THESE days, to be honest, it doesn’t take much to get me overexcited. It used to be that I’d turn down a glitzy invitation to an after-awards London party with a blasé, "Can’t be bothered."

Or would yawn at the thought of yet another private club opening to which I’d been sent my personal keycard.

"Wrong side of the city," I’d say wearily, stuffing it into a drawer.

I think though, I always kept my sense of wonder but the benchmark to reach it kept getting higher and higher.

Well, let me tell you, once stripped of all past glories and opportunities and set down in a French field, it’s the little things that can have you grinning like an eejit.

For example I’ve found myself trotting to the road to admire a particularly splendid new combine harvester rented by a group of local farmers.

In fact I felt quite tearful waving away at the tiny figure perched so high up in the cab – a proud grin signaling that this was the highpoint of his life.

And in Castelsarrasin the other day I gazed with awe upon a new fast food restaurant/takeaway serving everything from burgers to kebabs.

Its siting, opposite the hugely popular McDonald’s, is maybe not the cleverest placing, but the mere fact it’s there is further sign of changing times.

Even a distinctly below average Chinese restaurant has now been transformed into a Japanese one of all things.

Admittedly a menu that includes something called kamo yaki that turns out to be, yes, breast of duck, will never do it for me.

Still it’s all rather, well, exciting. The times they are a-changin'.

All these new wonders however paled into insignificance this week as I followed the painter into the DIY superstore in Blagnac.

As he marched ahead to the right aisles I found myself almost dizzy with the combination of people and choice.

Ahead stretched aisle after aisle devoted to home improvement and each new vista showed me objects I deeply desired but never knew I did.

The last time I’d been in a Castorama was soon after taking on this house. Like the other DIY stores it was a sad, unimaginative emporium of unrealised dreams.

As we gazed on the few shelves of paint in limited colour, barring that season’s Moroccan purple, the then painter explained that France was years behind in the DIY explosion.

Endless tittyfying and tarting up of their homes was alien to the provincial French. The mantra in all things is, or was, if it ain’t broke why fix it?

So ‘house’ shopping was a dismal experience and I looked in horror at the fitments and soft furnishings available having come from a country where marble tiles were almost passé.

Even curtains were sad, flimsy objects hung by tying to uninspiring curtain poles or hooked on by huge, ugly gold rings.

But it was the paint; thin, unsticking, sickly stuff that sunk any pretensions of fine living.

I quickly realised that any concept of varying white paint finishes to bring depth and contrast to LM’s rooms was just not going to happen.

Instead all was painted in a matte antique white and so it’s remained until now.

Desperate for change of some sort and trapped in the knowledge that I won’t be selling for some time, I decided to unlock the tiny pot held for dire emergencies.

Along with the walls/ceilings of four rooms, the oak ‘country’ kitchen cabinets circa 1970 are to be grey washed, fitted with new knobs and the equally dated double sink to be replaced.

Small things in the world of grand design but making me as thrilled as if I’d commissioned an orangery.

Every night for a couple of weeks I’ve drooled over Farrow & Ball colour charts or Annie Sloane chalk paints and plotted schemes where antique white played a mere supporting role.

Of course reality returns with the price and so here we were in Castorama in anticipation more than hope of seeing anything equivalent.

Yet here I was in front of actual block displays of subtle and not so subtle colours and washes: row after row.

Ian, the painter grinned as pink cheeked in my over-excitement, I asked what the hell had happened in my absence.

"Amazing, isn’t it?"

"Of course barring one or two brands the paint’s still merde but there’s lots of colour."

You privileged people back there really have no idea how thrilling it is to pat paint pots and almost faint with joy at finding an equivalent of French Linen or Mouse’s Back.

Or to gaze in rapture at row upon row of kitchen sinks and even kitchens themselves in room settings.

In fact I got so over-excited I babbled to Ian that I might come back later in the week and have a day out here, even have lunch in the car park.

On seeing the look of pity quickly masked I came to.

"Once I had a marble shower room you know," I called to his retreating back.

"Oh yes, I’ve lived."