We have just moved house, so it is with every confidence that I can say I’m never leaving this one again. I can’t conceive of having to lift even a single box full of accoutrements I’ve picked up through my painstaking life that I may or may not look at in any given year.

Like the little roll-y thing from Japan that inks over your personal details before you put an envelope in the blue bin. I had admittedly forgotten the undiluted pleasure of being reunited with things that have been sitting in front of you for the last however many years.

I managed to recycle/take to the charity shop/chuck out a good chunk of my stuff prior to this move, but even that was barely enough to mitigate the horror of yoinking my worldly possessions to a van and driving it several times across most of the country.

Washing your prized vestments within the confines of your own home is an underrated luxury. Not underrated by me of course, now that I’ve heaved – hoven? – the washing machine in and out and through before meticulously hooking it back up to pipe work I don’t understand.

I’m not a handy man to have around, and now I live in perpetual fear of something popping off while my pants are in a flat spin and a tidal wave of lightly scummy water scudding across the kitchen tiles. I barely have the wherewithal to even half arse a domestic task, so it’s my wife who knows where all the screwdrivers are kept. She has an axe now, which worries me slightly.

What is quite refreshing is knowing the house that you’re going to see out your days in, however numerous they may be. After this move significantly fewer than I might otherwise have imagined, because I gather that I’m in no fit state to be lifting things and taking them places.

Do I want to die here? I can categorically say that this was not on my top 10 places to kick the bucket (mental note: write list of places I wouldn’t mind dying in. That fancy chip shop in Cromer?), but if it happens it happens. I can’t really be bothered to go anywhere else now.