IT IS not surprising that moving house is one of the most stressful things in life, up there with divorce, redundancy and bereavement.

We have only been in the game for a week and already we are more anxious than a pair of rabbits in a cage full of terriers.

"Don't glare at me," I yelled at my husband as he cast me an accusing look as to why I hadn't vacuumed the living room while he took the children swimming on Saturday morning - shortly before an almighty crowd of people were due to arrive to inspect our property.

"I'm not glaring, I'm just on edge," he snarled.

As two grown adults we find it hard to keep the house tidy. With two occupants under eight it is something of a nightmare, especially as our childminder Sanyo VCR - who lives under the TV - is out of action.

No sooner have we put toys and books away in one room, than they are being dragged out in another.

I have to give the children credit, however - they were great at keeping house viewers' children entertained.

It is a daunting prospect, everyone arriving at once. I can understand why estate agents find it easier, but for the seller you make huge efforts to make small rooms look bigger - we even stuck some furniture in the car - then a dozen people flood in and any sense of space there might have been suddenly shrinks to box-like proportions.

And no one knows who's who. I was tempted to throw on my coat and join the prospective buyers. I could have drifted about cooing "Wow, this is fabulous, oh gosh, how stunning - by far the best we've seen so far..."

People do more than look - they bring tape measures for sofas and beds, compasses to check the position of the garden (most want evening sun) and one even brought a little torch which he shone up the chimney.

I must admit to being grateful for all the tips doled out on property programmes - it really is true, potential buyers do seem to prefer rooms with cream or white walls than deep red or blue.

And they love attic rooms which, to be honest, give me the creeps - ours serves as my husband's retreat when we've had a row. I rarely venture up there other than to watch the fireworks on bonfire night.

The process of moving is grim - as soon as the For Sale sign went up I felt strangely rootless, like a nomad with 'no fixed abode.' But that, so everyone who has been through it (and most people have) tells me, is quite a normal reaction.

We don't want to go far, we just need a bit more space and, hopefully, somewhere secure to park the car.

My daughters have unearthed plenty of potential new homes from the property pages of various newspapers, including a lovely village manor house and a beautiful detached Edwardian vicarage. Oh, the joy of being a child - so oblivious to mortgages, savings, salaries, and the financial constraints of the real world.

The good news is, we sold the house. The problem now is finding somewhere else.

Pass the Prozac.

Updated: 09:56 Tuesday, March 16, 2004