TPR and I found a new place to live on the top floor of an abandoned Victorian orphanage in Manchester.

Admittedly it would take some time to make the cold grey rooms comfortable, and we’d have to do something with the all the tiny baby clothes that we found carefully organised, labelled (but faded and moth-eaten) in every cupboard that we opened. However, a major compensation was the length of the corridors. On the days when TPR chose to switch to his alternative form of talking golden retriever he would have plenty of room for exercise.