[Dress and boots: both Zara, circa 2011 // Jacket: La Redoute, 2012 // Giant snow heart: c/o Terry]

So, our house is probably going on the market soon. I'm not sure quite how soon, but ... soon. Too soon for my liking, because folks? I am FREAKING THE HELL OUT right now. Like, lying awake at night worrying, and  waking up thinking, "OMG, WHAT ARE WE DOING?" - that kind of freaking out. It's no fun at all, let me tell you.

Oh, don't get me wrong: I want to move. I've wanted to move for years now. I've said it so many times it really doesn't need to be repeated, but I'm going to do it anyway: this house is small. And cramped. And just generally uncomfortable, in lots of different ways, really. When we bought it, we saw it very much as a "starter home" -  we assumed it would be a decent first step on the property ladder, and that we'd only live in it for a couple of years before moving on. Onwards and upwards. We didn't anticipate that Terry would need a kidney transplant, of course. Or that we'd both end up leaving our well-paid jobs and starting our own business because of it. But that was what happened: Terry's diagnosis came almost exactly a year after we bought the place, and after that, moving home was the last thing we wanted to think about. Now we're not just thinking about it: we're on the brink of actually DOING IT, and as I said I want to move. I'm excited about the big life change we possibly have ahead of us. I'm downright delirious at the prospect of having some much-needed space. I'm looking forward to having our friends over, and not feeling like I have to constantly apologise for the house, or have them all spend the evening rotating in and out of different rooms because if we all tried to sit in the living room we'd probably set a new world record. I'm ready for this. It's time. But.