Get thee to a cattery!

that. So why should they be looking at me like this? Why am I feeling so

guilty? Packing was part of the deal and we agreed to pay for it.

''Did you no' manage to box up the china then?'' they're saying, all

hurt and vulnerable. All I can do is offer them a delicate little

(unpacked) cuppa each, into which their tears can plop.

Okay, when you watch them doing what they do, it's not exactly a job

to kill for, though it wouldn't surprise me if a few have died for it.

For you, the trauma might happen a handful of occasions in a lifetime;

for them it's a true daily grind, manhandling massive pieces of

furniture down narrow stairs lined with expensive wallpaper that can be

touched only on pain of death.

It's not hard to imagine being a removal man on the morning after,

with aching post-work arms and jingling post-pub head, thinking: can I

go through with it all again today? It's an honest living and a test of

character. He has my sympathy. But that doesn't mean I want to do it for

him.

Nor, however, can I just sit here watching and smoking, like some idle

country gentleman supervising the servant-folk while they empty my house

of millions more belongings than I knew I had. Like a procession of

leaf-carrying ants, their long, repetitive circular tour goes on and on,

and my guilt grows with every huff and puff.

Soon, yet another round of tea is not enough to assuage it. Especially

after the fish supper story. I'm told how, when battling away at a large

house in the country, a young removal man was sent to the nearest

village for four fish suppers. Turbo-powered by multiple hunger pangs

(his own and those of three mates) he ran three miles there and back, to

collapse in a vinegar-reeking heap at the door.

''Well done, lad,'' says the owner, picking up all four meals and

setting out two each for himself and his wife. ''What are you chaps

having?''

The message is not missed. Okay, chaps, it's fish suppers all round.

And, yes, all right, you must be tired, so I'll fetch them myself.

It might be heavy on the wallet but the carrying of one big, warm and

nice-smelling bag is not exactly onerous; certainly not enough, I

discover, to make me feel better. Must hang on, must busy myself with

little things: re-roll the toilet paper again; hold down the carpet

curl; trim the plastic plant; hold on as long as possible. But I'm going

to crack, I know it.

Finally, the big chief says the magic words: ''I think that's us then,

sir. Could you just check that we've taken everything?''

Quick check reveals one or two little things still hanging around,

like a piano and a wardrobe. No, I'm joking. They really are little

things, like rusty tin openers. ''It's okay,'' I call out foolishly,

''off you go. I'll see to the wee loose ends.''

The Fatal Error.

There followed a scene that could have come straight from a Laurel and

Hardy film. You'll think I'm making it up, but not so. No doubt there

were witnesses behind twitching curtains but I'd rather not know . . .

Three of the items left behind were two children and a cat. Packing up

the kids was tricky enough, but suddenly Sammy was a fighting, spitting,

sabre-toothed tiger. Like an ancient Gladiator, I did combat with him

until the car door could be rapidly slammed on him.

Then there was the other stuff. Much, much more than I'd imagined --

pots, irons, toasters, jam jars -- and all really too heavy for the one

remaining cardboard box. Melting under my perspiration, it -- and my

knees -- finally gave way halfway to the car, smashing a selection of

jams, jellies and tomato ketchup all over the path. It looked like the

bloody aftermath of a Khmer Rouge attack.

''Help!'' I screamed, locking the remains of the box against the wall

with my exhausted body. At which point an alarmed child opened the car

door to run to my rescue. At which point the cat escaped. At which point

the other child went racing after it and disappeared. At which point the

telephone back in the house started ringing.

At which point I did the only thing I could.

I dropped the rest of my box on my toes and screamed blue murder.

Apart from the fact that the nice, quiet residential neighbourhood was

thus very glad to see the back of me, there was one consolation in all

of this. I learned not to feel guilty about not doing what I can't do,

and don't want to do. Horses for courses indeed. And cats for some

far-off cattery.