Almost the entire Bank Holiday weekend has been spent preparing for the house move. Friday evening, Claire and I ordered a sofa. It is expected to take four weeks for delivery. FOUR WEEKS! Apparently it has to be built especially. Given the wait, I expect it to come from Geppetto’s workshop and to be handmade by Pinocchio and Jiminy Cricket.

Saturday was the big day. Key collection day. While sitting in the letting agency, waiting to sign our lives away onto a mountain of forms, I overheard a phone conversation between an estate agent and a potential tenant over the fact no properties existed where she could live with her children and collection of dogs. Despite only hearing one half of the conversation, it was evident the person on the other end of the phone was getting distressed at the thought of not being able to find a property where a landlord would permit her children and dogs to live. That’s life. If you really wanted somewhere to live, you would have them put down (the dogs, not the children).

We eventually got our keys and made our way (without dog) to our new house. We were shown around by a man who took a note of all the faults with the property, everything which was broken and the fact the house stunk of curry. As much as I like a curry, I don’t want my house to smell of it all day and all night. Hopefully after installing five hundred Glade plugins and leaving them turned on for a fortnight, the smell will disperse.

We began to leave the house and go to Twerton Park to watch Bath City. It was then we discovered the locks didn’t work. We had locked the house, with the front door wide open, therefore making it impossible to close. We were going nowhere.

Claire called the letting agency and was told to call a locksmith, which we would have to pay for. That’s when I went mad. I took the phone, and with my most demanding Victor Meldrew type attitude demanded they sort fix it. After a lot of arguing, including me sarcastically asking them the correct way in which I should operate a door lock, before threatening to sue them, we were told a senior manager would come round and fix the lock. They didn’t fix the lock. It didn’t need fixing. We were simply provided with a working key. Not a great start to the tenancy, although I was happy with the resolution and to have a locked door.

Upon leaving the house and locking the front door (correctly this time) an old woman appeared with her elderly dog. She introduced herself. I don’t remember her name, but for the purpose of this blog, we’ll call her Mrs Warboys. In a scene almost identical to that of a One Foot In The Grave episode, she told me that the hot tap bangs when it is in use and advised against using it late at night. Or in the day. Or ever. She said she was going to contact the landlord and make him fix it. I have a feeling we may have a few issues with her, with regards to noise. When I move my stuff in on Wednesday, I will make a conscious effort to leave my big speakers outside the house for long enough to get a good look. She’ll probably call the police.

Sunday was spent back in my old flat doing more packing. As all my stuff isn’t being moved until later in the week, my old flat is surrounded by boxes and bags. I can hardly move around. If a spider is spotted on the floor and hides among the clutter, it’s never being found. My Bank Holiday Monday, traditionally a day of rest, was far from relaxing. Even more packing was done and the always enjoyable task of defrosting the freezer. Oh joy. I’m never moving again.