I hate moving house. I hate everything about it. The planning, the upheaval, the throwing things out and cleaning things up, the packing, the saying good-bye - everything. My mother loved it. She said she preferred it to spring cleaning (I don't do that, either, and I don't think she did) and my parents were the only people I've ever come across who actually lost money on every house they bought.
When we last moved, we swore we'd never move again. We've been here eleven years and we love this house. It's a tall terraced Georgian town house (that sounds posh, but it isn't at all) with lots of stairs (it's a 72-stair up-and-down trip if you're at the top of the house and you've got to go and fetch something from the bottom) and no storage space and only a tiny courtyard (I love gardening, but have got very used indeed to not having to mow a lawn).
But it looks as though we may be moving on after all. We miss our children and grandchildren, and want to be a bit closer. I want to be able to go to nativity plays and sports days, and have them for a day as and when I (and they) want. But they all live in commuterland, and can we afford commuterland? Probably not. We're having the house valued tomororow, and fingers crossed that it's worth a lot more than I think it is. Otherwise we'll be moving into something very small indeed.
Now more than ever I need to produce that bestselling novel. And soon.