Panic Sets In

I wish I had something interesting to say. As it stands i'm stressed out of my mind trying to do a million tedious but time-consuming tasks these days. I was struck dumb this past week when after countless weeks of hassle, and great expense, I finally managed to secure a new competitive mortgage on my flat...only to discover that my mortgage isn't up for redemption for another year...whoops. "Bye Bye hundreds of pounds...see ya laaaaaater....."

Top of the stress list at the moment though is trying to pack up what feels like millions of personal possessions and getting ready to move into a new place in less than two weeks. When I say 'pack' what i really mean is that this afternoon between reading a really compelling autobiography and doing my second load of washing (rock n' roll i know) I transferred all my belts and scarves and hats into a suitcase. Yep. That's it. (Now if you knew what a fashionista I am and a downright hedonistic clothes-horse, you would understand that this was no small feat...nonetheless it hardly constituted preparation for a giant move - merely an attempt to blot out panic and pretend at being productive.)

At any rate, all my possessions can arrive at the new place in giant bin bags for all I care. A far more worrying dilemma is that the very next morning after the move I'm meant to be on a charter plane to India. I can hear you moaning now, " She's moving into a new place AND has to jetset to Goa to work on her tan before Christmas...must be horrid for her, poor thing"...

But actually it is. First of all, I have not had the time to obsessively do a million sit-ups a day to get in body-baring-bikini shape for major beach action lately...nor have I had my vaccinations sorted so that when a rabid dog bites me I'm not buggered (I actually did almost get bitten by one such foaming-at-the-mouth dog last time I was there so i'm not being a drama queen). I haven't managed to get my Indian visa yet (a feat in itself involving ridiculously long-winded forms to fill out, ugly passport pics to get taken, and puzzling queues to navigate in the early morning) and I'm purposely not allowing myself to imagine the 9+ hour charter flight from hell with annoying fellow passengers.

No, I'm merely trying to work out whether the mad family who are selling us their home will be out on the agreed day, whether they will renege on their word and leave us absolutely NO furniture (thus necessitating Christmas din-din's being eaten on the floor with only a wood-burning fire to give comfort) and whether I am making a huge mistake moving from my central London flat (five minutes walk from Big Ben) to a slightly less central zone 2 (the horror!) location.

Either way it's a done deal, have bankrupted myself in the process, and am paying a premium for a nice enough new home worth probably half of what i'm paying for it, only it's got this amazing balcony off the master bedroom and that's where I'm going to compose my first novel, write a killer track and drink copious bottles of red wine whilst surveying the dirty ol' London.

I've got it all figured out see...