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It is time to say goodbye to Dibley Towers.

It’s fair to say that we thought this day would never come. And it’s huge thanks to our excellent estate agents that we’ve got there. I’m not one for much of an endorsement as you know, but I’m going out on a limb. If you need one in Yorkshire, I have no hesitation in saying use Maxwell Hodgson. As a profession estate agents are much maligned, and the agents we are buying from have certainly lived up to their reputation. But Max and the team we have sold through have been amazing. So much so that I even took them a bottle of Prosecco yesterday as a thank you.

But even with their help it’s taken nearly six stressful months to get to today.

So I’ve had a long time to get used to the idea that Dibley Towers will no longer be mine.

The house has looked after me just as I have looked after it. It has seen me through good times and bad, held me safe in times of trouble, and been a damn good party venue. I fought to keep it, and to keep it going, and it has been worth it.

It’s the home I created, knocking down walls and through chimney breasts, building patios and creating kitchens. Hours of friendship and laughter and sheer exasperation were in each peel of old wallpaper off the walls.

From days when I thought I would never be happy or loved again, it’s been the house where I regained my equilibrium, to which I returned as a bride, and where my children first came home to. Where we sat them on the rug in their car seats, looked at them and each other, and went ‘now what?!’

My memories are locked into the walls, ready for the new owner to roll over with a fresh coat of paint.

Yet right now it doesn’t feel like mine any more. It’s a jumble of boxes, with patches on walls and a confused cat bounding around.

It’s time for pastures new, I know that. It’s time that Le Pomme and I had a house we have chosen together, a place for new memories and adventures. We have been bursting at the seams.

It’ll be emotional, saying goodbye.