Why is it that nobody can ever finish a job? Half-job wankers, I call them. Start a job. Get bored or encounter a problem and just give up.

We have no smoke alarms in the house. We haven’t since we moved in. If there is a fire during the night, I could wake up dead. Apparently somebody came out to fix them before we moved in. Judging by the state of the smoke alarms, it looks like the letting agency sent Mr Bean. Half-job wankers!

Then there’s the engineer from Sky. After waiting weeks to get Sky TV installed, an engineer turned up a few days ago. There was already a dish on the side of the house and all wired into the house. He had the easiest job in the world. Even an ape could do it. Did he install the box properly? Did he buggery. No telephone line installed. Therefore no ability to buy channels or movies, plus its apparently a contractual agreement that the Sky box is hooked up to the telephone line. No doubt when Jeff Stelling finds out that this is not the case, we’ll be the ones in trouble. Half-job wankers!

I’m even going to start on the grass outside our house yet to be cut. Half-job wankers!

Our new sofa is due to arrive next week and I’ll bet you anything it doesn’t turn up. Half-job wankers! Half-job wankers! Half-job wankers!

I am now in the new house with Claire. Newbridge Road is no more. Well, when I say ‘no more’, it is probably still standing, unless the ominous –looking cracks which were forming on the ceiling finally gave way, causing the flat above to fall into my old living room.

I have been very busy, hence the lack of blogging. Things are slowly but surely getting sorted and unpacked. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with some photos, taken just minutes before I closed and locked the door on Newbridge Road FOREVER.

Bye bye, bed

Bye bye, view of Twerton Park

Bye bye, kitchen

Bye bye, toilet

Goodbye, sofa. I’m going to miss you most of all.

A major step forward in the house move was made today. The removal men transported all my stuff from my old flat to the new house. I was totally amazed at how fast they worked. All my possessions – my entire life – was loaded into a van before being driven a mile up the road and unpacked, in under an hour and a half. It was like watching David Attenborough documentary, where locusts strip an entire forest in hours, except in this case my whole flat was emptied and the work was done by men, not insects.

The rest of the day was spent on my own, undertaking the much longer task of cleaning my old flat, ahead of my imminent departure. There was lots and lots of dust, where furniture had stood for over 6 years. I was expecting to find hundreds of dead spiders in the spot of the TV cabinet. There was only one. The dozens I had terminated over the years must have turned to dust. Or been eaten by other spiders. Super spiders.

After filling the bowels of a vacuum cleaner, emptying an entire can of Cillit Bang into the shower and spraying far more Mr Sheen onto the surfaces than is healthy (hallucinations were caused), I can say my flat is clean. Well almost. I’ve still got to defrost the fridge and somehow clean the oven. I must have cooked thousands of pizzas over the course of my tenancy, and rather a lot of mess and stains have been left behind as a result. That’ll be my weekend job. As I said the other day, “I’m Never Moving Again”

Almost the entire Bank Holiday weekend has been spent preparing for the house move. Friday evening, Claire and I ordered a sofa. It is expected to take four weeks for delivery. FOUR WEEKS! Apparently it has to be built especially. Given the wait, I expect it to come from Geppetto’s workshop and to be handmade by Pinocchio and Jiminy Cricket.

Saturday was the big day. Key collection day. While sitting in the letting agency, waiting to sign our lives away onto a mountain of forms, I overheard a phone conversation between an estate agent and a potential tenant over the fact no properties existed where she could live with her children and collection of dogs. Despite only hearing one half of the conversation, it was evident the person on the other end of the phone was getting distressed at the thought of not being able to find a property where a landlord would permit her children and dogs to live. That’s life. If you really wanted somewhere to live, you would have them put down (the dogs, not the children).

We eventually got our keys and made our way (without dog) to our new house. We were shown around by a man who took a note of all the faults with the property, everything which was broken and the fact the house stunk of curry. As much as I like a curry, I don’t want my house to smell of it all day and all night. Hopefully after installing five hundred Glade plugins and leaving them turned on for a fortnight, the smell will disperse.

We began to leave the house and go to Twerton Park to watch Bath City. It was then we discovered the locks didn’t work. We had locked the house, with the front door wide open, therefore making it impossible to close. We were going nowhere.

Claire called the letting agency and was told to call a locksmith, which we would have to pay for. That’s when I went mad. I took the phone, and with my most demanding Victor Meldrew type attitude demanded they sort fix it. After a lot of arguing, including me sarcastically asking them the correct way in which I should operate a door lock, before threatening to sue them, we were told a senior manager would come round and fix the lock. They didn’t fix the lock. It didn’t need fixing. We were simply provided with a working key. Not a great start to the tenancy, although I was happy with the resolution and to have a locked door.

Upon leaving the house and locking the front door (correctly this time) an old woman appeared with her elderly dog. She introduced herself. I don’t remember her name, but for the purpose of this blog, we’ll call her Mrs Warboys. In a scene almost identical to that of a One Foot In The Grave episode, she told me that the hot tap bangs when it is in use and advised against using it late at night. Or in the day. Or ever. She said she was going to contact the landlord and make him fix it. I have a feeling we may have a few issues with her, with regards to noise. When I move my stuff in on Wednesday, I will make a conscious effort to leave my big speakers outside the house for long enough to get a good look. She’ll probably call the police.

Sunday was spent back in my old flat doing more packing. As all my stuff isn’t being moved until later in the week, my old flat is surrounded by boxes and bags. I can hardly move around. If a spider is spotted on the floor and hides among the clutter, it’s never being found. My Bank Holiday Monday, traditionally a day of rest, was far from relaxing. Even more packing was done and the always enjoyable task of defrosting the freezer. Oh joy. I’m never moving again.