed Snake Gully.
To gain wireless communication, I have to toil up a nearby hill to receive a faint signal.
"I'm missing important calls!" I whine.
Unfortunately, the caregiver knows that the number of business calls I once received is rapidly diminishing, thanks to my inevitable obsolescence, and the missed calls are usually only reminders to pick up milk or meat for the dog.
Of course I can still visit the city and swan around my familiar haunts, ogling pretty girls in cafes and bars, but I suspect I'm secretly enjoying my new noisy rural life.
Just don't mention this to the caregiver, who's responsible for exiling me into the wilderness. I wish to sulk for as long as possible.
