"Dear Mr and Mrs Woodcock, This morning I write to confirm that I have exchanged contracts in connection with your sale of the above property."

HALLELUJAH!!

After nearly a year of disappointment, frustration and heated arguments, this letter from our solicitor meant the nightmare was finally over. I gave a prayer of thanks, screamed with joy and did a twirling jig with my wife across the living room until we felt sick.

Our emotional outpouring was well justified - at times it felt like we couldn't give our house away.

Readers may remember a column in August when I lamented about the fact that not a single person had been to view our two-bedroomed Acomb terrace in more than six months. The only movement we saw was our For Sale sign flapping in the wind.

It was a different story after Christmas. We bit the bullet and dropped the price for the second time just as the housing market wriggled back into life.

Suddenly we were swamped by first-time buyers who ventured out of their rented flats and parents houses to take a peek.

"Where were you six months ago?" I wanted to ask them.

As the offers rolled in we were given fresh reasons to dislike estate agents. As negotiator-in-chief throughout the price-bartering process, your future - and sanity - are in their hands. Why can't they just tell it like it is?

When our buyer accepted the asking price after only a few swift exchanges with our representative, we were full of confidence for a smooth sale. I didn't know what all the fuss was about.

That was until the findings of the full house survey came back: evidence of damp in the bathroom, pots of cash needed to put it right, it said, to paraphrase.

We were told the buyer wanted a contribution from us towards the cost. Fair enough - we offered to pay half.

With two weeks to go to completion date, our agent hit us with this bombshell: "They now want you to pay for all the work, and I must warn you that they've requested to see other properties in the area."

From that moment on we were trapped in the house sale vortex, confirming research that house moving is among life's greatest stresses. Calls to and from our agent became more exasperated as a quick solution was sought. Our hopes were raised and dashed in equal measure.

In fairness she tried her best to remain calm in the face of oral onslaughts from both sides. Her mistake was being too honest. A first for the profession?

Asking for an update on our buyer's intentions for the umpteenth time, the agent told us: "We're trying to arrange viewings for them at some of our other properties which match their criteria."

Sorry?

"Can we just clarify a point here," we told her.

"WHO IS YOUR CLIENT?"

Eventually a compromise was reached at the 11th hour and everyone signed on the dotted line. In short, our estate agents dropped their fee, slightly, to help us offset the cost of the damp-proofing.

Despite all the hassle, it's not easy finally closing the door of your first home.

Memories flooded back as we cleared the loft of junk, stripped cupboards, covered mirrors in bubble wrap and swept the yard for the last time. Every room told a different story - good, bad and sad.

Someone else will now be soaking away the day's worries in our bath, receiving mail through our letterbox and dodging the dog dirt in the back alley.

We are yet to find a replacement home of our own and need to get a move on.

It was reported this month that the website propertyforecasts.co.uk predicted a 60 to 70 per cent rise in property values in the York area over the next five years, one of the biggest increases in the country.

This is the least of my worries, though. As one nightmare has ended, so another has begun.

As we look for somewhere new to lay our hats, a couple we know are kindly letting us stay. Who are these philanthropists?

My in-laws. More of that later. If we all survive.

Updated: 10:09 Friday, March 24, 2006