I'VE already promised a duck called Derek, not one but two cows, goats (plural), donkey (singular), hens, rabbits (singular . . .

ha! ) and another dog to add to the existing hairy reality called Frodo.

There might have been a goose too but I've never been fond of geese so I've probably seen that one off, a treehouse, a pond and the turtle who is variously known as Fluffy or Shaggy . . . or Derek.

I've said no to a trampoline. Yes, I know.

On the face of it, it's cheaper than that lot but it's broken-bone territory and I've had my fair share of trips to the bone setters. Now a sausage dog, obscurely named Toby . . . "It just has to be Toby, Mum" . . . is trying to creep in by the back door but my foot is firmly wedged there where a dog of such low stature can hardly miss it.

With any luck they'll all be called Derek, so when I shout has Derek been fed, walked, let in, let out, cleaned, clipped, brushed, loved, any one of the three alleged owners will say yes and I can plead insanity when the starving goat turns manic chicken chaser.

And please don't tell me tortoises have teeth that need to be brushed.

Oh God, I forgot Derek the marmalade tabby! I blame myself of course. All those books we read to the children when they were little, full of animals who were endlessly cute and endlessly clean, have merged to produce a country idyll in their minds, hastily and appropriately modernised in an Irish context to include a trampoline. Drive around for 20 minutes anywhere in the country and the only people who haven't got one are the local A&E departments.

So I hear myself fervently argue in favour of this eclectic menagerie and watch other parents' eyes open wide with horror. After all, what is the point of moving from big English city to rural Ireland if not to experience it at first hand? They're still staring at me. The only thing I have promised myself is that this hairy, furry, feathery collection will be built up on an instalment basis with room for correction and alteration and possible annihilation. Oh, did I mention growing vegetables?

That's what happens when you raise the idea of going to live in Ireland with three children who have grown up in the suburbs of Manchester. We have opted to move lock, stock and too many suitcases to Sligo. The children have visited often enough to appreciate the wild Atlantic, the clean sandy beaches, the green fields and the mountains. To them, Ireland is a carefree, green landscape which they have already interpreted and redrawn as a paradise for as many Dereks as possible.

I love the simplicity of a child's vision.

Just drive across, move in and buy the animals. To hell with complicating factors like work, schools, mortgages, dentists, cars, exchange rates. How tempting it would be to walk away in that fashion. Instead we're unravelling our life and, in the process, revealing the hidden complexity of its construction although to be honest, complexity is merely a posh word for haphazardness.

It's been 15 years in the making, including overtime; in six months we will have dismantled it.

'Life will be different' And as we undo the pieces of our life, I am forever thinking of how things will be different, how they will change, what will be lost, what will be gained. Small things emerge unexpectedly; how I love the smell of bread in the amazing Polish bakery at the end of the road, or Horace, the fat goat in the local park who is perpetually on a diet, the familiar 86 bus trundling to work, familiar faces at the swimming pool on Saturday mornings, the neighbours nipping in to borrow an onion, the neighbours just nipping in.

And the bigger things that I value very much about my time here. How I love to see my children play with their friends and be easy with their mix of colours, beliefs and interests. How the BBC taught me to banish the 'it'll do' mentality and always strive for quality. How my vision of the world is through the sometimes skewed prism of a country which has a seat on the Security Council and the ear of the most powerful ruler in the world. And our friends who have made us welcome here and shared our joys and sorrows. These are the gems built into this life, into the almost invisible cloak of familiarity which I am now hanging up in search of a new one.

Life will be different in many ways. I don't expect to hear a debate on Irish radio about a company trying to enforce tidy desks at work. I can't imagine my new postman in Sligo will have to promise to wear a hat to conceal his punk hairstyle in order to save his job. I will miss the so-called failing NHS, the one which had a nurse, doctor and consulting room all waiting when I arrived at A&E with my daughter and a suspected heart problem (she was fine). I will have to readjust to Irish time and abandon that still frightening concept of punctuality. And I will be able to restore the casual visit, chat, cup of tea, a near heresy here unless it's been planned.

Plan, plan, plan . . . I have learned the art in my time here . . . but really it's not in my DNA.

And, no, I certainly won't miss living in a country where encouraging terror of the terrorists, the new copy-cat American style of living, is taking a firm hold. Not to mention a government bent on renewing its nuclear arsenal.

I've learned how different our two cultures are despite our shared history and our common language. We are more devil-may-care, less health and safety. They are more punctual and more hard-working. We make rules but enjoy flouting them. They enjoy rules.

And our house of course has a foot in both camps and the flashpoint for that cultural mix is football. During the recent World Cup, one of the children brought home a St George's Cross flag that spawned a robust debate about identity. Are we Irish because you are Irish the children asked? Are we English because we were born here? Are we both? Can you be both?

