Tardy. Two months tardy.

8am. I am sat on a freezing cold bus opposite the sourest, most miserable, pucker-mouthed hag I have ever laid eyes on. We are stuck in traffic. My ipod has just died. Phone rings. Landlord.

"Morning! Ummm... We're selling the house and you have to move out tomorrow, and sleep on the street with nothing more to wear than bathing suit bottoms and a fedora for warmth".

I have the worst luck when it comes to houses. In the past three years, I have moved house (a vomit-inducingly stressful) five times. I have lived in seven different houses. SEVEN. 'Crikey Moses' I hear you cry! 'How can that be so?' I'll tell you how:

1. Archway
For four blissful, alcohol and chip laden years, here I lived with my beautiful Claudia. My room had floor to ceiling windows which overlooked my garden. Perfect vantage point from which to watch the neighbourhood fox slide and shuffle it's bottom down a shed roof each night (worms?) I wrote my dissertation here, I got my tortoises here, I met the boy whilst living here (we concluded our first 'date' by eating crispy duck and drinking champagne sitting on my bedroom floor *sigh*)

2. Watford #1
I am still incredulous that I ever left London for Watford. To live with a boy. But being broke and enamoured and jobless, it seemed like a sensible thing to do. Yet within a month we had to move out because the place was being sold. Which in reality was a darned good thing as Euston Avenue was the PITS. It should have been destroyed. Am pretty sure it was a genuine health hazard.

3. Watford #2
We were meant to move into a wonky old house in Bushey with a claw-foot, roll-top bath and a cellar but of course that fell through. Instead we moved into a big shiny new house. Difficult to look back on this with fond memories as this is where 'break-up mark 1' took place. Still, it was fun. And big. And my room had an en-suite. But I guess eventually it dawned on me that sans garcon, I had very little reason to remain in Watford. I missed the Big Smoke achingly so. Andy and I decided to quit our boring jobs, get new exciting ones in London and move house. And then the boy decided he wanted to come too.

4. Highgate
We were meant to move to a three bedroom flat in Bethnal Green, but of course that fell through. So instead the boy and I moved to a beautiful two bedroom art deco appartment in Highgate village, with gargantuan gardens and a wrought-iron spiral staircase. When the boy began his round-the-world tour (impending doom), my sister and her kitten moved in to help with pennies. And then... The epic heartbreak happened. So I had to move out. Philandering fucker.

5. Watford #3
So, rather than live with potential random loons and pay muchos dollar and have to move swiftly, I decided to stay with my Claudina at her and hubby's new house in Watford for a month. They looked after me good and proper and helped to mend my broken heart. I was a terrible house guest - I never made dinner, or did any cleaning. I was always too hungover to tend to their hangovers. I left my telly on all night. But people do daft things when they are in chronic amounts of pain (also during this time I canoodled someone I DEFINITELY should not have, started some very unhealthy ritual internet stalking, and developed a bit of a drinking habit. Thankfully, my best friend is the best best friend anyone can have and she made it all better. By snuggling me up on the sofa, watching America's Next Top Model and feeding me crisps. She rules).

6. Brick Lane
This was meant to be the ramshackle house with the crazy Eldorado furniture, BUT OF COURSE THAT FELL THROUGH so instead, Mr Hall, Danni & I moved into the beautiful house I just vacated. And it was the bawmb. So much fun; reunion with the boy, getting trapped in the bathroom and needing to be rescued by Alex at 4am before I drunkenly smashed the glass partition above the door to get out, finally getting promoted....

Ok, so it hasn't all been roses. Since March 2008, we had 12 people come and go. Not because we are bitches and no one wants to live with us, but because we really do have the worst luck when it comes to houses. The stories I could tell you - debt, drugs, saxophones, Kylie tour and Jean-Paul Gaultier sailor suits, contrary frenchies and so on...

7. Archway # 2
So here I am, back where I started, in the cutest little flat in the world. And it's mine all mine. Sort of. I've only been there a month, and there's been a fair amount of drama and heartache already, but luckily, I am the mostest toughest cookie who ever lived so it's all fine and dandy. I just hope this one lasts a bit longer than the others.

HOLY JESUS SHIT. Were I not so lazy, I am sure I should have scheduled a breakdown.