There I was on my knees, winkling a toothbrush into corners. If someone can patent an instrument for clearing the edgy black grime of years, I would like to know about it.

In the meantime, a leverage appliance known as elbow-grease, mixed with a solution of bleach and Harpic, does the trick.

Of course I will get frozen shoulder and chapped hands. In order to feel good again, I will visit the chiropractor and masseuse (excuses, excuses). The chiropractor is German - "Ve haf ways of making you straight". The masseuse is Estonian and sensitive - "I hope zat is not too hard". Press on, Bridget . . .

Which reminds me, from the time when many Irish servants in England were called Bridget, I don't really need to be a housemaid in my own home. I could hire the Spanish cleaners to go through the place like a brace of Picadors with a bull. Especially as I'm in Spain in my own casa . . .

The previous owner was an Englishman abroad, a species of madness only exceeded by hares running sideways on country roads in spring. His idea of cleanliness was to ignore the dirt and assume it would go away, rather like the Monarchy, of which he was an avowed enemy.

"All bloody Germans" he would rant, to the amusement of the regulars in one of those expatriate pubs where every nationality seems to revert to type. The Irish boozy, the Welsh sly, the English eccentric . . .

I bought the house from him at such a good price, I was afraid to inspect it before closing the deal. A week in the place and I found out why it was a good price (surprise, surprise!). It had not been lived in for years.

The kitchen sink came away from the wall as soon as it was filled with pans. Tatty prints covered missing tiles. Most of the decor was cheapo - as made in China, via High Street Brent. Every plastic hook on the back of every door I hung a coat snapped.

He had obviously gotten a job lot of ceramic tiles, because he put them on the floor. They cracked in a zig-zag pattern as I put in my furniture, beautiful but heavy hardwood from India, bought in the town market and just off the 40ft trailer, driven overland by a south Londoner. You get the picture.

The Spanish make wonderful tiles but only a dotty Englishman would put ceramic tiles on a floor, because he got them cheap in Alicante. Especially as he got them cheap in Alicante.

Ceramic tiles are made for walls, unlikely to encounter a few stone of weight, unless you intend to house a few Sumo wrestlers on tour who are having some home practice. Or one of those Marbella Madams who advertise in the local papers as having her own "well-equipped dungeon". Let's not go there, though I suspect he did . . .

Such raving thoughts ran through my head as I spent my entire weeks scrubbing , cleaning and redecorating. I hardly saw the sun, except through windows suddenly cleared of grime.

Ah, that must be the sky out there. Yes, and that's the sea down there . . . Well, well, what a revelation. What country am I in . . .? Spain is it, I never would have guessed.

The leftover furniture was Parker Knoll, of whom readers of a certain vintage will recognise as defining decor of aspirant English and Irish middle-class, circa 1960s. Heals with knobs on, on the HP.

As I turned it around, the mites practically swooned out of the wormholes and made a run for the door. Several generations of woodworm had bred in the Parker Knoll, but knew the game was up as the light poured in and one enraged new owner set about demolishing their damp haven. I demolished much more besides, reducing the place to a bare shell, ready to start all over and make myself a home in the sun.

The Parker Knoll went into the skip, as did the mouldy mattresses, the grease ingrained cooker, the cheapo shelving. I am at a stage in life when I want only good and pleasant things about me.

That's what I told myself, as I got back down on my hands and knees, to tackle another layer of grime, found in fertile hibernation underneath the layers already removed.

I tell myself I don't need to do this. I can afford to employ the Spanish molly maids and let them get on with it. But having done it all many times before, I find it difficult to break the habit.

Years of being a landlord have made me a compulsive cleaner - and an obvious basket case in the sun.