I would walk 500 miles

So last time, I thought that London perhaps didn't want to let me go (the mice, the locking myself in my flat, the lack of offers from potential tenants, the raft of friends shouting, 'DON'T GO!' at me). All this has now changed (apart from the friends shouting, 'DON'T GO!' at me. It's a bit tricky, that, having accepted the job, signed on for not-one-but-two flats and given the keys to my flat to the estate agents). But don't think I don't appreciate it, because I really do.

Yes, it's true, I've rented out the flat, which, despite the fact that my estate agent assured me would be the outcome of employing them, still feels like somewhat of a miracle. Four days had passed. They'd had twelve viewings (twelve!) and yet no-one wanted my flat, despite the fact it was in possession of a 'resplendent' sitting room. The shock of seeing my flat in the front window of KFH as I went home one evening was only eclipsed by their description of my sitting room as 'resplendent'. If only I'd known! I'd have spent my time eating caviar and feeling like Marie Antoinette, rather than eating pasta and pesto and feeling pretty ordinary. It's a wonder what a velvet sofa and a light fitting from John Lewis with a vaguely chandelier-y feel can do for a room's prospects.

The estate agent was clearly panicking. I was thinking, 'Bloody hell, mate, it's only been four days - plus I've got two more weeks before I move and I haven't started packing yet - give it a chance'. He was making noises about dropping the price. Gah, if only I'd had that kitchen floor put down two years ago, like I was supposed to, instead of two weeks before I was due to leave! But then, I received The Call from one of the estate agent's colleagues. 'I'veGotATenantForYouAndThey'llPayTheFullPriceButTheyHaveToMoveInThisWeekend', she garbled. 'Huh?' 'There's a couple who really want your flat. They're desperate [ah, so they don't adore my resplendent sitting room and want to have a wonderful time eating caviar and feeling like Marie Antoinette, they just really, really need to move. That's a bit disappointing, frankly]. They'll pay the full asking price. But they need to move in this weekend, not next weekend. Can you do that?'

Hmm. Well, let's see. My plan had been: throw as much crap into boxes as possible and shove it into the boot of my parents' car this Friday. Then spend bits of the weekend and next week finishing off (although probably, let's face it, next Friday. With a corking hangover from a leaving party and a matter of hours before my train to Edinburgh was due to leave). On the plus side, I'd be getting a week's extra rent. On the minus side, I now had to find another place to stay, and would have to really kick the kitchen floor man's butt, get carpet cleaners booked in, and, um, pack everything. A quick phone call to my friend Vicky who lives literally across the road from me, and who has a spare room, ascertained that yes, she could put me up. Mission Impossible was about to be launched.

'Yes', I said to the estate agent, 'I can do it. Let's do it!' Her relief was audible (actually, she was probably just thinking, 'YES! A week's extra commission! I am KFH's Employee of the Week!') This will be fine, I thought. Fine! I only have to fill in a billionty forms (half of them asking things like, 'What's the make and model of your hoover?' 'What about your hob?' 'And the oven?' 'Fridge?' 'Dishwasher?' 'Iron?' I'm lying about the last one, but I've never met such a bunch of Label Mabels, honestly). Then call Allied Carpets three times ('ARE YOU COMING ON SATURDAY MORNING OR NOT? YOU'LL BE BRINGING HARDBOARD AND LINO WITH YOU, LIKE I'VE PAID YOU FOR, YES?'). Then find a carpet cleaning company. Then get someone to paint the bathroom, put up a smoke alarm and paint the back wall of my sitting room (thank God for my endlessly patient cousin). Then pack! Like I said, fine - after all, it's a one bedroom flat and I'm letting it furnished, how hard can that be?

I spent all of Friday and ¾ of Saturday trying desperately to put all my possessions into boxes, bags, and the backs of cars. By the time my parents arrived on Friday afternoon, I'd already had a trip to the second hand book shop and two trips to the second hand shop (on top of, I think, two previous trips to the book shop and at least four trips to the second hand shop). This time I took what must have amounted to thousands of pounds' worth of CDs. In common with the hundreds of photos I threw out, because I couldn't bear to haul around pictures of people I'm no longer in touch with, dating back to 1994 (not to mention the collection of photos of me with massive blonde permed hair and an alarming selection of violently-patterned MC Hammer trousers), the CDs had to go. I decided that if, in the future, I actually missed owning such varied delights as Sting's greatest hits and some mid-period Jah Wobble, then I could probably download them from iTunes.

I know they say it's one of the top five stressful things to do, but it bears repeating: I absolutely hate moving. I always think, ‘oh, I don’t really have that much stuff’ and I honestly felt I'd made a huge effort on the recycling/second hand shop front (something I hadn’t managed to do last time I moved), but it was a ruddy nightmare. Thank God my parents managed to get loads of stuff in the boot of their car; then my friend Claire managed to get most of the rest of it in the back of her car; she’s got a miraculously huge basement area, so it’s all shoved into a corner of that (for me to totally forget about).

All that remains is to re-pack all the stuff that I’m taking up to Edinburgh, as of course by the end of the packing process on Saturday, I’d despaired and was throwing things randomly into orange recycling bags, as the industrial-strength black bin liners I’d bought had mysteriously vanished. I was also dealing with a kitchen floor-fitter who was the most narky, miserable man I’ve ever had to deal with (he looked at the kitchen and went, ‘It’s very narrow, isn’t it?’ I said, ‘Yes, it’s a galley kitchen, they tend to be like that’ – also, someone from Allied had actually been round to measure it, so I didn’t know why it was such a surprise. Plus, London kitchens are generally pretty small, it can’t be the smallest one you’ve seen. And it’s not my fault you fit floors for a living, mate.) The carpet cleaning man, who was Polish and very nice, clearly thought I was insane, as he arrived at about 9.30am, by which stage I’d cleared the sitting room, but the bedroom still looked like a bombsite. I assured him it’d be fine and continued manically throwing things around. Thank God Vicky came over to help, as I was also panic-cleaning, as I hadn’t had time to book in a proper cleaner, and also couldn’t afford it. We just squeaked it by the time the woman came round to do the inventory at 3.45pm. I think the tenants were due to start moving in an hour later.

So, the answer to the FAQ's is now as follows:
1/ Hurrah, I’ve sorted not one but two flats in Edinburgh
2/ AND I’ve rented out my flat! Yay
3/ Relocating is massively expensive when you have to rent out a flat through an agent. If I offer you a job in the future, then bear that in mind
4/ Yes, I’m bricking it about the new job, and not knowing anyone in Edinburgh
5/ Please don’t ask me if I’m going to miss everyone – I’ll just start crying again. I’m a total mess – even England being woeful at football nearly set me off, despite the fact I loathe football, footballers, craggy-faced idiot-hole Fabio Capello and those vuvu-wotsits that someone was blowing most of yesterday evening in the house next door
6/ If by ‘are you all packed?’ you mean, ‘does your flat looked the tidiest it’s looked in the entirety of you being there, because all the stuff was moved out of it, the carpets were steam cleaned, the kitchen floor finally got installed and you actually cleaned the oven?’ The answer is a really big ‘yes’