JANUARY 5 - moving! There it was on my pristine 2007 calendar, written in red, like a note of warning, similar to a wisdom tooth extraction or a bikini wax.

I knew it was going to be painful, but it symbolised the end of a difficult period, the calm after the storm of marriage breakdown.

I didn't want to leave my beautiful six-bedroomed home, but it was financially essential and being a positive person I decided to concentrate on how I was going to renovate the new home I'd found, a three-bedroom Victorian semi with an enormous garden.

So, the customary New Year's Eve Party at Cooke Towers had to be cancelled because I'd given away my kitchen chairs and we were bumping into boxes at every turn.

The Christmas decorations were dismantled on January 2 and the packing commenced in earnest.

For three weeks previously I had packed away hundreds of books which I couldn't bear to part with.

Similarly, I couldn't get rid of furniture that my grandfather, a cabinet maker, had made for my grandmother 50 years ago, despite the fact that there would be no place for it in a smaller house.

Looking at the marquetry and the intricacy of a dozen different wood types and colours he'd fashioned into a picture of Wythenshawe Hall on the top of one small table, filled me with emotion. It had taken him weeks and his name was still visible on the underside. I just couldn't let it go. .

I'd had a quote from a removal company, I knew they were coming and everything was going to be fine. So the night before I went out with a friend until 1am. I always believe everything will come right in the end, but when I woke at 9am to banging on the door by the removal men, I wondered where my optimism had gone.

Despair

The gang of five wandered in and I showed them from room to room. In some, they shook their heads in despair.What I hadn't realised is that to make a removal man happy you have to pack up absolutely everything - every CD and china saucer.

I naively thought that they would help me do it. After all, the ex couldn't because he'd hurt his arm, which left me, my 14-year-old daughter, 17-year-old son and my 72-year-old mother. Oh, and the dog, Ronnie, who kept running into the street every time the door opened.

But everything costs extra. If you want help with packing, you're supposed to say so and be charged for it. If you want a bed dismantling and putting together again, you have to say so and be charged for it. If you want a washing machine un-plumbing, you have to say so and be charged for it. None of this I knew, so endless cups of tea and butties were needed to keep the boys sweet and the secondary cost to a minimum.

I was beginning to berate myself for my "everything will be fine" attitude when we ran out of boxes and still had numerous ceramics and CDS to pack up. Then the vac bag filled up and we'd packed away the spares. I should have been more organised. Did I honestly think that five men would come into my house and rescue a damsel in distress out of the goodness of their hearts? If I'd been 20 in a miniskirt, perhaps, but I had a hangover, no make-up on and an unruly dog that kept tripping them up when they were carrying heavy furniture. Stupid, stupid woman.

So stupid in fact, that when one of them asked me if anything needed removing from the cellar, I said no.

"So you won't be needing that brand new washer and tumble drier, then?" said the gang boss. "Just as well, as the van's full."

"Ohmigod, I forgot," says I, near to tears at this point, because the dog's run off again.

"Relax, we checked and they're in the van," he grinned.

I could have kissed him, sweaty as he was. The boys were warming to my plight, despite the lack of miniskirt.

Around about this time the wayward manchild disappeared to bury his girlfriend's rabbit, which had died of a rare gerbil disease, so we were another man down.

Still, the shifter boys were firmly on my side by now - poor cow, no husband, son who deserts her and all she's got for help is a sobbing 14-year-old and a granny with a Mr Muscle fetish.

What I haven't said is that I wasn't actually going to my lovely Victorian house in need of renovation with the enormous garden, because the purchase had been delayed. So I was off to temporary accommodation, a furnished flat above a restaurant which had been occupied by single men who didn't know how to clean a cooker. Thank God for my mother's fetish!

The only access to the flat was via a narrow, bin-lined alley and a long staircase. There were to be two stop-offs, one to the flat and the other to a storage container nearby.

Relief

I was dreading the fact that the removal van would not be able to fit down the alley and that I would lose my boys' good will. But all credit to them, the driver was an expert and managed to reverse up the alley with an inch to spare either side. And even though it took him the best part of half an hour, he emerged from the driver's seat all happy and cheerful. What a relief.

The rest of my furniture went into storage at a cost of around é35 a week, which was nothing compared to one quote of é85 I received.

Since then I have been living out of wardrobe boxes. I have four and as I really can't be bothered to go rummaging through them all, I have come to the conclusion that a woman really can rely on a capsule wardrobe. Two dresses, one skirt, two shirts, jeans, shoes, boots and a couple of jumpers - I don't need anything else. Well, apart from undies.

Another concern was work. As I work from home I knew I would be incommunicado for a while. It took a week for NTL to sort out the telly, phone and broadband, so now I'm motoring.

My daughter was upset about leaving the house for a grubby flat and particularly her funky bedroom. But two weeks on, the tears have dried, we've cleaned and decorated and she's making the most of it. Not that she'd ever invite any of her posh friends here, even though I've offered to cook fish fingers and chips to keep it real.

So I'm still waiting to hear about my lovely Victorian house in need of renovation with the enormous garden, but think a period of calm consolidation is required before another move.

But next time, I'll know exactly what to expect and will plan the event with the precision of a military operation. Either that, or I'll employ some 20-year-old in a miniskirt to help out for the day.

Have you got a moving horror story? Share it with us.

Tweet