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.

Two weeks ago I was sitting in blissful ignorance, surrounded by a lifetime’s accumulated crap. I shuffled the stacks of paper to opposite sides of the coffee table making room for my feet and, as an exercise in pointlessness, I picked up the phone, dialled the estate agent. For the third time that week. “Why haven’t you called me back?” I asked. “What’s going on?” Mr Bluebird flew off my shoulder and into the microwave where he exploded in a puff of feathers.

The estate agent apologised and pledged her renewed allegiance to the flat. Two minutes later, she called me back. “I just spoke to the vendor’s solicitors and they’re all ready to exchange contracts on Friday. So you need to talk to your solicitor.” So I called him. “So, are we all ready to exchange contracts on Friday?” I ask. “First I’ve heard about it. The vendor’s solicitors haven’t spoken to me in months.” Again I call the estate agent who doesn’t return my call. Ever.

This is taking far too long so I phone Mrs Garrett, the vendor’s mother. Between us we bypass everyone and sort everything out. I sign the contract and the solicitors do the exchange on the Friday. Things start happening. And then they start happening really fast.

Within no time at all I’ve met with an immigration lawyer. He tells me what I need to know and recommends a tax lawyer. Then next day, by coincidence, I’ve got the visa papers from the USA. I return them immediately. Suddenly they reply. I have an appointment to get the fiance visa. Hoorah! I’ll be with my Laura! And in only a few more weeks. Almost before I know it, I’m in the loft, I’m emptying cupboards. I’m packing. Wow. I didn’t know I owned so many comic books. They seem to be in every carton and suitcase. Somehow I find time to sell Mrs Garrett all my furniture, the fridge and a kettle.

And then, yesterday, I met with a tax attorney. Yes, a real live tax attorney all the way from LA. She wears a white T-shirt with a dark suit jacket and, as well as the tax thing, she does production law for TV and film. She also collects snow globes. There are millions of them, okay dozens, shelves full, all around her office. “Michigan is very cold,” she tells me, which seems strangely ironic for a Los Angelino who surrounds herself with fake snow. Nevertheless, she’s friendly and helpful and I instantly like her. She tells me about getting a social security number and capital gains tax (which I won’t have to pay, hurrah!).

In the middle of all the above, somehow I finally get The Car mixed and graded. Yes, I know I said it was finished on the screening invites. I lied. Sue me. Hey, I have a lawyer, so ner ner. Anyway, both the grading and mixing are surprisingly easy (like this lapsing into the present tense thing) so I don’t bother writing about them. Gary the grader makes all my shots match and Mike the mixer makes all the sound balance, Bob’s your uncle, Fanny’s your aunt, job done. All ready for the big move and the big movie.

Serendipity. Everything coming together at once. It felt serendipitous to get the moving date sorted on the house just as the visa was coming together. And it felt serendipitous too to find a tax lawyer who also handles film production law at just the right time for moving to the US. And look at that. Looky looky! I am, as I say, lawyered-up. It’s almost like being a citizen, except for that thing of not having a vote while still paying taxes. It’s as real as Coca Cola. It’s real. It’s actual. Everything is satisfactual.

Gary’s overflow is leaking. It’s been leaking for six or seven weeks now. A constant trickle of stale smelling water dribbling out beside his drive. He stopped me last week–actually, I couldn’t avoid him because his mate had expertly parked a Range Rover partway across my drive. Obviously doesn’t want to get those delicate 4×4 front tyres wet in the overflow spill.

“Hey, Keith! I’ve been meaning to have a word with you about this leaking water.” Oh, yes? “Yes, I thought it was me. But have a look…” He showed me the pipe. It goes back though his shed, into the adjoining wall to my shed… My shed. Ah. It’s my pipe. My overflow is leaking. It’s been leaking for six or seven weeks now…

Drat.

Still, shouldn’t be too hard to fix, should it. It goes up into the loft where, presumably, there’s a water tank and a broken ball valve/stopcock. All I have to do is find the tank and replace the valve. While I’m at it, it might also be a good idea to get all the crap down from the loft. Especially since I’m moving out in two weeks.

Today was the day. Balancing on the wobbly kitchen chair, I climb up on the back. I brace against the wooden beams, rubber soled training shoes walk Spider-Man-esque up the cupboard door and I’m there. In the loft. Maybe I should use a ladder but where would the fun be in that? No, thrill-seekers, if you want a frisson of excitement in your Sunday, then climbing up to dangerous spaces on the backs of chairs is the way to go.

Risk reminds me I’m alive. Thirty minutes later, I’ve manouevred half the loft contents down to the floor below. Mostly empty boxes. Where did all this crap come from? Why did I keep it? Note to self: don’t keep any more crap. While risk reminds me of life in the present, crap reminds me of life in the past. Emotional baggage. Real baggage. It’s a pain to sort out.

Last week I was sorting through a huge stack of comic books trying to decide which ones to keep and which to give away. I took out about 15 and a complete series called The Kents. I felt vaguely uneasy about offloading any of them. Now I realise I was merely tinkering at the edges of a much larger problem. Half the contents of my loft fill nearly all the floorspace of my flat.

Eventually I make my way to the far end of my roof space, the place where the pipe should exit down into my shed. It’s a section that drops down, over the stairwell. I shine the torch down into the void to find the water tank. Except–there is no water tank. There’s nothing. Just rockwool insulation everywhere and a thin layer of plasterboard sloping down over the stairs to an empty space above the front door.

Where is the tank? Where is the pipe? Is it under the rockwool? I’m not putting my hand in to find out. It’s nasty stuff, that glass fibre. Once it’s in your skin, it never comes out. Ever. At least that’s what my dad told me a long time ago, when I was a kid.

I suspect it was to discourage me from going up into the loft. Now I’m discouraged by the dark void where the pipe might be and the fragile looking plasterboard which I know is all that would be stopping me plummeting down to my own staircase. Why would someone hide pipes like this? It makes no sense at all.

I shrug, give up and go back down into the living room where I regard all the boxes. It’s going to fun crushing all those unwanted videotapes over at the dump. It will be a joy to free myself of the baggage of old kettle cartons, crating for light fittings and flattened blueprints of Gotham City stolen from the bins at Shepperton Studios when they filmed Batman. It’s not going to be so much fun paying out for a plumber to sort out the leak.

It will have to wait. I find an original series Star Trek communicator still boxed among all the other crap. Enterprise. One to beam up. I’m moving. I’m gone. Meanwhile the constant stream of stale smelling water dribbles relentlessly beside Gary’s front door.