Scragsville has many hills and valleys.

My own little home happens to be perched high atop a hill. In fact, right smack dab on Mount Pleasant, currently the most desirable neighbourhood in Greater Scragsville.

You may think I’m a hibberty-jibberty sort of seller.

First, I want to do it on my own. Then, I get fixated on a fellow who happened to buy some of my books. Then,  next thing you know, I’m challenging realtor (and buyer of my books), Bob Whatzit, on the value of my home.

Here’s the thing. The other night, I had tea candles glowing in lanterns which swayed gently in my soon- to-flower crabapple tree in front of my house. I’m on my stoop, taking in the magic, when along comes a vision.

“Oh my God!,” I shout to my husband. “There’s this god of a guy dragged towards the front step by Francis.”

Francis! Who’s Francis?

(I had already met Francis some years before. Ever since he was a puppy, the pure white Golden Retriever of a dog would strain on his master’s leash to gain access to my little front garden and to the scent of my two monstrous canines. To my surprise, Francis didn’t seem to mind the little lessons in discipline meted out by my two brutes. In fact, he loved it.)

Now back to the other night.

At the end of the leash, holding Francis, is Alvaro. Mon Dieu! Seigneur! Alvaro is very tall, very handsome, very nice and very rich.

“You foolish lady,” he says to me in his lilting Columbian accent. My knees are weak. Even my husband finds this guy to die for.

Long story short, I get back to Bob Whatzit to raise the price of my little house. Alvaro likes my house. That’s enough for me.