Why I’m acting like the Ghost of Christmas Past

MY wife and I are now sleeping in our new house which is, at the moment, open plan. It’s a good job we grew up in the Swinging 60s when life itself seemed to be open plan.

The reason is the new carpet we had fitted throughout. It has raised the floor level.

It looks as if Michael Caine has blown the bloody doors off, and left them leaning against the walls in porch and dining room and on the landing, until our joiner can call and shorten them.

We also have a great view, at all times of the day and night, through the French windows at the back.

French windows are great in a house where the front door is recessed into a corner of the building. How else would you get furniture delivered?

But we are still waiting for curtains to be hung and, with the lights on at night, it is like being on stage. And, in the casual attire I prefer at bedtime, I could give a curious cat a heart attack.

People have stopped us in the street and commiserated, often with the words: “You should never move at Christmas.” I can add: “You should never move at my age.”

I have attained heights I never knew I was still capable of, usually at the top of a ladder, and humped more boxes than Santa’s elves on overtime.

It would actually have been better if we had moved to Scarborough rather than just down the road. I wrongly assumed we would be able to move most of our belongings with a couple of trips in the car.

Removal men took large items but we are still in the midst of an endless shuttle of clutter. There is still loads left, mainly from my office which cannot be dismantled until I get a wi-fi connection at the new abode.

Our daughter and family are now living in the old house and are frustrated because they are only just becoming able to move stored furniture inside to give it their own identity.

What is more galling is that two or three days a week, when the grandkids are at nursery and school and their parents at work, I return