Is your house on the market yet?

People have been asking me this question for about six months now, with predictably ever-increasing frequency. As of a couple of hours ago, the answer is “Yes.” And so obviously I have never felt less like selling it.

It’s not just that we have made it look nicer – much nicer – than it has ever been before, with paint and de-cluttering and that weird feeling of I am literally cleaning this part of my house for the very first time. We expected to feel that little pang of self-envy of the style and class that comes from having zero dust bunnies in your hutch.

The feelings of uncertainty have been only very slightly exacerbated by the estate agent’s Camera of Phoney Enormousness. Thank God, in fact, that I don’t have to walk a dozen paces just to turn a record over – imagine the misery of all that unnecessary stylus wear.

No, I’m having a very parochial version of the Ian Dunt thing – where could be better than here? Not London, particularly, but Peckham. Or not even Peckham, but our bit of SE15 – our neighbours, our local shop, our local pub. Or not even that, but specifically our home.

I’ve been indulging in a masochistic fantasy – a premonition perhaps. One of my sons, bored to hell of being cooped up in a van with no PS4 and no friend from five doors down who pops in most days. A single tear gleaming upon his soft and rounded cheek, he looks up at me and says “I just want to go home.”

I knew there would be doubts. There were always going to be times that I would have to have the courage of my convictions – and I do mean me, as M has been very clear recently that she doesn’t want to do this at all. If you will excuse me, I might have a quick look at TES Jobs to see if I can find something I would enjoy in London. 

That will soon get me back into the idea of moving house.