Spending the entire day at my computer means that my mind unerringly wanders from time to time. Between Pininfarina's immortal designs and Ferrari's V12 and four-cylinder engines, my predictions on the status of vintage classic for every single Ferrari racecar from the 50s to the 90s and my email to Mrs Businesswoman, I have even wedged in the unavoidable household chores.

Yet, the little fingers of my fantasy hiss out of my brain like steamy puffs of naughty smoke. No matter what I do, my brain always manages to think more. My thoughts travel in parallel, like scratches left on a clean surface by ten fingernails.

The whispers don't help.

This house is never silent. It creaks and moans, twists on its axis and wobbles on the floodplain where it stands. It is almost two hundred years old and as indomitable as our Queen. Snooty like her too. I am sure it does not like me. Houses need to be loved unconditionally, and I have tried my very best, managing the major restoration works, decorating, furnishing, carpets and curtains, general running and tidying up. It resonates with children's laughter and piano tunes. It smells of home baked bread and Italian bolognese. I have festooned it with Hallowe'en signature spiders and Christmas lights, freshly cut flowers from the garden and my boys' drawings.

No matter what I do, this house remains disdainfully aloof. I have not belonged, and it does not belong to me.

Its whispers, though, are for me. They are real. They meet up with my fantasy and create entire new people out of old memories and the indelible imprint of past lives.

The house sits on a Roman archeological site. From time to time, a bone, a coin or other forgotten signs of an era long gone will come up, unexpectedly. The spirit of hundreds of years breathes heavily down my neck even as I sit in the cold landing that houses my desk. The window panes cry with condensation. Winter is coming and this house will freeze once again.

Today, the whispers talk to me about a man. He rises from them as easily as mist from a graveyard. Let's call him Mr Imaginary Friend. I used to have one or two of those when I was little, but they disappeared through the thick years of Growing Awareness.

Mr Imaginary Friend thinks I have worked hard enough for today. Time to stop and discuss life. I have a feeling I may get to like him quite quickly.