“…which is the piece of skin between the vagina and the bumhole.”

Once more I shift awkwardly in my seat. I checked my watch surreptitiously but the hands appear to be moving backwards. The midwife charges on regardless.

I am not even sure whether ‘bumhole’ is a generally accepted official anatomical term. As far as I am concerned, the only context in which the word ‘bumhole’ should really be used is something like: ‘yah boo, it is a good job that it is the end of playtime otherwise I shall beat you up because you have a face like a bumhole’. I start to worry that she is not qualified and just pretending to be a midwife.

“So you’ll be there on the bed, probably on all fours…”

I fix my attention to a speck on the opposite wall. It is amazing how interesting a speck can be relative to some alternatives. I speculate on its origin. It could be dust-based, or a flick of paint from the recent decoration.

If you hold your eyes on it for long enough it appears to dance about. This is presumably an optical illusion. Although it could be a genuine dancing speck. I make a mental note to check it out at a later date. It could be worth lots of money given the right management advice.

“So do you have any particular wishes, Jonny?”

“You what?”

She appears to have asked me a question. I think hard. What I would really really like to do is to stop talking about epidurals and deliveries and bumholes and perhaps have a nice cup of tea and discuss rabbits or mice or washing machines or any other of my normal conversational things.

“Well really I think how I feel is that I think I am quite happy with whatever she decides,” I say assertively. I feel a glare on the side of my head.

Our hour is almost up, and it is time for me to get ready for bowls. I leave them talking about electronic pain relief systems and slip quietly out the door.

“Accept it,” says the LTLP. “At some point, you are going to have to do some washing up.”

Her empty threats do not scare me. I sip from my plastic cup, defiantly.

We are cosy in our new little cottage. It has comfy rooms, a nice narrow staircase, working central heating and a general aura of homeliness. But there is no space in the kitchen for a dishwasher. We are having to wash everything manually with washing up liquid and a bowl, like they do in the third world.

“Mrs Short Tony said we could use their dishwasher,” I explain. “Once we get a reasonable pile of stuff I’ll box it up and drive over there.”

Fortunately we have not yet managed to procure a cooker. It is all very well having hot food etc., but it tends to stick to the plates a bit more and require saucepans, and it is the time of year when it is nice to have salads. Having central heating is still a wondrous new novelty for me, and I am sure that I can re-heat frozen things on the radiators if needs be.

“I’ll have my cheesecake now,” she orders.

I fetch her dinner, thoughtfully. As regular readers know, I do try my best to be what the style commentators call ‘a new man’ by cooking, ironing, organising cleaners etc., but when it comes to washing up, I’d rather dress up as a woman and attend a ‘Mike and the Mechanics’ gig with Jack Straw. It is something to do with the dirty greasy water that repels me.

“Here you go,” I offer. “Can I have the plate after you?”

The plan is that we shall be living here for six months. I have bought some Fairy liquid but do not wish to get further than half way down the bottle.

“I’ve backed the Land Rover right up,” says Short Tony, as I stand in the old kitchen, my bent finger covering my mouth in that particular way that has been scientifically proven to help you think. I decide that if I stare at the washing machine for long enough then it will become a bit lighter.

I have already expertly unplumbed it, removing the hot and cold water inlets and unscrewing the waste pipe from the sink outlet. I make a mental note to seal up the subsequent gap in the pipework and not to forget, which would be foolish and potentially wet. Fortunately I have an excellent memory and never forget anything ever.

We lift the washing machine.

I don’t know why some people are good at lifting things and some people aren’t. It must be a technique thing. It cannot be anything to do with strength. We stagger around the kitchen in the general direction of the door. I have my hands underneath it and am stooped like a fairytale character to compensate for the three-foot difference in height (estimate) between me and Short Tony.

By the time we reach the Land Rover we have given up all pretence of being careful with the appliance, and sort of hurl the thing in the back. I do some exercises to try to return my arms to their previous length.

“Ready to go?” asks Short Tony. I am as ready as I will ever be. Normally I approach a journey in his Land Rover with the same sort of confidence as I’d book up a scenic light aircraft trip with, say, Buddy Holly and Richard Reid the Shoe Bomber. But I am comforted by the thought that if the worst does happen and we break down miles from anywhere then at least I will be able to have clean clothes.

