Billy The Shelf could only come from Chicago. Solid by name and by nature, his gangster pedigree was marred by just one thing. No, it wasn’t any association with Joey Martini over on the west coast. Nor was it the cardboard suit he was wearing. It was more to do with his choice of friends. They’d been planning this hold up for some time–and the fact it was only a moving stairway in Ikea wasn’t going to stop them.

Everything went by the numbers. One, two, three, we took those staircases out. Number three nearly got away with the goods, freezing at the last moment, but Freddy The Fixer took care of it. A key for everything, that was Freddy. Yellow pants, gray shirt, dour expression. His name hung on a tag around his neck in case he forgot it and he sighed cheerlessly every time but Freddy got the job done.

It turned out to be an easy run, this Ikea job. Billy The Shelf waited out in the car, sprawled over the seatrest, soon after we’d cleared the store. Maggiano’s was our destination. Dinner the objective. And Billy wasn’t coming in with us. He was there to guard the stuff while we took on a whole different challenger. Shaky The Barman.

Shaky had clearly been briefed: when you make a martini, it shouldn’t be no dainty ‘girlie’ drink with an umbrella. He made it a hundred percent pure fire, shook it down to ice and poured it into a vessel so big it made nearby beers blush. Shaky never let his satisfaction show as he slid the results of his work across the bar and we hefted them out to the dining area at Maggiano’s (Italian for ‘big portions’). Joey Martini would have been proud.

Outside in the carpark, things remained quiet. The flags would be flying at half mast for Veterans’ Day tomorrow and Billy feared he was going to be fitted up after this job. He’d been laying low for some time, down in the old Ikea warehouse on the outskirts of the city. He’d had a hard life but his aspirations were still high. Almost to the ceiling. His friends knew they could lean on him. We were always coming to him with incredible stories but Billy The Shelf was there for them, taking it all on board.

Yessir, when problems started stacking up, Billy The Shelf was the one everyone turned to first. Eventually we went out to get him. A light drizzle fell as we crossed over to the waiting car where Billy pressed himself down into the seat, trying to hide, fearful of taking that last long ride in the trunk. But Billy needn’t have worried.

Billy needn’t have worried even with an unplanned diversion for gas the next day, Veterans’ Day, a time to recall the dead. Only a blinking fuel light would have forced us into Gary, Indiana–a town where dangerously bored looking jobless people drudged across the street in a gray slow motion.

Gary, Indiana. Population: the walking dead since the steel mills closed and took the town with it. Lifeless buildings, deserted streets. No, not deserted. Abandoned. At least in the neighbourhood we found ourselves driving through.

Gary, Indiana. Best avoided. Best forgotten. Not a place to run out of fuel. Not a place to run out of anything, except the place itself. The midwest’s dirty little secret. A man outside the library wore his entire wardrobe and paced in small circles. Contractors were pulling a bridge down as we left. To keep the population in or visitors out, we couldn’t be certain. We were just glad to say goodbye.

Now we’re back in Michigan. It’s only a day later yet Billy The Shelf has changed so much, a little wider since that first time we met him back there in the Illinois homeware store. Thus it is that he’s our Billy, solid and true, covering all the angles. He’s built to last, he knows his place and, if he doesn’t get caught in any double-entry bookkeeping scams, he’s a keeper.

Pauline Boulevard would make a great name for a film noir femme fatale. I think that every time we drive past the sign. Pauline Blvd. It’s really the name of a street in Ann Arbor, but so what? Lois Lane is a street on the way to Detroit. These things remind me of similar ideas I had whenever I drove up the A1 to Yorkshire past Burton Coggles. How can that be a place name? It’s a detective story waiting to happen. Burton Coggles and Pauline Boulevard. They’re made for each other.

Been in America a week. Seen my first corpse. Today, just one week after Halloween.

The temperature’s dropped thirty degrees since I arrived. I know this because there’s a huge sign on the way to Detroit which shows the date and the temperature. “42 F” it beamed, in big red lightbulbs as the traffic–nearly all new cars, nearly all racing, cutting in and out–went speeding past. What was their hurry? Must have been the joy of having a new car in the Motor City. And the joy of being alive.

We were in no such hurry. The person we were going to see wasn’t going anywhere. We were on our way to Laura’s Grandma’s funeral. She was 97 and passed away last weekend, two days after I arrived. I’m sorry I never got to meet her. My grandma died many many years ago and the idea of someone my age having a grandparent is kind of nice. But she had a good innings (as my dad used to say) and you can’t really ask for more than that. People seem to live an awfully long time here in a country which has no big social medical programme.

It had occurred to me as I’d put on my suit earlier that this was only the second time this year I’d worn a shirt and tie, let alone the suit. It was the tie Laura had hunted down for me to dress as Agent Smith last Friday. My first black tie getting its second outing in seven days. The first, Halloween, was just a memory as we locked up and headed out, on to the street where leaves are piled high waiting for the city contractors to come and collect them. No bonfires allowed in Michigan. We passed our remaining pumpkins at the top of the steps, now filled to the grins with rainwater like two small church fonts.

