It’s not like it happened overnight, I’d had plenty of warning but even still, it took years for it to eventually dawn on me that my children had created their own family units and had long since set up their own homes.

Our home was no longer a “family home” and hadn’t been for years. Getting them all together in one place at one time had become increasingly difficult. Summer holidays were virtually impossible to synchronise and Christmas celebrations had to be alternated between their partners’ family homes and ours. Even in the unlikely event that either of the two happily settled in London ever decided to return to the “auld sod”, it would be to their own homes not mine. It was time for us to downsize.

Having frequently moved clients into their newly renovated homes I smugly believed that when it came to my turn, I’d do it myself without a bother.

Not so. In turned out that I was, without doubt, my most difficult client to date.

Take the huge Victorian study desk used by my three children in turn. It had to go, my logical side insisted, while my soppy side wondered whether my grandchildren might use it. Apparently not. My daughter told me in no uncertain terms. that her children were quite happy with their smart new Ikea furniture.

Yet, when I did adopt a more coldhearted approach to my goods and chattels, it was met with sighs and gasps.

“Oh, you’re not going to sell that, are you Mum? I always liked that . . . it reminds me of the time . . .”

Childhood memories were recalled of hiding in the blanket chest, Christmas dinners and family celebrations with the “grown-ups” around the dining table and draping the four poster bed with sheets to make a “tent”.

I threatened to send these gargantuan pieces to London, where they would be lucky to get in their doors, never mind find space to reside is their flats. Ruthless we would have to be, I lectured everyone, but I was the one most in need of a reality check.

I called in a removals company to view everything in situ and provide a detailed quotation. That woke me up alright. Although, given that I could not be describes as a minimalist, I knew it was never going to be a case of hiring a "Man with a Van" for a half day. I am the Imelda Marcos of home furnishings.

Luckier than most, at least I knew where I’d be going, although I wasn’t sure when I’d get there, considering the house in question required major alterations and full renovation.

There was a strong possibility of a yawning gap between moving out of one home and into the other. We would, undoubtably, have need of short-term storage.

In addition, we required easy access to our work files, therefore couldn’t have them boxed and buried in a mountain of sealed crates in a vast warehouse, accessed only by appointment and via a forklift.

In order to facilitate access and eventually, the equally gruesome task of unpacking, I needed to know the precise contents of each box. As no removal company could be miraculously inspired to do this as I’d like, there was only one thing for it, to do it myself.

Contracts signed and deposit paid, I immediately set about implementing my action list.

A room by room inventory was compiled, including photographs, clear descriptions and detailed measurements. This master inventory was then subdivided into “Dump”, “Give Away”, “Sell” and “Keep” sections.

A skip was hired and then another, and I managed to fill them both with embarrassing ease and flooded my local charity shops with an avalanche of bits and pieces I’d pointlessly hung on to for decades.

Feeling virtuous, the “Give Away” list was next: however, if the items you are kindly bestowing are not immediately and enthusiastically accepted, then presume they are not really wanted and transfer them to your “Sell” list. (Unlikely to sell at a profit? Sell anyway, as out-of-sight is out-of-mind.)

Lastly, I went through my lengthy “Keep” list once more, questioning everything.

It was at this point, that my romantic self started tearful and dramatic negotiations with my professional self. The battle raged for days, lists were written, scrubbed out and rewritten.

Then it was time to pack. Hundreds were spent on cardboard boxes, bubble wrap, packaging tape and thick markers and hours spent wrapping, boxing and labelling everything late into the night, every night, for weeks on end. It was surprisingly therapeutic.

I had arranged storage nearby and moved the boxes myself, one car load at a time but had this not been an option, I could have hired one of the many convenient self-storage facilities, where you have your own key and 24/7 access.

With the “small stuff” out of the way, furniture was allocated to specific rooms depending on whether it was being sold, sent to London or kept for our next home.

The same removal company was called back to provide a revised quote, which thankfully, was half the original price. But more importantly, my DIY packing system meant that I could easily put my hand on the “small stuff”, which made our temporarily nomadic lives more bearable. In the end of the day none of the furniture made it across the Irish sea. Practicality won out over sentimentality. Downsizing isn’t just about moving house, but about moving on. I’m not quite there yet, but I’m working on it.