No place like home

Especially when you've just been told you have two months to leave.

Even more so when you only moved in last October and have finally got comfortable in your surroundings and are thinking of the place as your home.

Last week when I came home for lunch I noticed a for sale sign outside my house for Flat 2 (I live in Flat 1). Knowing that the same person owns all three flats in the building, I was immediately suspicious so I called my estate agent (words cannot describe how much I dislike this man) and he confirmed the landlord was "thinking about selling" but assured me I would be the first to know.

Yesterday, there was an envelope in my letterbox with a Newmarket address and I knew immediately what it was. So, I have until July 31 to find a new home.

As regular readers of my blog will be aware, my wee flat hasn't been a perfect with it's damp (sorry, "ventilation") problems and errant builders disturbing me, but I've really liked it.

Plus I really hate the whole process of moving, it costs money, it's hard work and you have to look loads of different places - knowing I'm probably not actually going to stay there for very long. I have serious doubts I'm going to be able to find somewhere that fits quite as well, and having now had the joys of a power shower (albeit one where the head sometimes falls off and sprays the wall), double glazing and the like, I don't want to go somewhere miserable and drafty. Oh, and Missy (my little moggie) isn't going to particularly enjoy the process.

So I have to go and talk to a bunch of scumsucking bloodthirsty estate agents. What larks, what fun. We briefly considered looking at buying, but really, I can't see myself staying here for that long (it's been three years and I'm getting pretty restless). And somewhere we would have to come up with several thousand pounds for fees/surveys/stamp duties/lining the estate agents pockets which we really don't have.

Sometimes I doubt my career choices - I owe thousands of pounds in student loans but as a journalist earn less than I could as someone's secretary or a bloody manager at Tesco. And HF, as an archaeologist, earns even less (which is a constant source of misery to him). Maybe I should just sell my soul to the devil (ie join the ranks of press officers like my colleague is doing). Either that, or write that bestseller which I fully intend to do. A really reliable source of income.

Oh well, anyone got any good packing tips? Any good ideas on where I can leave something hidden which will REALLY SMELL but not until I'm long?

Bloody estate agents.

More on that story later.