Lunch before we’d left had consisted of Nutella, grape jelly and peanut butter sandwiches. Americans have an unnatural love affair with peanut butter, especially mixed with chocolate. Reese’s pieces. Why? It’s bizarre. Peanut butter and chocolate. No wonder Jimmy Carter became President. That and the evangelical bleem-bleem pearly white smile. These people love a preacher man even more than they love peanut butter.

This proved true when we arrived at the White Chapel cemetary. I thought briefly of Whitechapel, the suburb of London, England. Michigan’s White Chapel comprises an eponymous building with three entrances and a large ornamental pond out the front. The building’s walls strain for a false architectural vanishing point above creating an imposing spectacle alone on the flat, framed by space and sky. Big sky. Gravestones are nowhere to be seen.

Odd for a cemetary not to have gravestones or upright personal markers of any kind. Memorial stones here are set flush with the immaculate lawns to create a tranquil flat vista which mirrors the surrounding Michigan farmland. The landscape is broken only by a few mournful bare trees and occasional vases of flowers–real, not artificial. There’s a sign informing visitors in no uncertain terms “No artificial flowers”. A few leaves blow across the road. Apparently people buy their ‘plots’ here decades in advance. We’re not in St Albans any more, Toto.

We go into one end of the white building, into the chapel. Chapel Of The Flowers. It’s peaceful. Quiet. Marble, soft lights, soft voices, stained glass. Grandma Bird is laid out in the casket which is open. Laura and the boys go forward to see her and Laura quietly talks to the boys about what’s happening. I’m left standing there with Laura’s cousin but frankly, I’ve never seen a dead body before and I’m curious. I want to look. So I do. I go over.

As far as I can tell, she looks just like she’s sleeping, although Laura remarks that she’s very thin. Not like her old self. But this is the only self of hers I’ve ever seen and my eyes keep playing an almost hypnotic illusion there in the dim lighting. As I stare, I’m sure I can see her breathing, which of course she isn’t. I guess it’s just my mind refusing to accept this first-time reality of a non-breathing body.

We sit down to listen to the preacher, a Baptist minister, who knew both Marie and her late husband, Charlie. They were apparently very religious. Laura and one of Marie’s friends said a few words. Laura remembered her Grandma’s banana bread. Then the preacher warmed to his themes, supposedly to commemorate the life of this apparently very spirited lady who’d lived for so long but he also did a fair amount of praising Jesus. We all managed not to sigh as he finished and then started again when he remembered some anecdote that fitted his sermon for this cold wintery day.

It’s the Bible Belt, for sure. And the preacher was as sure as any of us, although I’m not so sure he always knew down which path he was leading us as he imparted his Message. At one point he went off on a tangent about how astronauts could only be a maximum height of six feet because of the size of spacecraft. And he was short, he told us. A short man. But what his point? I’m six foot one. Does this mean I won’t fly to Heaven in a rocket but he’ll get in?

It was all very puzzling. Jack sat with his eight-year-old jaw hanging open, staring at the man, while Sam had his hands over his ears, displaying incredible patience for a six year old, kicking his legs in space and only squirming infrequently. Mom had briefed them at lunchtime that it was a solemn, serious occasion and they appeared to have taken it in. No Nintendo. No fighting. Quiet. Respect.

Me, I sat staring at the stained glass windows, trying to figure out all the symbolism while the words went one way, then another and the wind howled eerily outside the doors. I was swept away on the wings of the ghostly wind, whistling as if on cue to the funeral service. Cold wind, howling round the crypts. My mind wandered to thoughts of the blue in the windows. Blue, deep rich blues.

Ultramarine, that deep colour (or color) beloved of the wealthy patrons of artists who wanted to display their wealth by the inclusion of as much of the hue as they could afford. Which is why the Virgin Mary is always shown in blue. Because it demonstrated that the person commissioning the work had dedicated a significant portion of their wealth to a religious work. Making statements on many levels. “Look how pious I am.” And, “Look how much money I have. How important I am. I can afford ultramarine.”

Ultramarine. Expensive. Expensive because it was made from crushed gem stones. Lapis Lazuli. Lapis Lazuli, mined mostly in Afghanistan. And there the preacher stood, in the chapel of marble, speaking in front of a window which in my mind reflected a whole course of history which had led to events now taking place on the other side of the world. Religion, wealth, power. All encapsulated right there in stained glass.

Yet this was all idle musing. We were there to pay our last respects to Grandma Bird, who died this week aged 97. Respects for a life lived with spirit. Wealth and power really mean nothing, in the end. It’s some kind of spiritual connection, whether through religion or with the universe in general, that makes us, poor humans, who we are. Respect for our place in the universe and our connection to it in all its unfathomable vastness.

