The comedy-horror of moving house.

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We have proper internet again! We have a new house! The move has been a week-long exercise in pain! Soon I may be able to stop gobbling codeine like candy!`

Monday, three highly competent Polish blokes moved bloody everything including the piano. We set up our beds, camping amongst the boxes. ("Where is it?" "It's IN A BOX!") arkady and I have spent the rest of the week going to the old house and cleaning up. It's polished to perfection. Modulo the collapsing floor ... that's polished to perfection too.

thefon lent us his car. It's been a godsend. Freda likes going to nursery in it rather too much, and will miss it next week ...

The new place is larger, more expensive, further out of the way and, fatally, just around the corner from a Homebase. I have been sinking into suburban depravity. Parking is just about fucking impossible. No feckin' way would I buy a car while we live here unless Waltham Forest brought in residents' parking permits.

(I am a huge fan of residents' parking permits ever since the year I lived five hundred metres from the Melbourne Cricket Ground, with football fans every Friday, Saturday and Sunday parking in the middle of our street because there was nowhere else to park. I'm a big fan of traffic wardens too, let me tell you.)

We have a back yard. I have just been playing football with Freda. Planes to London City Airport passed overhead. A roofline of television aerials. I HAVE BECOME MY FATHER.