Yesterday I thought there was a vague chance I might have to start thinking about packing a box or two, at some point in the distant future. You know, just one of those vague, back-of-the-mind type niggles. This morning, as an email from my solicitor revealed, it turned out I might have to actually start doing some packing, and really quite soon. I might also need to organise a removals van, and fill it with all my worldly goods. And then, a short drive later, I might find I’d completely moved house. Different town and everything. This is all a bit of a shock.

I’m not massively emotionally prepared for this change. I mean, it’s my own choice, obviously. No one has sold my house from under me. I’ve actively chosen the new one. It’s very nice, incidentally. Right by the sea. However. A lot has happened in the old house. Some of it’s been pretty tricky stuff. All the getting diagnosed with cancer stuff. The having treatment stuff. The struggling to get back to feeling anywhere approaching normal stuff. That sort of thing. But it hasn’t made me want to leave this place. It hasn’t tainted it, or left me with any bad memories of the house at all. Because this is the house I dealt with all that stuff in. This is the house that loads of amazing people routinely turned up at to check how I was, ply me with gifts and be generally kind and lovely. This is the house where my 4-year-old niece built a tent in the living room, because it’s important to go camping before nursery.

Who knows what stuff will happen in the new house, though? Well, significant building works to start with, obviously. But after that. There will be visitors. There might be gifts. And never mind camping in the living room – the new house has an actual garden. Although to be fair, I’m not a massive fan of the great outdoors. I think any camping will probably still be taking place in the living room.