Today I thought about how impermanent we are, lasting less time than the works we create and the possessions we temporarily own. Cars rust, some survive. People come and go while their manmade buildings and roads remain. At least for a while. Some of the feelings of now come from having divested myself of nearly two thirds of my worldly goods in the past two months. Left my job, house, moved on.

We are here, now, but for a short time. Yet it is all the time in the world. It sounds Zen, which pleases me. Life is magical.

Jack and Sam are oblivious to the Zen on the way home, alternately playing Nintendo and pounding on each other. Mom yells at them to stop but they’re giggling right up to the point where the inevitable happens and one really hurts the other. Sam wails. “He bit my finger!” We can’t make out the rest in the howling. Jack sits quietly, doing the innocent look beloved of siblings everywhere, as we pull up next to the house.

Five minutes later we’re all inside and the wailing has stopped. “Is your finger okay now?” asks Laura. “Yes,” says Sam, looking pleased with himself. “I dipped it in the pumpkin water.” Laura and I look at each other and do the eye-rolling thing. Magical indeed.

Everything falls into place at the last minute. I stuff my remaining stuff into the two out of three suitcases which still have space and Jaffa drives me to the airport. “Are you excited?” asks Kerrie as I head for the door. “I haven’t really had time to get excited,” I reply. “I’ve been too busy.” It’s true. My Laura is waiting for me, three and a half thousand miles away. I must be going.

Gatwick is a fair distance away and it’s kind of Jaffa to be driving me. On the way to the airport, he asks if there are maple trees in Michigan. I have no idea. Probably. I guess that’s where maple syrup comes from, although by what process, I am completely in the dark. The drive to the airport takes two hours. Plenty of time to speculate on the origins of sauces.

We pull up at Gatwick around 10.45 and I sign over the car to Jaffa, hand him a paying in slip for my bank account and say, “Au revoir!” The car is his. Then I manoeuvre three suitcases, a full-sized A2 portfolio, a laptop and a bag of sweets that Kerrie has thoughtfully provided over to the NorthWest check-in.

“Can I take this on as hand luggage?” I point to the smallest of the cases, which is full of computer accessories. “Sure,” says the clerk perkily. She’s not so perky about the largest suitcase. 41 kilos. I can barely lift it on to the scales. “Um, could you transfer something from that bag to the other one? There’s a weight limit of 32 kilos.”

So there I am at 11am on a Friday morning, two suitcases open by the check-in counter at Gatwick Airport, trying to shuffle film cans and clothing and personal effects around. I’m wearing my ski jacket and a sweater over my T-shirt because, well, they couldn’t go anywhere else. The sweat is pouring off me. I take off the jacket. I’m going to be a joy to sit next to on an eight hour flight. This thought just makes me sweat more.

Eventually, somehow I juggle everything so that the largest case comes in at 31.5 kilos and the other case is okay. Somehow I’ve created a new bag in the process which gives me way too much hand luggage. The middle case, old and cardboardy, looks as if it’s about to burst and spill it’s guts over the conveyer. I’m beyond caring.

“Can I put my portfolio in the hold?” “Well, you can–but there’s a hundred and ten dollar excess baggage charge for a third bag. The plane’s pretty empty, though, so you should be alright with it in the cabin.” And that’s how I end up with four pieces of hand luggage, plus the bag of sweets, which I have no intention of giving up.

Amazingly, no one bats an eyelid as I take all this through the departure lounge. They do stop the small blue case though. I see them X-ray it twice. Must be all the computer gear, wires, wireless networking hub, webcam and other gubbins looking like a bomb. Security get me to open it up. They rummage around. They find… a pair of nose hair clippers. And they confiscate them. Bizarre.

They don’t find a metal letter opener with a serrated blade or a pair of nail clippers. Don’t we all feel a lot more secure now, eh? Safe from the threat of short nostril hairs.

NorthWest flight 31 on October 31 is uneventful. It is, as the perky check-in lady noted, half-empty. My excess hand luggage gets distributed around the cabin and I snag myself a row of five empty seats but am thwarted at the eleventh hour when a large woman ambles up the aisle with a seatbelt extender. Still, she’s friendly enough. Apparently she has M.E. and two broken legs. I give her some of Kerrie’s candy and she chats incessantly about her husband in the UK, her M.E., her house in the US…

In-flight movie is The Italian Job which turns out to actually be pretty good, not a remake at all, just a few character names the same. An homage. Not bad. I get a couple of hours sleep and finish reading Children Of Dune, one of the two books I have on the go at the moment. Finishing this one is symbolic for me because Leto II embarks on the Golden Path at the end. I have my own Secher Nbiw to begin.

Extender-belt woman is snoozing across the three empty seats beside me. This is okay. It’s better than her talking to me and stopping me reading, I figure. At the end of the flight, an attendant with a huge spider on the side of his head lets her know he’ll be getting her a wheelchair and the cabin crew wish us Happy Halloween.

