So do you spend your days vacuuming?" asked Mark, former commuting companion, who I bumped into on a (now rare) foray into London.

Was going to interview New York chef, best known for his cut-throat attitude to customers (he is apparently not above threatening them with kitchen implements if they dare complain about the food) and has just finished swashbuckling his way around the world, in search of the perfect meal (soft boiled duck's embryo, washed down with cobra's blood).

Anyway, Mark's vacuuming comments came midway through a conversation which began: "Don't see you much any more," and continued along the lines of: "No, I'm freelance and work from home now." Which Mark obviously thought meant swanning about in pyjamas for most of the day, with breaks for the odd cup of coffee.

He muttered something more about a freelance photographer working for his company, who, whenever you wanted to talk to her on the phone, was always hanging out the washing or vacuuming the sitting room.

"No vacuuming," I said, safe in the knowledge I had definitely not vacuumed the sitting room for at least a month, though was liable to accusations of not being properly dressed and making endless cups of coffee.

But then what was the point of working from home if you couldn't enjoy the delights of a kitchen on your doorstep and the fact that nobody could see you?

"Hmmph" said Mark, obviously harbouring intense feelings of jealously about fact I was no longer a commuter, which he let out in form of barbed comments about new style of working.

"Anyway," he added. "Where do you actually work? I mean, are you sitting in your bedroom, staring at the sea?"

To which I replied I was in process of having former boot cupboard in hallway turned into office by blond athletic builder.

Project involves replastering and damp proofing 6ft by 4ft cupboard, with 6in by 12in window but "remarkably high ceiling" - up to height of which blond athletic builder is building desk and shelves.

Project has so far generated a great deal of mess and blond athletic builder spends most of his days with stocking over his head, prompting strange looks from neighbours, not used to me being around during the day entertaining strange stocking-headed men.

In between making him cups of coffee, when he removes stocking to drink, I have been cowering upstairs trying to work, though with some difficulty as any phone calls I make or receive begin or end: "Sounds like you're in the middle of a building site ..."

Explanation that am working from home and have builders in is greeted with comments such as: "Must be nice being by the sea all day" or "Must be nice being able get everything sorted out at home at the same time" (implying, again, that I spend my days vacuuming).

Had just ended one such conversation, with editor of Sunday supplement for whom was writing feature, and gone downstairs to be greeted by wave of plaster, flowing from former boot cupboard, into hallway.

After blond athletic builder had bagged up most of the big stuff, I helped him by vacuuming up the rest of the dust. Then the phone rang.

It was Mark, wondering how I was getting on and what the noise was, which he thought sounded remarkably like a vacuum cleaner, in the background ...