Whilst moving flats can solve many of life’s little problems (so you see, the past month’s absence has not just been pure seasonal laziness…), it also throws up a few new and unexpected obstacles.
Having returned from the Chester of Win (my spiritual homeland, along with DisneyWorld and the Selfridge’s beauty hall) after a blissfully uneventful New Year spent on the in-law’s sofa with a cat, I found myself outside Waterloo station in something of a pickle.
I had no idea where I lived.
Not a bloomin’ clue.
Now I’m sure this sounds bizarre to those of you who are a little more settled, but considering I have moved house more times than I have celebrated my own birthday, it was a sadly inevitable experience.
So there I was, floundering around south London in a bewildered panic, with nothing but a postcode and a house number in my head.
I did eventually get home (having gotten on the first bus towards Brixton and praying that I recognised something along the way), and, after that slightly faltering start, realised just how glad I was to have moved.
I NO LONGER LIVE IN A VERMIN-INFESTED HELL-HOLE! HUZZAH!
