When I was twelve, my parents decided it was time to trade the beautifully named village of Upton Snodsbury for Peopleton, a spot just four miles down the road. For a kid, four miles might as well be four hundred when it means being uprooted from your friends, but the wheels were in motion

Everything was going smoothly until the moving process hit a massive snag. Suddenly, we were stuck in limbo, living out of cardboard boxes while the paperwork ground to a halt. However, the house we were buying, a chalet bungalow, was sitting entirely empty. This is where my Mum’s unique brand of "initiative" kicked in. She figured if we were eventually going to own the place anyway, why wait for the legalities to start the renovations?

The plan was hatched with all the precision of a heist:

• The Ruse: My parents spun a tale to the Estate Agent (Realtor) about needing one last "look" at the property

• The Key: While they had the chance, they nipped off and got a copy of the key cut

• The Work: We hit the DIY store, loaded up on paint, and spent our days decorating a house that, legally speaking, didn't belong to us yet

It was all fun and games until a strange car pulled into the driveway. Panic set in, we were certain the actual owners had arrived to find a family of squatters repainting their hallway. Naturally, Dad and us kids did the brave thing and bolted for a hiding spot, leaving Mum to face the music

She marched out there and discovered it was just a group of prospective buyers. Without missing a beat, Mum turned them away, firmly telling them the house was sold and the Estate Agent (Realtor) had clearly made a clerical error by sending them over

In the end, the sale eventually went through. We moved in, the paint was already dry, and my parents stayed there for the next twenty-five years

This gives you some insight into how my Mum and Dad, more probably my Mum think