I write this lying on my only piece of furniture so far, an oxblood chesterfield sofa. I’m in a new flat, and opposite me is the pile. It extends across two-thirds of the wall; the last third is occupied by an electric radiator that I have diligently kept unblocked.

The base of the pile comprises four large boxes, six smaller ones and a few open suitcases. Miscellaneous jetsam scattered on top brings the stack to around five foot high. Among the items visible are a folded metal clothes horse, a red paisley dressing gown and peach-coloured flip-flops I begrudgingly acquired when a neighbour below me in my last flat left a note suggesting I wear a pair to cushion my footsteps.…