“Y’know, I’m half tempted to give you my email address,” says my seat-row companion, “It was so nice talking to you.” Ha, that extra clause gets me out. “It was nice talking to you too. I hope everything goes well in Champaign with the house.” And, now the rest of the passengers have left, I head off to collect my various bags.

Nice thing about an empty flight: no line at the immigration desk. I show the guy my papers and he looks through them. “What’s your fiancee’s name?” he asks. “Have you met her?” I list the times and laugh at the question. “Well, you’d be surprised how many haven’t,” he says. He gives me form I-94 to complete and then waves me on through.

I am now a US resident, entitled to pay tax but not to vote. Sweet irony. Can I work? No one seems to know.

Outside the airport, it’s 72 degrees. A familiar blue Honda pulls up and Trinity steps out. The smile on my face is indescribable. This woman pleases me beyond measure. We stack her car up high with my luggage and head for home.

A short time later, I am carving pumpkins on the porch and small children are appearing with bags laden with candy under the watchful eyes of their parents at the kerbside. Having a pumpkin lit means your house welcomes trick or treaters. This is all new to me, these customs only partially grasped in the UK. Trick or treaters are all done by about 8am and the adults come out after nine.

My pumpkins grin manically as we head off to walk the nighttime streets of Ann Arbor. I am now attired as Agent Smith and checking out my new neighbourhood through stylish sunglasses. This is good. Laura is beside me, clueing me in on what’s going on, and we get admiring glasses from the ghouls and goblins.

Students are guarding the Diag from arch football rivals Michigan State–apparently an excuse to sit in the middle of campus on sofas while drinking beer–and a group of girls insults Oregon by appearing dressed as their college team. Assorted cowboys, cowgirls, hippies, TV and movie characters go by, including at least two Velmas from Scooby Doo. It is all bizarre.

I am happy. Happy happy Halloween.

Today, got up at 5.30am. Because I was worried that the alarm wouldn’t go off. Fed the barfy cats with a tablespoonfull of food each in response to their quizzical looks at the crack of dawn and off I headed into London. Destination: the US Embassy. Purpose: medical exam and visa collection.

First stop: St Albans City Station. Where the cost of a car park ticket has magically jumped from £3.20 to £4 in two days. Money-grubbing bastards. Does it annoy me more because it’s wrong or because I don’t have that much gall, I wonder? Well, at least they got rid of the gippos who were camped there the other day.

Medical involved having blood extracted for tests, chest X-ray, questionnaire about medical history (mine, not the profession as a whole), blood pressure, tapping my chest, poking light in my ears and eyes, opening my mouth and saying “Ahh!”. Yes, they did that. The doctor gives me a copy of the X-ray for immigration and the nurse gives me shots for mumps, measles, rubella and diptheria.

The nurse advises me to sit for a few minutes. Rest. That arm may sting later. This all costs £125 for the check-up plus £55 for the shots. I still have to find a Barclays Bank on the way to the interview stage to pay the £65 US Embassy fee. Ah, capitalism.

Visa bit at the embassy involved sitting around a lot and reading a book. It’s one of Mike’s. Decipher by Stel Pavlou, which ticks all the essential boxes on the ‘cracking yarn’ criteria checklist. Lots of action, lots of science, all conveyed with the necessary plausability that we want in a chunky novel.

When they called me up, they wanted various documents like my birth certificate and financial stuff, which I had. Then I sat again. Then I met someone else who asked a few questions. How did I meet Laura? How long have we known each other? Are the big Tweenies parents or teachers to the small Tweenies in that TV programme?

That’s not as bizarre as you might think, considering I’ve been working on CBBC children’s programming for the past year or so. And the immigration officer has a four year old. Then I read some more of Stel’s sci-fi while waiting for my medical results to come through. And…

And by 12.30, I had a visa–Fiance Visa, K1, good for one entry into the US to marry a US citizen within 90 days. Yay! My beloved. Somewhere, Beyond the sea, Somewhere, Waiting for me, My lover stands, On golden sands, And watches the ships… The wedding date is set for early January, in case you (dear reader) were wondering. And…

And now it’s time for a nap. Because tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow, I have no wings but I must fly. And later (later later later), I have to sell the car–cleaned, waxed and with the addition of new mats plus £10 hubcaps–to Jaffa, who is driving me to the airport. It is, as they say in so many parts of the world, a result.

Shipping company came on Wednesday to take away all my worldly goods for the move to the States. It had taken over a month to sort out, whittle down and pack up. I called Dolphin Movers to check it was what they wanted on Monday. As a result, I then had to spend all of Tuesday daytime re-opening the cartons and logging the contents to draw up an inventory for customs.

Got up at 9am yesterday ready for the fun to begin but no sign of the shipping people. My friend Pete’s hallway was stacked up with boxes high enough to hide the coats. 9.30, still no moving men. 10am, still nothing. 10.15, Pete’s cats barfed up one too many breakfasts. 10.30am, twiddling thumbs.

