‘You’re only allowed one roll of packing tape per customer,’ said the lady in the local hardware store.

The builder boyfriend was holding five rolls, at £2 each, thinking it was reasonable to buy a tenner’s worth, or even that she might be pleased, in line with the normal rules of commerce.

But this lady and her husband are notorious for not allowing you to buy the precious things of their shop. I had to beg them to sell me six laundry bags a few weeks ago.

Now we had gone through all the tape we had bought from the self-storage firm where we got our packing boxes and we had to do a run to this local store for local people, in a small parade of shops in a chocolate-boxy Surrey Hills village.

After somehow managing to buy five rolls, the builder b made the mistake of informing the lady he might be back for more, whereupon she pulled her cardigan tightly around her and, as her husband looked up aghast from where he was stacking the already full to bursting shelves, she informed the BB: ‘You won’t be allowed back to buy more. You’ve already got too much. It’s one roll per customer.’

I managed to buy one plastic container for my desk contents, by convincing the man I didn’t want the largest box. ‘Those are the best ones,’ he said, doubtfully, when I pointed to the stack. ‘That’s fine, I’ll take one of the smaller ones.’

How anyone gets so insular an hour from the King’s Road is beyond me.

‘One roll per customer. Is this Russia or something?’ muttered the BB as we walked back to the car. ‘It’s the Soviet States of Surrey,’ I pointed out.

With the house sale through, the packing collided with the cancelling.

Nothing would let me cancel it online, of course. From BT to British Gas it was virtually impossible to close any accounts to go overseas because they all wanted a new address they could supply.

I started with the BBC licence fee because I thought I would enjoy that, but it turned out to be a joyless process. Cancelling was only offered in the smallest of small print and even then the only option looked instant. What if the builder boyfriend wanted to watch Bangers and Cash in the few days before we vacated?

I did not dare press cancel in case there was not an option after that to input a date you wanted to cancel from – because I bet they come round in that detector van the second you have the temerity to say you don’t want any more State Television.

I was going to have to ring a dozen hellish phonelines, or cancel every direct debit on the last day when Pickfords would be here and I would be going screaming mad.

The purchase of our house in Ireland was held up, because the solicitor had not yet had time to drive the contract to the client for him to sign. How wonderful.

I was careful not to demand they just email it, get him to sign, scan and email it back.

If Ireland was the sort of place where people did not go to see each other, we would not be going.

‘This will take as long as it takes,’ I thought, ‘because we are now on Irish time.’

But a week later, with all our packing done, and me and the builder boyfriend and the dogs sitting among the boxes watching reruns of Benidorm to celebrate our last few days of Freeview television that was nothing to do with the BBC but they wanted money for anyway, I did think: ‘Blimey O’Reilly will they ever get in the car and get the vendor to sign the papers?’

I texted the agent to say I was about to move into a motel and serve notice on our horses’ field. At some point, we would be camped on a grass verge near junction ten with our ponies tethered, like gypsies.

‘Storm Agnes is here and it’s pretty wild on the roads,’ she replied, as the builder boyfriend and I were doing the horses that morning. The BB looked up from chaining the gate shut as I read out her message. ‘Storm Agnes? They’ll be getting Storm Melissa soon.’

But the agent worked a miracle and the papers were signed in spite of the weather in the wild west Cork countryside.

Lots of lovely messages wishing us well with the move. But my favourite, which I will treasure always, is a card sent anonymously emblazoned with ‘Good Luck’ and a shamrock on the front, opening to reveal the scrawled message: ‘Go on then, get lost!’

It put a smile on our faces. I’m convinced it’s a good omen.