Millennial nomads are on the move again — obvs

Notebook

TRADITIONALLY, September’s theme is newness. Duly, sensible people satisfy a resurged appetite for transformation by resoling a shoe or resolving to answer emails. I, on the other hand, like in too many years past, am moving house again.

At 27, I remain a reluctant conscript of Generation Rent. Consequently, these past few weeks have been the familiar back and forth of negotiating with letting agencies, booking vans and movers, packing box after box, and getting competing quotes for endof-tenancy cleans. Between four of us, we’ll pay £400 for the clean, trusting the team will do enough to ensure the return of our deposit, which I will sink into the deposit for the next place.

But the most frustrating thing is dealing with estate agents: after making a few enquiries via Zoopla, I returned from a meeting to 13 answerphone messages from agents, many working the same beat, and some even offering to show me the same property. And you thought your office was a toxic environment.

Mythology runs that after death and divorce, moving house is the most stressful thing you can do. To add insult to injuries I incurred while overzealously packing flimsy boxes (my toenail is blackening nicely, thank you), I am tackling the psychological obstacle of crossing the river: after five years in north London, I am moving south, to Camberwell. I anticipate monsters, but the rent is far cheaper.

Oh, and I’m swapping a rotating cast of housemates for just my boyfriend — whom I met while we cohabited in our last house. Millennial nomads, take solace in our quotidien fairytale as you stand, waist-deep in packing tape, ruing the good fortune of those who don’t have to get used to their fifth postcode in five years.