Great philosophical questions ignited by a flag and poster boy Michael Owen.

But back to simple things! Like the cost of a skip here is £80 rather than 300! So we've been quite literally throwing our lives away. How much stuff a family can accumulate!

We've chucked out all manner of weird and wonderful device and I continue to curse the inventors of plastic and the millions of tiny toys which have ensued. But try to persuade the children to part with their belongings and suddenly every box has a purpose, every cuddly toy has a name and a very complex identity and the idea of parting with any of them is the signal for major and repeated sobbing. The fact that I am still in possession of several (not several hundred) of my childhood bears hardly strengthens my argument or my resolve to be tough and I fear the bear population of all Sligo will double on our arrival.

To reduce the pile from Himalayan to Alpine scale, I've hit on the attraction of filthy lucre and have suggested a car-boot sale with the proceeds going to the 'Derek' fund . . . not to be confused with the non-existent trampoline fund. I have yet to get to the bottom of why these wretched sale things start at the ungodly hour of seven on a Sunday morning.

I can only conclude it's some kind of mitigation for sacrificing the Lord's Day to the pursuit of profit. Bacon butties and a flask of coffee will be first into the car followed by a series of boxes containing indescribable . . .

literally . . . treasures. And I have promised to smile and be happy as we sell our life for pennies.

Butties (sandwiches) reminds me that we will be part of the language diaspora on our return. 'Naughty' will revert to 'bold', 'poorly' will be abandoned for 'ill', the 'airing cupboard' will become the 'hot press' once more and 'alright' will mean exactly that and not 'hello.' The source of most amusement here is my 'amn't I' expression. How else could you say it, I hear you ask ? Try 'aren't I' for size. Yes it makes no sense to me either.

'Changed, changed utterly' The most interesting language discovery, courtesy of my daughter, is how the Paddy Englishman, Irishman and Scotsman clan has been modified to include Paddy the Pole. Of course it's a backhanded compliment for the Poles to be included in this way and so swiftly. Time soon for that old mantra to be hauled out, "more Irish than the Irish themselves", but it is the emergence of a 'servant class' in Ireland which I find one of the most profound and most significant changes to have occurred since I left 15 years ago.

And they're growing in number, the servants. Nay, people are seeking out opportunities to utilise them, nodding sagely at the skill, dedication and value for money of those Polish builders/plumbers/cleaners.

I've seen them nodding, seen a kind of pride, subconscious possibly, in being able to afford to have other people do the work we once did ourselves, the work we once did in postwar Britain. Oh how the Celtic Tiger has funded our hasty clamber up the social strata.

Ireland's new-found wealth and confidence will be of endless fascination as I make the return voyage. When I left in 1991 Ireland was not a happy or prosperous place to be. In the years between, I have watched, with eyes on sticks, 40 shades of greed creep across the landscape. Bulldozers are everywhere, second cars are taken for granted and homes in the sun a norm.

Builders are booked til 2010 and beyond.

The landscape is "changed, changed utterly" and in Yeats' mode I am full of curiosity to know if "a terrible beauty" will be born as a consequence.

But I am curious for ourselves too. What will living west of the Shannon be like for two Dubliners with three Mancunian children?

When will I stop translating sterling to euro to know if a pint of milk is expensive? How long can Fianna Fail carry on carrying on?

How will the children's accents change. Will we find a house that is not a bungalow . . . the children need stairs apparently! Will it stop raining in Sligo?

Of course there's a hitch. Our house remains stubbornly unsold despite its prime location. The housing market is becalmed for the moment but I am confident that it's merely a glitch in the invisible obstacle course to our new life. Just enough of a pause to allow the flotsam and jetsam of life to accumulate once more and for the children to begin to think we never meant it in the first place.

So when they start to forget again, I roll out Derek in all his manifestations and, renewed, they smile once more. One donkey turns to two, our hens' fresh eggs are boiled, fried and strangled for magnificent breakfasts and I pat myself on the back for keeping the dream afloat until the trampoline returns to haunt me.

"It's all part of the adventure, " I remind myself, a voyage of discovery and of rediscovery. It's coming home after all. And nothing is more compelling than that.

HOMEWARD BOUND SUSAN O'Keeffe left Ireland to work for Granada Television in Manchester after her investigation into the beef industry in Ireland was broadcast by World in Action in May 1991. She married her Irish husband Paul Murray in 1991 and they have three children . . . Roberta (13), Grace (10) and Eva (6). She continued to work for World in Action for four more years, moving to the BBC at the end of 1996. During her time at the BBC, she has produced programmes for all channels and continues to work as a producer for the current affairs department. She will leave her job in March 2007 and move to Sligo in April. She intends to work in between her Derek responsibilities.