We've moved into our new place. It's precisely three floors below the old one. A little of the old "beam me up, Scotty" action would have made the move a helluva lot easier, but it wasn't precisely an epic Himalayan trek as it was.

Anfy had been being increasingly plagued by doubts since he bought the place, in the inevitable and unavoidable recoil from having spent any sum of money involved six figures. But now that we're in it, it's easy to appreciate the good points - like study/spare bedroom with lots of light, the width of the corridor, and the absence of utterly wasted though pretty space. The bad points are still there (like the entrance-hall floor which instantly renders you seasick) but they're in proportion.

Also, we need a washing machine. We had one, but it's staying in the old apartment. Mainly because it's impossible to get it out of the old apartment without performing feats of superhuman strength, taking the wall out, or melting it down with acid.

The real estate agents are being very nice about it. We likes our real estate agents. We don't like the stupid fat hobbit landlords, who are being nasty to the real estate agents and, we suspect, going to take their business to the REALLY stupid, fat hobbits moronic, idiotic, vague, incompetent, dithering, blind, stupid and fat Dingle Partners.

We don't like Dingle Partners.

So remember, kids: Noel Jones good, Dingle bad. And don't talk to strangers.