Moving house nightmare, end of August 1998

So here is the set up - Streatham Common landlord refuses to pay for repairs, because we don't like that he refuses, he throws us out. Gives us two months notice, Kai says, don't worry, I'll look after it all when I get back from Edinburgh. Of course, that's not enough time as it transpires, but I've never really been on the renting a flat treadmill in London, so I let him deal with it.

We don't find anywhere to live, basically, until a few possibilities crop up late in the second week. I get a cold and have a day at home, during which Streatham Common landlord fucking lets himself in to *our* flat, which *we* rent, of his own accord, to have a look around! Cheeky mare. He gives us another week, anyway so that's a bit of a "phew". Still a git though obviously. Anyway….

Friday morning I'm due to see a Balham flat, teeny with a rent we can pay. If we sign there and then the rent will be thirty quid a month cheaper. We give the bloke a deposit, we're going to get the keys on Sunday, I cancel other appointments. Phew. We have accommodation.

Friday afternoon, 4.45. That's Friday - the day before the weekend days, when little or nothing can be achieved, you know the ones? 4.45, the Balham Landlord phones up. "Oh, I'm sorry but the man who is buying the flat from me says that six hundred and fifty a month is too little and he won't accept less than seven hundred and eighty".

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck are we going to do. The lying, conniving, piece of shit fucker. We now have nowhere to live, and we are going to be homeless in a week, which means paying for our stuff to go in to storage, paying for the cats to be put in a cattery (a disaster financially and emotionally, knowing Monkey). Panic, panic WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO!!! Phone Kai's pager. Twice. Call me you stupid bastard! We talk… he tries to call up the Balham landlord and talk sense to the guy, I look through the document I sent Kai with about 34 Streatham area Estate agents on it to find one where someone called "Pat or Pam" works so we can see if a horrible mews house in West Norwood the size of a pebble is still going. 14 phone calls and one wrong Pat later I find it and I say we'll take it.
"But you haven't seen it!"
"I don't care. I have trust".

Saturday. Flaky. Got drunk with Danny and Paddy the night before by way of tension relief, rather than celebration. Packing. Very upsetting, run out of boxes, walking out of the house on the way to Sainsburys to pick up more. Sonia from upstairs is beginning to pull her car out to drive off with wee Zion. She stops, questions us about having to move "because, you see, we were going to give you a proposition".