because we are moving to the south of France, where the people still know how to live. Sure the dogs in the street can tell you that Dublin is ruined. In pursuit of this goal we are forced to overcome our natural shyness and tell you all about ourselves and the fascinating history of our charming period home.

As everyone knows, we are one of Dublin's more sociable media couples.

Our house reflects our enviable lifestyle (two beds, none en suite, GFCH, landing hums like a mandolin whenever the 4X4's thunder over the speedbumps).

Several of Ireland's best-known journalists have sat around our circular kitchen table and moaned about how little they were paid. They're all dead now, God look to them.

In 1995, after much passionate debate, we decided against an Aga, because we felt them to be vulgar. Still, our kitchen retained the country charm for which it justly became famous. In the summertime there is nothing I like better than to be hulling strawberries on the window sill just outside the backdoor . . . and there is quite a drop. I also like to make my own cheese.

My partner, C Murphy Esq, one of Ireland's most inspirational interior decorators, has truly left his mark on our home, down to the finest detail.

With his slash and burn attitude to DIY he has created a unique living space, ideal for a growing family.

The loft door is of unpainted MDF, the living room is full of amplifiers, and, in a characteristically witty touch, he has left a section of stud panelling over the power shower on view, to remind us of our peasant past.

Actually, a member of the British aristocracy once got sick in our lav.

The garden is a shady bower (north-facing), where the hum of traffic is muted by mature greenery. Just last year C Murphy Esq got a grant from the Arts Council to create a small building to house our coal bunker and recycling apparatus. Called Tigin, and composed entirely of trellis, it was one of the star attractions of this year's Venice Biennale. The lower reaches of Tigin were planted with wild mint, and a video installation , entitled 'Minger', played over the rest. Some of the judges were moved to tears.

The house is not short of picture rails either. Or cornicing. The livingroom boasts an original fireplace . . . original to someone else's house, as a matter of fact, because we reclaimed it from a skip. The chimney breast is flanked by fine book cases, and the books, along with the carpets, curtains and sofas complete with original dog hair, are included in the asking price (AMV 9.7m, given a following wind).

This living room has long been a centre of creative life in Dublin. Both a book and an album were composed within its Farrow & Ball-hued walls, and it was in this room also that Louis MacNeice dropped acid for the first time.

Location-wise the house could not be bettered. It is within rubber-necking distance of Michael McDowell, and several other highly vocal lawyers. Maeve Brennan was once found in one of our bins. The village is just adjacent, and it is on these very streets that you can hear hurling referred to as travellers' golf. Golf, on the other hand, is referred to as bloody good business.

For bamboo, this little Dublin enclave is second to none. Our more advanced neighbours have eschewed curtains altogether and live, like pandas, behind its whispering fronds, in the fond belief that we cannot see into their houses.

We are absolutely heartbroken to be leaving such a magical home, and would never have contemplated moving if we had not been assured by our auctioneer that we stand to make a bloody fortune through no effort of ours whatsoever.

(Our auctioneer actually had tears in her eyes when she told us that! ) But we feel confident that it will provide an educational home for some poor family in flight from the deadening hand of suburbia. In conclusion we can only say. . . see you at Christmas, maybe.