11am, I called the shippers. They’d gone to the wrong address. My old address. Which I’d guessed. Even though I’d given them my new address. This should worry me but somehow, I am strangely unworried. 11.30, they appeared. One man, a van and a trolley. Fifteen minutes later, it was all gone.

In the end there were 20 book cartons containing books, comicbooks, files of paperwork, CD’s, DVD’s, cassettes, bric-a-brac and clothes. There’s an airpistol in there somewhere too. Not sure what they’ll make of that. There were also three cases of LP’s, including 12-inch singles, and three tea-chests of, well let’s just call it “stuff”, shall we? Plus five paintings.

We’ll see it all again in two months, just in time for Christmas.

Last shift at the BBC yesterday. An easy office day, updating a chunk of the intranet I’d been responsible for, followed by a trip to the bar. Can’t imagine an American company providing the perks of the Beeb. Seven weeks holiday (okay, that includes bank holidays). Final salary pension (mine got cashed in). Bar. Bar! That last is the most surreal.

Mmmmm… Bar…

Asked my line manager to let people know via email I’d be in the bar from 7pm. Unfortunately only asked him to do this on Saturay. Due to the nature of shift work–ie. not everyone gets to read an email in the first week you send it–only two colleagues made it, plus one former work mate. I got a lift home, though, which was nice.

Apparently there’s still a card knocking around at Television Centre with my name on it and many many signatures. Hopefully Greg Dyke popped a twenty in there too. I hear he does that a lot. Not.

Most amazing thing was leaving my car at St Albans City Station car park in the morning. It costs £3.20 to park there but down at the end was a complete gypsy encampment–mobile homes, brats, dogs and a no-doubt inconceivable number of burglary tools. I kept looking over my shoulder, wondering about the car.

This morning I woke up at the crack of dawn, 6am, wondering if the car would be a burned out wreck. It seemed a bit too obvious if I played the script in my head for an insurance claim. Yes, I am leaving the country. Yes, I haven’t sold the car. Yes, I did park it next to a gypsy site and leave it for the night. No, it never really occured to me that perhaps they’d torch it.

Somehow I managed to get back to sleep and Pete gave me a lift to the station around ten o’clock. And, wonder of wonders, the car was still there. Intact. Even with the aerial still attached. No sign of the gypsies. I guess more than one of the commuters stumping up £3.20 made the point.

Pete and I rewired his living room the other day. Just the sound system. It’s taken me a few days to convince him that the centre speaker should go either over or under the television rather than on the windowsill. Now he wants to move the subwoofer from behind the sofa. I’m not sure this is the best plan but I have discovered that The Car isn’t funny when the soundtrack includes a disturbing subterranean rumble throughout.

Saturday we discovered this. After Kerrie’s friends had helped me stick labels on cassettes for festivals, cast and crew. We played the film and no one seemed to laugh. Must have been the bass. Yes, for sure. Or maybe their sense of humour is very different to mine. Like way out there. Lost. In suburbia.

As if to test that last statement, Pete insisted we all go to the pub round the corner–the seventies nightmare pre-fab construction that is The King Offa. Who was King Offa? Who cares? It was an Offa I could have refused (but a pun I couldn’t prevent) and, well you’ve just got to know haven’t you? No, actually. You haven’t. Pete won, though, because he’d just cooked the curry to end all curries. You can’t really argue with good food, can you?

Here’s what I’ll be missing when I drink in American bars: Firstly, a large empty room on a Saturday night with a fruit machine at one end, a quiz machine at the other and a pool table in the middle. Four kids aged roughly seven to 11 surround the fruit machine and are feeding it with coins. Three others, aged about the same and equally as rough are gambling on the quiz machine. Their parent or parents are nowhere in sight.

The only people of legal drinking age (just) are the couple in the corner, he with shaven head, her huddled close, out of the light, sharing a corner. We cross the chipped tile floor (all the rage here in nomansland) and wait for the bar-girl, who eventually appears and is clearly modelling herself on the latest household name from reality pop television. She’s got the spikey hair and she can pour beers. Nearly there then, isn’t she? Somewhere. Success? Just round the corner.

As the theme from Deliverance strikes up, Kerrie and Pete proceed to demonstrate that they’ve played pool before, deftly avoiding whacking shaven headed pre-pubescents with the cues, which is the main skill in this bar. Four badly-drawn regulars with faces scribbled sketchy in dreariness sit propping up the bar in the room opposite ours. They share half a bottle of charisma while looking through to our side, no doubt acknowledging our talents in this area, this arena, this pool pit.

