The last 24 hours have passed in a blur of, well, bluriness, as I frantically ran around trying to get the house ready for the photographer. At one point yesterday I’m convinced someone called me Waynetta…greasy hair and scuzzy tracksuit probably did it. But I sanded and painted, cleaned, decluttered and depersonalised. I queued at the tip to get rid of old stuff, then drove on to the storage depot to store things we still needed. For one heart-stopping minute I thought I’d done those things the wrong way round, but all my hat boxes (!) made it safely to Big Yellow. Drove right past Focus on the way home, panicked as I was about weeding the driveway, then had to get back in the car to fetch the gloss paint I’d headed out for. Still, by the end of play (which was quite a way past my bed-time) the house would have done Anne Maurice proud.

All that and I still managed to have supper on the table for DH when he got home. He conveniently ‘had a lot of work to get done’ and was tucked away in the study all evening whilst I drove myself demented wondering if the wedding photo on my bedside table was too personal and whether the mark on the carpet under the bed would put off potential buyers…

Dawn broke in the ‘burbs to the delicate strains of my Vax Turbo. By eleven o’clock I had showered, dressed, walked the dog, filled the wheelie bin, hidden the garden rubbish outside the back gate (where it couldn’t be seen), hidden the paperwork, mail and assorted crap that usually sits on our dining table in the cupboard under the stairs (ditto), hidden the dogs bits and pieces behind the sofa (ditto) and was artfully arranging towels in the bathroom. I followed the estate agents round the house, moving things and titivating and waxing lyrical about how we had to strip two layers of woodchip from the master bedroom when we moved in, and how we built in all the storage and blah, blah, blah. I chunter when I get wound up. I told them we had an alarm system installed (not that you need it) and new kitchen (needed, very needed) and I re-tiled the bathroom myself, all the while clutching WH to my chest to prevent her licking someone to death. I moved the car so they got a nice shot of the front, I signed on the dotted line, and they were gone, just like that. Apparently they’ll email me the photos to approve later. “This house” he said, “is a photographers dream. You won’t want to sell after this.” And with that he dashed off to start calling clients, leaving me feeling all smug. And arranging second viewings for DH.

So people, I’d like all your fingers crossed for a speedy sale ( not least to p!$$ off next door, who want to get theirs on the market before the HIP thing comes in, but can’t have photos done because they need to replaster big chunks of the house.) Oh, and should you be looking for a beautiful period house in Bromley, convenient for station (15 minutes to Victoria) and local shops (big Primark and TKMaxx) let me know!!!!