I’m looking for my dream home. Correction, we are.

After a day spent on Rightmove, endless phone calls to agents, visits to hopeful sellers and then follow up emails all whilst navigating my way around the Hertfordshire countryside on an iPhone with a rapidly dying battery and with the company of a grizzly nearly two year old, I am shattered. And I have come to the conclusion that dream homes don’t exist.

Except in your dreams.

My partner/the father of my child/the boy I live with (we aren’t married and I cannot help but struggle to find a name that fits!) wants a big garden, an en suit or second bathroom, at least three bedrooms, open plan living spaces and off street parking in a rural location. And he has been making sensible decisions and investing all he has in to property since the age of 21. So how can I compromise his dreams?

But the silly thing is I don’t care about any of this. Because this is his dream, not mine.

My dream is a feeling. A feeling that no estate agent can conjure up with deceptively well-shot photographs and strategic showings.

And then I know than I am prone to invest too much in feelings. And that I can be fickle. How will I know when I have found what I am looking for? What if I have already found it? What if I never do? If I find it, will it be enough?

But, in the meantime, we still need somewhere to live…