Eleven o’clock clunks around in the palace of fun and a barman appears with the inevitability of the costume store owner at the end of an episode of Mr Ben, an old childrens’ cartoon where the hero went on a magical adventure each week only to be brought back to reality in the last minute. Now there are three phrases in the English language which go hand in hand with our whole culture. The three phrases which say service will always be anathema to the British psyche. The King Offa barman rings the bell and rattles his lines off like a true pro.

“Can you start drinking up now, please?”

“Can I have your glasses now, please?”

“Can you start making a move now, please?”

In other words, sod off. We eke out our welcome to the last minute, thirty minutes past eleven. Thirty minutes past even the hour a rather worn-out looking young woman with greasy hair of indeterminate colour had come in to collect her offspring. But surely the hour was yet early for them to be up and around, frolicking, gambolling and gambling the night away? Maybe they were off to joyriding class next. Maybe some fireworks.

Fireworks. Yip. Three weeks to Bonfire Night but the UK has to be subjected to a bombardment of explosions every night before and after for at at least two months because, well, yer gotta, aintchya? It’s fun. No, it isn’t. It’s tragic. And it’s tragic because it lacks magic. The smiles are all on the surface, expected because someone is holding up a big cue card for them, telling them how to behave.

Concorde flew it’s last passenger flight on Friday. For the regulars of The King Offa, they’ve got just as much chance of flying on it tomorrow as they did a month ago. Actually, it’s not so much that. They probably had as much chance as I did of travelling around the world. It’s more the oppresive feel of the place. Joyless? Soulless? No, just sad. It’s the thought that those kids will never dream of creating something like a Concorde while their brains are being turned to mush by gaming machines.

That’s the real horror of The King Offa. Television shows them they can have it all, large it up, expect it as birthright and big up themselves. But there’s no satisfaction in getting it large or otherwise. High expectations. Low challenges. Credit card lifestyles in the making. Bang! Whizz! It’s your birthday. Sparkle sparkle. Here’s the world! Can you start making a move now, please? No. Because no one really means it and you don’t really care.

From nowhere obvious, a subterranean rumble continues all along the street.

Yes, since you’ve been wondering, I did go down to Gary and Terry’s the week before last. And, yes, I did get horrendously inebriated. “Bolly or Mumm’s?” asked Gary. “Or perhaps the Veuve Cliquot?” “Stop showing off,” growled Terry, heavily pregnant and not able to drink. “Sorry, darlin’. It’s alright, Keith. I’ve got four bottles in the fridge. I walked out with it from a club a few months ago. Haven’t been back since.” We drank the lot. Then we had a few vodka slammers.

Moving house when you are severely hungover is the worst experience in the world. All you want to do is curl up in bed and sleep it off. But that’s not possible because you don’t live either here or there. You don’t live anywhere. God knows what Gary and I found to talk about for all those hours. Maybe that’s why I drank so much. It was easier than talking. “You gotta invite us ter the weddin,” said Gary enthusiastically, “‘Asn’t ‘e, darlin’?” Yeah, sure. Like I could ever get that pissed.

Actually, Gary and Terry were generous hosts and pretty reasonable neighbours, on the whole. As long as we discount the whole parking across my drive business and that thing with the bin on the garden, they were pleasant enough. And if we forget about the leaking pipe episode which I had to pay a plumber the best part of £100 to look at, I can note to his credit that Gary not only helped me with the tree but also never attacked me with a samurai sword. And Terry only ever played the hi-fi loud maybe three times. Two less times than me, in fact.

No, I have no reason to be nasty to them. Terry even cooked up chicken and rice for us which was nice. Well, it was the first time I saw it. I’m just thinking that I won’t be seeing them again as they head for their dream council house on a housing estate fit for heroes. Or something like that.

One of Gary’s bouncer friends turned up at about two in the morning and helped us out with the last bottle of bubbly. I think I went upstairs to bed about three. Four hours later, confused and head spinning, I woke up and looked at the bucket beside the bed. Not good. Then I went to the bathroom and threw up. Veuve Cliquot, Bolinger, Mumm’s. It wasn’t pretty. Drinking. It’s not big and it’s not clever. I was, as we say in the trade, completely fucked. The Garretts were coming and I hadn’t even finished packing.

Fuck. Packing. Fuck. The Garretts. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. I did my best to shove anything left laying around the flat into cardboard boxes and suitcases, then I crammed them into the back of my car ready to drive round to Pete’s. That’s Pete the photographer who is putting me up in his spare room while I wait for my US visa to come through. My host for a month. By about 9.30am I’d done a reasonable job of stuffing the car and a very poor job of sobering up. I’d almost managed to keep down a mug of hot tea but it was a sorry attempt.

I was stuffed. Everyone was at work and there was no one to call on to help. I tried ringing Pete but he was on a job. His girlfriend, Kerrie, offered to help us unload when I arrived. My brain swam in lazy circles around my skull and I just had to sit quietly and mark time, counting the circuits. You’d think I’d know better at my age. More tea. Yes, that might help.