We set off at a steady 32 mph. In the event the engine only stops working once and we reach our destination without incident, if you don’t classify alarming rattly and bangy noises from both engine and domestic appliance as ‘incident’.

We lift the washing machine.

My new cottage is on a bit of a hill, and the extra altitude makes everything appear even heavier. Zigzagging up the path, we sort of fall in to the front room, bashing it against the doorframe as we attempt to manoeuvre it around. Of course the new kitchen is the furthest room away, and access is via a convenient step, but sweating and swearing we get it there in the end, and I do some lightning plumbing and electrical connection.

The washing machine does not work.

This is disappointing.

We methodically instigate a troubleshooting procedure – trying a different socket, checking the plug, changing the fuse etc. An hour later, this has all gone out of the window, and we are shouting and swearing at the machine whilst punching and kicking it. At this point it decides to work after all, which is wonderful, but the waste pipe is not connected up and it starts pumping dirty water into the kitchen cupboard.

Deciding that this would be best cleared up at a later date, I thank Short Tony for his help. At times like these it is good to have neighbours who one can rely on.

We return to the old cottage without event. Absentmindedly, I empty the washing-up bowl down the sink.

There is a particular constant about moving into a new house.

That is, in the period between meeting the current owner/landlord and saying “yes, what a nice house this is, I think I will definitely buy/rent it” and actually moving in, the vendor in question will zip round making all the rooms smaller, the rooms darker, and the carpets and walls generally nastier than you remember.

In fact my top tip if you are looking around a house with a view to prospective purchase/rent is to make a very secret mark thing somewhere hidden. That way, when you eventually move in you can check that you’re actually in the place that you originally saw rather than a cheaper substitute dwelling that you’ve been tricked into purchasing via a system of mirrors etc (which is quite easy to do).

Fortunately, Narcoleptic Dave’s cottage is much as I remember it – in fact he’s given it a nice lick of paint. He’d been staying there whilst his own builders finished off, and hadn’t really bothered to move much furniture in, with no cooker, and mattresses slung on the floor in lieu of a bed. God knows how he got any sleep.

So thinking about it, there isn’t a particular constant at all. It just happens sometimes, depending on circumstances. Like in particle physics (I think, although I am not entirely sure, not being a particle physicist. But I could look the subject up on Google and become an expert, if I had time, which I don’t, but I could).

A real particular constant constant, however, is the fact that every single time I move house I say to myself “next time, I will get the professionals to do it.” Hence, I have booked the bloke in the next village who owns a van, and asked Short Tony and Big A to give me a hand. There can’t be much carrying to do, really.

Really.

Sleepless night.

Got up, got dressed, took some breakfast to the mice.

I entrap a mouse!!!

Looking at my watch, I realise that it is time to check the traps. There is no point in buying humane mousetraps if one leaves a mouse in there for a long time with no food or TV etc. As the man of the house, I decide to go myself.

The joists are riddled with woodworm and as soft as cheese. But being a courageous Norfolk Steve Irwin I am not afraid as I crawl across them on my knees, clutching my torch and trying not to touch the loft insulation (because it is itchy).

My trap is full of mice!!!

There are three in there. I carefully grab it and retrace my kneels, bringing my prize downstairs into the main part of the cottage. They don’t appear to be making much of a bid for freedom.

“Mice!!!” I announce to the LTLP, thrusting the trap at her. She looks up in distaste from the thickie bit of the newspaper, annoyingly unimpressed with my resourcefulness at pest extermination.

I examine the trap in triumph. Two smaller mice are sort of cowering at the back, whilst the larger one sits in front, looking at me. It doesn’t seem annoyed or reproachful, just a bit… sad.

I locate my shoes and carry the trap into the back garden.

It’s horribly cold outside. I shiver as I step out into the rapidly gathering frost. We hunters are used to harsh conditions, but it really is very peaky.

A small remorse nags at me.

My torch lights the way into the woodshed. It is very slightly warmer in there. Placing the trap down gently, I release the catch. The mice do not emerge. I give it a slight tap. The mice still do not emerge. I say something like “Here, mousey mousey!!!” and emergentless remain the mice.

They seem perfectly alive and well in there, but unwilling to leave for whatever reason. I am not sure whether I have traumatised them or whether it’s just that it is warmer where they are. I try various ploys to get them to be on their way, but to no avail.

I wrap some sacking over the trap to keep it cosy, and plod back indoors to fetch them a snack.