I was looking forward to moving house. We were going back to the north east of England to be within a one hour drive of my parents. It would be wonderful to be surrounded by friendly northerners again.

TPR left it up to me to find somewhere to live. I found a big flat in a huge converted council building that overlooked a beautiful garden and the school playing fields. Our next door neighbour would be my school friend HP’s running partner who was moving up from York. With a new companion nearby it wouldn’t matter if I couldn’t find a job.

Slowly, however, I realised that our new home was perhaps not suitable. From the rota pinned to the back of the front door and the tatty decor it was obvious that the previous occupants were students. The floors also sloped awkwardly. It would be very expensive to put this all right.

Then there was the problem of the neighbours. It appeared that there was a busy children’s hospital on the floor below, and beneath this there was a noisy bar where anyone who challenged an indoor smoker risked a beating. I realised the full measure of my mistaken house purchase when a mad old lady on the staircase passed me in mid-rant, wielding the most unusual of weapons: a lime green, buckled, patent leather shoe.