At 10am, Andy, the director of photography from Fate & Fortune came round to buy my TV and video. “God, Keith, you reek of booze,” he said with his characteristic diplomacy. “Thanks, Andy,” I managed before running to the bathroom again. I reappeared with a pale sheepish grin. “Oh, God. There’s no way you’re driving,” said Mr Martin. “Hold on. I’ll put off what I had to do and help. You are in no fit state to drive.” Oh, God, indeed. As unlikely as it seemed, my saviour had arrived.

Somehow I survived the morning and we got the first carload of stuff over to Pete’s house. Andy took me back to Richard Stagg Close and told me to wait. He had an appointment to keep but would come back. “You definitely shouldn’t drive,” he said. “I can still smell the alcohol on your breath. Go and have a lie down.” “But the Garretts will be here at midday to exchange contracts.” “Sod ’em. A few hours won’t hurt. The world will keep turning. Have a lie down.” It seemed an eminently sensible plan. I lay down on the bare bed and the world indeed kept turning much as I tried to stop the room spinning.

An hour passed. Two hours. Sunshine. Bird song. Traffic sounds. All somewhere nearby, a million miles away. Voices. At the door. “Hello? Mr Jefferies?” Ah, The Garretts. Parents of the new owner, James. “Come in, the door’s open. I’m just packing a few last bits.” I struggled into the living room and started chucking stuff in boxes again. Then I struggled down the stairs with it and filled up the car once more.

“No word from the estate agents yet?” asked Mrs Garrett. She knew I wasn’t handing over the keys until the legal work had been completed. “No. I’ll give them a call shortly.” I tried the phone. BT had already disconnected it. Bastards. Another hour passed while I continued somnabulantly packing and drinking water and the Garretts waited. Still no sign of Andy, I decided to risk driving and puttered round to Peter’s very very slowly. Unloading seemed to take an age. I rested every trip up the stairs. If I’d gone any slower, I’d have been going backwards.

An hour and a half later, the car was empty. I phoned the estate agents. “Oh, your estate agent’s in a meeting,” I was told. I was not best pleased. They had been less than useless throughout the whole sale process. The Garretts had actually found the flat while driving past. “Well, get her out of the fucking meeting and put her on the fucking phone. I’m fucking moving today and I’m paying you fuckers nearly two fucking grand. You’d better start acting like I’m the fucking customer.” I think I said words to that effect. She still didn’t appear on the phone. I puttered back to Garretville, not feeling too perky.

The drive back was not pleasant. I felt every bump and sway. My brain struggled to keep up. Eventually, by sheer force of will, I arrived back on what was still technically my drive and I made a dash for the stairs. “Would you like a cup of tea?” offered Mrs Garrett. I kept my lips sealed and shook my head as I bolted past her into the bathroom to “talk to God on the big white phone” freshly bleached to a reeking new holiness by the would-be owners. I was a sad sad character. God frowned at me. God only knew what the Garretts were thinking. I went to lie down on the bed again.

This was getting insane but after half an hour I felt a bit better and the offer of a cup of tea was taken up. Somehow I kept it down. I called my estate agent again on Mrs Garrett’s mobile phone. “Oh, yes,” said the voice, “It’s been logged as completed two hours ago.” I could have screamed. “Well, don’t you think you should have told us? You know, as I’m paying you?” “Well, er, yes. Your solicitor should have told you too. I can only apologise.” Great. Big deal. Two thousand pounds buys you a lot of muppetry.

I got carload number three packed and ready, then abused Mrs G further by calling Andy on her cellphone. “Hello, Keith. How’s it going? I should be back with you in a bit. There was something else I had to do.” “No worries. I’m almost ready to go again.” “Well, hang on a bit. I’ll try to be there in half an hour.” I went and sat in the chair again, sipping water while out of nowhere a van full of carpet fitters arrived and closed in on the bedroom. Holy shit. I didn’t charge these people enough. They had enough change for carpet!

No sign of Andy, so I do trip three, once more in slow motion. This time I have Mr Garrett in convoy helping me move some small items of furniture. The other bits I’m selling to them as part of the deal. At last my old house is clear. Pete’s spare room is full. So is Pete’s living room and Pete’s hallway. And his shed. Late in the afternoon I get back to the flat and park up to sell Andy the TV. He shakes his head at me and stifles a laugh as I tuck a few more bits of junk in the car.

Mrs Garrett has already started repainting the living room for James, who’s at work. I try to ignore the six shades of magnolia she’s painted as swatches on the orange wall. I thought James actually liked the orange. Poor old James. He may have thought he was leaving home, but his mother clearly has other ideas. Talk about under the thumb.

It’s been a long day. It’s not quite over.

