I HAVE always been a bit of a fan of Mother's Day.

Not because I am lavished by gifts in recognition of my *ahem* wonderfulness,

but because I like early spring days and spending them with la famille.

This year the Teen's card reduced me to tears, so heartfelt were the words and the card I gave the Mother - Congratulations on giving birth to a legend - reduced her to tears of laughter.

"Well your brother is a legend," said my so-called friend.

Anyway, I digress. I had booked a table for the Teen and my Mother, who has just returned from Agadoo or maybe Agadir, I'm not too sure, anyway, somewhere hot, at what I hope will become our local pub.

I know I shouldn't be doing what I am doing, but I can't help myself.

The area where my dream home is situated, is attracting me like a magnet.

I haven't even sold my house yet.

I'm on talking terms with the landlady of the local, which is one of the best pubs I have been too for many a year, I have familiarised myself with the local shop and have found myself lost on more than seven occasions as I have ventured into unknown Forest with the Dog, who would never make a Sniffer Dog.

I lie in bed at night, planning my new kitchen and garden and have even got a quote for an old reclaimed floor.

And I keep playing Let's Pretend at meeting the neighbours, making up romantic stories about village life and playing Skittles on a Tuesday night (I don't even like Skittles).

Yes, I know. I need to stop it immediately.

I will. But in the meantime, someone, anyone, Please Buy My House.