I’ve just been caught red-handed gazing dreamily at a gorgeous honey-coloured cottage for sale in the local estate agent’s window. The manager (who I’ve twice bought and sold houses through) swished past, did an astonished double-take and whisked me straight inside. To my son’s horror, I emerged ten minutes later clutching a sheaf of details of properties we can’t possibly afford.

I’ve got a serious moving habit. One that dates back to my childhood, when my father was in the RAF and we moved houses (sometimes countries) every year. I was always the new girl at school – the Billy No Mates who didn’t have a clue which peg to hang my PE bag on or who to give my dinner money to.

The trouble is that my moving obsession has stuck. We’ve moved an embarrassing 11 times in the last 19 years and just like me, my children have been to a ridiculous number of schools. Friends who use antiquated address books grumble that our page is a mess of crossings-out and plead with us to stay in one place for a while. But I can’t help it. I’m getting itchy feet again.

We’ve lived in the town and the country and I don’t know which I prefer. Twelve years ago we moved to Downham, the loveliest village in Lancashire, unable to resist the clear, unpolluted air, stunning views and wonderful walks. After London, it was wonderful to see hills, sheep and acres of open sky. But I had an awful lot to learn about country life. Our nearest neighbour was half a mile away, we had no central heating (just a solid fuel Rayburn that sulked and went out when neglected for more than a couple of hours) and every single winter I got snowed in for days on end with two toddlers.

Now we live in Oxfordshire, with the cinema, Marks & Spencer and the skate park just down the road. My teenage children love it but hmmm, it feels like time for a change…