It’s quarter past two, and we’re all back home for lunch in the middle of moving my remaining stuff out of the flat. I didn’t think there was still much there, but once you get into deconstructing furniture, bubble-wrapping glass table tops, unscrewing iron bedsteads and the like, you quickly end up with a scrap-like pile in the middle of every room.

I could never have done it without help and, of course, Andrew’s large car. Turns out you can’t fit double beds in the back of my Fiesta.

Mid-morning, we all sat down and had one last tea party in the rapidly emptying flat, sitting on the settee for the last time before we whipped all the cushions off into bags for storage. It was a mirror of the same tea party we’d had almost nine years ago when I’d just bought the place, and my furniture – the same furniture we were packing up today – was yet to be fully moved in.

My purchase has yet to go through, so I’ll be storing my remaining belongings in Andrew’s garage, along with the rest of my stuff. I did, though, get a fat wad of papers through from my solicitor, detailing the sale details of the house I’m in the process of buying.

Those details included what the current owner paid for it when she bought it. I won’t reveal here how much it was, except to say that it was just 4.1% of what I’m paying now.

She is 66.

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