We didn’t know whether to laugh our cry after reading this little story! Remember kids, moving house is stress free with Robinsons!

“I never used to believe those surveys which ranked moving house in the Top 10 most stressful experiences in life. But following our move from North London to Surrey last week, I now know this to be true.

Stressful? There should be a Government Health Warning on moving house. Throughout that long, exhausting day I’m convinced my blood pressure hit danger levels on a number of occasions.

Watching the removal lorry slowly reverse into our car was certainly one of them. Only minutes earlier I’d taken the baby out of his car seat. We were parked a good 30 feet away, yet all three removal men swore they couldn’t see our family estate car in their rearview mirrors. It was a small dent in the bumper; a larger one to my confidence.

Then there was the £40 parking ticket slapped on the windscreen in the 30 seconds it took me to pick up my son from nursery. It was the equivalent of a goodbye card from those diligent employees of Islington Council.

While all this was going on, I was speaking to at least seven different operators at a call centre in the hope that one might possess the talent to set up an account on our new landline phone. They did not.

By the time we arrived at our new house (an hour stuck in rush-hour London traffic, another hour to get there) it was getting dark. Without a working landline phone I kept my mobile close at hand… until, that is, our over-tired toddler posted it down the toilet while I was running his bath. I suppose I can’t blame that one on house-moving: that’s just parenthood for you.

The next morning started with promise. We woke in our new home; the sun was shining, the birds tweeting. What could possibly go wrong today?

Within half an hour, a full mug of coffee slid off what we thought was a flat surface and all over the only carpet in the house that didn’t need replacing.

Then we locked ourselves out of the house. The previous owner had forgotten to drop the rather important Yale key with the agents on completion. We only realised this after we had slammed the front door.

How my husband managed to wriggle through the tiny downstairs window with the dodgy catch, I have no idea. I hadn’t seen such a contortionist since the Chinese State Circus came to town. He dropped six feet down onto the carpet, landing headfirst, and hasn’t been quite the same since.

Perhaps removal firms should provide an “after care” counselling service to help repair the shattered nerves of homeowners? Or a welcome pack containing spare keys, carpet cleaner, plasters, bandages, scotch and Valium?

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