On the first day of my new job, I learned that I was going to need to move house.
This was nothing to do with my job or my commute — I’m only moving about three hundred yards down the road, although it turns out that doesn’t make a difference to how much work the actual moving is. Still, it’s not the evening you plan, is it, for when you get home from your first day?
This led to a months of phone calls that sounded like, “This property does require you to be in full time employment. Are you in full time employment?” “Yes. Yes, I am.” “Excellent. Now, we can offer viewings from 9.30am until 4.15pm, Monday to Friday.” And then the ones who let me view things in the early evening, racing there from work, and were very keen on the single quiet teetotal doctor looking for a long-term let until I mentioned that I’d be wanting to bring a couple of jungle tigers* with me.
Nevertheless, I have acquired a new flat and the last few weeks have been a flurry of form-signing and organising and box-packing and address-changing.
I own more books than I thought I did.
Normal service will resume soon.
* “I have two small well-behaved house cats who have lived in a a rented flat for three years and for whom my landlord is happy to provide a reference.” You’d have thought I was saying I planned to raise show ponies in a one bedroom flat in Shawlands.