So here’s why I’ve been a bit weird lately.

I mean, you may not have noticed, exactly, but I’ve been less present than I would have otherwise been. I haven’t been at work for two weeks now and I could have written a blog post every single day. In fact, that was very much my intention.

Full disclosure: this is my third attempt at writing this; the first two times I started crying soon after starting. Hopefully I can hold things together for a bit.

As most of you may know, we live in a first-floor maisonette not far from the rest of my family. It’s also right next to the train station, and I mean that; I can watch my wife get onto the train from my bedroom window if I’m up early enough. I salute the steel dragons on their way towards London if I’m in the kitchen making tea.

It’s also more of a home than anywhere else we have ever lived. Our stuff fills every corner, from the mountain of books we own to the piles of yet-to-be-sorted-clothes to the sex toys we don’t really use and the DOXY I genuinely use for massaging. This is the place we lived when I had my accident, when I started my new career, when I started my new blog, and of course it’s our marital home.

I feel safe here.

Up until about a month ago, the downstairs maisonette was rented by a family who nominally only consisted of two, but regularly brought about ∞ other people to their barbecues-in-the-rain and irresponsible parties-during-lockdown. We didn’t bother them and, for the most part, they didn’t bother us. When they were served an eviction notice we were given a cast-iron assurance that the same would not happen to us.

I met the landlord a couple of weeks ago. I’ve never met him before. He was doing up the downstairs flat (which was a real mess; stained carpet and walls, cigarette stains, blocked drains et al.) and thanked me for being a good tenant. I appreciated the compliment, but was genuinely confused; isn’t what I’m doing just the bare minimum, paying rent and reporting problems?

On Tuesday I started the day feeling quite chipper. I had a very unsatisfying wank in the morning to facilitate a second jizz rush, but once that was all done and I was back from the hospital, I had the whole day in front of me. Nothing to do but enjoy myself. I could put on some music, play the game I’d bought, and maybe even indulge in some sinful food. I was on holiday; this was allowed.

And then my ‘phone rang.

“Hey, it’s [name] from [our letting agent],” trilled a clipped voice. “I’m calling to let you know that the landlord is going to take back the whole house and we are serving you a notice of eviction.”
“WHAT?”
“You’ll be receiving it in the post as well as by e-mail and you need to sign a copy and send it back to us as soon as possible.”
“WHAT?”
“Your lease will run out on the first of July so you need to be out by then. If you move out beforehand or want to remain after that date you need to tell us.”
“WHAT?”
“We’re awaiting your signed notice of eviction, okay?”
“NO, I’M NOT OKAY!” I said, finally finding my voice. “IN WHAT UNIVERSE AM I MEANT TO BE OKAY ABOUT THIS?”
“Have a good day,” she ploughed on, and hung up, leaving me to sit there like a statue.

Once my limbs had started working, the numb feeling I had been experiencing was replaces by a new sensation: panic. Almost suddenly, I was aware of just how much stuff we have. There is stuff everywhere; there’s more stuff under, on top of, or inside the other stuff. I was even going through a system to organise and categorise the stuff.

Yes, they say we have until July, but what if we find a place sooner? We’re seeing a flat tomorrow which we’re both fairly sure we’ll say yes to, and that’s available from the end of April! It would take months to move all of our stuff, even with help, and my arms don’t work any more so I can barely do anything!

For the past few days my life has been alternating between trying to stay calm, looking for flats which don’t cost £4 bzillion to rent, fighting off a creeping sensation of betrayal (I have no idea what I’ll say to my landlord if I ever meet him again), and occasional moments of blind panic at all the stuff I keep realising we have. Yesterday it dawned on me that we have three full laundry baskets, and Glod knows what I’m supposed to do with those – we only have the one clothes horse, and need that space for things we wear to work and…

…you get the idea.

I hate being evicted. It’s happened to me far too many times before, and none of them have been any fault of mine, or my wife’s. Dodgy landlords and shysters who work from their cars have robbed us of four – now five – rented places. We’ve had to move seven times, acquiring more stuff with every move, and even after five years in this place, there are still some boxes we have never quite gotten around to opening.

This seems nothing short of insurmountable. It will take a miracle to find a place and ten times that to be able to move all of our stuff.

And so I suppose I have one word for why I haven’t been very talkative this week.

Scared.