This has got to have been the worst plan ever for house moving but I’m almost there. James shows up just as I’m leaving. “It will feel much more like home the first time you put your key in the door and open it,” I tell him. Then I head off. Pete and I drill holes in the wall and fit a curtain rail. All that’s left to do is buy curtains and cat-proof the spare room. One trip to the hardware store, driving through McDonald’s on the way. Quarter pounder with cheese. Kids run around the cars in line as if dodging vehicles is the funniest game in the world. I try to ignore them. The world has gone mad. Don’t try any of this at home kids.

By 9.30pm the spare room has curtains up and there are latches on the door. I can breathe easy without small furry characters shedding hair in my bed. Time to sleep. It’s been a loooooong day. Too long. But I’m halfway home. Because home is where the heart is. My heart. My Laura.

Mike and Julie were deeply moved by the garlic bread plate and spoon I gave them for a wedding present. Julie thought it was really lovely. It was a sweet card with a touching message which tumbled through my letterbox shortly after their honeymoon. It was also a little disturbing because not only had I not given them a garlic bread plate or the matching spoon, but I hadn’t actually got around to buying them a gift in time for the wedding at all.

Four months later I still haven’t thought what to buy them but they don’t seem too bothered. Yesterday I donated my nice casserole dishes, some storage containers and a book of household management to their kitchen before we all headed over to the car boot sale at St Albans railway station. Mike and Julie had stacks of stuff to sell and so did I. We laughed as our trestle tables sagged under the weight. Books, CDs, saucepans, crockery, a garlic bread plate…

Actually, my friend Lucy has gifted me the best car boot sale goods over the years. There was blah and blah and blah blah. Oh, and let’s not forget blah. Okay, I forget what they were. They were very popular though. Especially the ones I marked down to one pound. To be honest, I didn’t sell everything Lucy’s ever given me. No, not the uber-trendy eyewear for skiing. That stays, and so does the green clock plus some other cool stuff. Star Wars tie? Fifty pee.

Talking of gifts, my favourite gift in the past seven days has been one I sent to Thailand. First, the back story. Many years ago I lived in a shared house with scottish Ken and Tik, his Thai wife, plus Pete, the photographer. Five nine nine St Albans Road, Garston. It was mad from day one.

Ken and Tik argued that they should only pay one third of the bills because they shared one room. Pete and I thought a quarter each was fairer for four adults. Somehow a compromise was reached but it was never completely comfortable after that. Ken and Tik would close all the doors and filled the fridge with their weird stuff which included bags of dehydrated octopus and starfish. Pete and I waited until they went on holiday and threw wild parties.

Woven through this rich tapestry was the thread of the Yellow Towel. I owned two towels–one blue and one yellow. Every day I would wash my hair and hang my yellow towel on the radiator to dry. Every day, Ken would go into the bathroom after me and take the towel off the radiator, complaining that it ate all the heat. Poor wee laddie.

Ken never tired of removing the towel from the radiator, even when he wasn’t actually using the bathroom. I never tired of putting it back. Day after day. Week after week. Pete changed girlfriends three times, maybe four. I think the Christmas cards eventually read “Pete and (insert name here)” but the yellow towel remained a constant companion.

Ken sometimes tried hiding the faithful towel behind the chair but I found it and hung it back on the radiator. Pete moved out and another guy moved in, a guy who made great curries to compete with Ken and Tik’s fabulous Thai food (they weren’t all bad). And the jolly jeu jaune continued. Eventually I moved out to live with Pete and Jeremy in another house in nearby Bushey. Ken and Tik went to live in far-flung Thailand and we never saw them again. Almost.

One day, three or maybe four years ago, I was walking through Kings Cross underground station. The old drunk regular was slumped semi-comatose over his guitar, wailing and mumbling and strumming random chords to his audience of Tennants cans. I was speed-walking to keep the experience down to a bare minimum.

Suddenly, I recognised a face. It was Ken. Ken Scott! After all this time, walking towards me. “Ken Scott!” I cried. “Keith Jefferies!” Hail, fellow and well met! You get the idea. We chatted a bit, compared notes. He’s divorced now, living in Thailand with his new wife. His ex-wife lives somewhere near Watford. Ken works for a tourism agency. He gives me his card. Two copies. One for Mike. Yes, the same Mike. I put them in my bag and we head on to our respective trains.

Next time I see Mike, I give him Ken’s card. “Great!” he says. “I must get in touch with him.” Then he forgets about it and loses it somewhere. I lose it too until just a few months ago when I rediscover it at the bottom of my sports bag. So I drop Ken an email about visiting Scotland and what we might find there. He writes back. Haddock, he says. Haddock and chips.

Now, twelve years after living with Mr Scott, I’m cleaning out the loft and, lo! What is this in a forgotten carrier bag? Why, it’s a yellow towel. It’s *the* yellow towel. Old, frayed, tatty. Mm. Yellow. Mmmmmm. It would be wrong to put it in an envelope and post it to the Pacific Asia Tourist Agency in Bangkok. So I put it in an envelope and post it, complete with customs form. “Contents: yellow towel; value: nil.” It’s a fly on the wall moment.