Moving

Is stressful. That's almost all I have to say on the matter.

I remember as a kid moving from our lovely flat in Myddleton Square to our bare-floored house in Haringey. We cried.

I feel like that now. I'm not ready. Literally, physically and psychologically. I pack a couple of boxes each night, chucking out the horded detritus of decades - unwanted gifts, long lost unworn clothes, possible useful articles, toys-that-may-once-have-been sentimental. But it makes me feel insecure, scared of change. And then there's the rising panic. I still can't find someone, well actually a tradesperson, willing to take a window out and put it back so the sofa can be put in (it seems Saturday's are bad, and the fact that they are not nice easy wooden sash but instead rather a uPVC aboration).

I'm sitting in Starbucks across from the back of Liberties which used to be full of chocolate. Its full of special entry shoppers madly scrabbling for christmas things at 20% off. A stream of joggers pass between them and me - upright, leggings and bumbags. I'm waiting. Concentrating on breathing to settle the panic.