My house has been on the market for just seven days.

Since then, I have almost combust three times, killed the dog once and given the cats away.

I do not need a phone call from the agent on the lo-down after each viewing. I do not care if Mrs Miggins thinks my bath is too big. I am not replacing it.

Nor do I care if the downstairs space of my ramshackle cottage is too small. The cottage is seldom known for high ceilings and lofty living space.

So, agents, how about ringing me when someone has offered something monetary and leave the criticism in your offices, because I do not care.

Someone will want it and I will move, or no one will want it and I will stay. Grrrr.

The dog has been out of sorts and has been rather unwell in a "I need to do more cleaning" kind of way and the cats brought a wood mouse into the house, which they were unable to catch for four days.

I found it dead yesterday, on the floor of my bedroom. Shudder.

Oh and the former LOML has broken my new vacuum cleaner. It hasn't made much difference to his life, because I rarely speak to him anyway, but my new rug is covered in dust.