Now that we have decided to put our home on the market, my husband has become a DIY demon.

He has taken two weeks off work to tidy up the house and finish all those odd jobs that have been on our To Do list ever since we bought the place three years ago.

Yes, he's a changed man. And neither of us feels comfortable with it.

"Don't touch ANYTHING," he says, as soon as I walk through the front door.

He follows me around, with a paintbrush in one hand and sandpaper in the other, reminding me what's wet, what's in the early stages of preparation and what's next on the redecorating agenda.

He tuts and cusses if I accidentally scuff the walls with my shoulder bag.

And every time I try to have a conversation with him, he disappears into the shed and emerges with yet another half-empty tin of varnish or reel of masking tape.

"No time for idle chit-chat," he says.

I haven't seen this sort of activity since the last time we sold property.

"The house is looking really nice," I venture to say at one point. "It's almost a shame we're moving."

He stops for a second, runs his paint-caked palm over his sweating brow and groans: "Don't tell me I'm doing this for nothing."

Of course, the silly thing is that whoever buys the house won't do so because they like our tarted-up terracotta hallway or the tidy new handle on our bedroom door. They'll mostly be looking at the house size and location. And there's nothing we can do about these things, other than to remind the neighbours to clear the rubbish out of their front gardens and not to have domestic rows when potential buyers arrive to view our gaff.

The other thing we can do to make our home more saleable, and I'm sure the feng shui brigade will support me here, is to clear out our clutter.

The trouble is, what's clutter to me is essential to my husband.

And vice versa.

I would say that my husband's expanding collection of travel books, mostly about places you wouldn't want to visit, are dispensable.

As are his piles of bargain CDs.

He thinks my three pairs of shoes neatly lined up next to the chest of drawers are unsightly.

I tell him to find somewhere other than the bedroom wall to hang his guitar.

He points to my work desk, where there's a confusion of leads, plugs and bits that attach in some way to my laptop computer.

I remind him I have nowhere else to put these things as all the available cupboard space is taken up with his camera equipment.

The discussion usually gets quite loud. Any day now I expect the neighbours will bang on the walls in an attempt to make us shut up.

We'll bang back.

They'll shout and make threats.

We'll call the police.

The whole street will witness the dispute.

Word will get around and property prices in the area will plummet.

Clearly, the stress is getting to me.