Exodus, chapters 'Bleeurgh' to 'Grrrr'

We were only going about a mile. How hard can that be? But geography is perhaps the least important element in deciding the stress quotient of any move.

Especially when your moving day begins at 3am, with a seven month-old baby vomiting all over the bed. Which, of course, includes the only clean linen that hasn't been sealed inside a cardboard box and stowed onto a van.

That little upset heralded what was to be a two-week bout of tummy trouble for our precious little angel. And despite his lack of any vocabulary, he's managed to be remarkably eloquent about the whole situation. Which is why Wendy and I spent most of the last fortnight shambling about like two fugitives from the legions of the undead.

Inevitably, of course, I caught Oscar's dreaded lurgy. Which didn't improve my temper when we also discovered that our phones didn't work. Apologies to my readers at BT, but apparently taking your number from one house to another is enough to bring this global communications giant to its knees. Not so much Bringing it all together as Taking it all apart and forgetting about it. But hey - it only took 11 days to get us connected and online.

Meanwhile Harry, our apparently brain-damaged labrador, showed utter disdain for the enormous new garden we've given him by escaping from it. A lot. One hopes not to meet one's new neighbours for the first time at seven in the morning, because your insane dog is standing in their garden barking at them. But that's how it worked out.

Anyway, we're in now. The dust is starting to settle, and Oscar has stopped exploding every five minutes. (It's about every hour now.) And should you ever want to write to me at this madhouse we call home, you can now do so at 51 Bentsbrook Park, North Holmwood, Surrey RH5 4JL.