IT was a crisp and cold winters morning, you know the sort, frosty and bright when the Teen and I stumbled upon a tiny cottage.

It had a For Sale board outside.

"I want that house," I exclaimed.

"I want that house too."

Two hours later, we were traipsing through this dark, dank house, inhabited only by mice and the odd squirrel for many years.

"It still has the original windows," explained the agent.

"And the original loo," I said as I peered through the tiny, thin panes of square glass that must date back two centuries, at the brick outhouse.

I gave them an offer of course.

And then panicked.

"You lurch from one thing to another," said Mum.

"That's not true. Things happen. And anyway I have been wanting to move house for about five years. I don't want to live in a town anymore. I want to hear the birds. I want to look out on trees."

"I know. I like it. But, it's just, well, horrible inside. It's a major job."

"Yes I know."

I had a sleepless night. I have no time, I have no money, but I have a vision and determination.

If you can't see the light at the end of the tunnel, then you have to march down it and light it yourself.

Losing my Dad has made me realise how precious life is.

No one is going to knock on my door and say: "Hello Karen. Here is your perfect home. It's ready for you, you don't have to do anything, just follow me."

Well they might, but it's not going to happen today.

So, I rang the agent. They have measured up and done an energy thing.

Tomorrow my home will be for sale.