It's the time of year now when I dust down an old enthusiasm that's becoming as venerable and as predictable as say the Druids celebrating Spring Equinox at Stonehenge. Perhaps it's the lightening evenings, the promise of longer, balmier times that makes my nose twitch, ears prick up, and a hefty intake of confident promising to everyone that, yes, this is the year, no, it really is, when I'm going to sell my flat, hoist anchor and move to somewhere larger and more salubrious.

I can only imagine that most of my friends silently tune out the moment they hear me pipe up that: "I've been viewing places...seen a couple, one was n't bad...but nothing to really get me going...". Must be like groundhog day for them; Spring's truly here, he's been talking about moving....

Presumably, the same emotion is experienced by the myriad of estate agents in Chiswick (that's the area I've been looking over for property for years - I know the streets better than any cabdriver and certainly better than anyone who actually lives there). The Estate agents door swings open, they look up from their desktops, or slide a quick glance whilst buttering someone up on the 'phone, and there I am, the regular herald of Spring.

I do look at places -some years, hundreds, a handful other years. It's even reached the point where I imagine what it'll be like living in one. But that's as far as it's ever got; typical man, can't commit. And I can't.