Shhh, what's that sound?

Listen carefully. There. Did you hear it? Get closer. Yes? That little high pitched squealing. It wasn't there before. Can you guess what it is? Well I'll tell you. It's the sound of every fucking atom in my oversized, bearded frame raising its tiny sub-microscopic voice to the heavens in euphoric cacophony. Mitochondrial DNA is currently cracking out the decks in preparation for an all night rave as chromosomes sway to rich, buzzing trance anthems, lit only by the flickering light of molecular glowsticks.

We have finally exchanged contracts on the house. This mundane-sounding event marks the end of a week that can only be described as a monument to epic clusterfuckery. In fact, it concludes the whole sorry event of house sales and purchases which began badly in March/April and then slid down a shit-stained slope like an obese child on a toboggan who, after the brief rush of adrenaline, realises they are sliding unstoppably towards a busy motorway. A motorway used exclusively by chunky-loving paedophiles.

We have had 30 sets of strangers through our doors and in a strange symmetry have been strangers in the same number of houses. We have experienced the full might of estate agent ineptitude. Just when we thought that their astronomical inability to market a house had hit a new low, they would dilligently pull out industrial shovels and dig like pirates near gold. In fact the only saddening part of exchanging contracts is that we will have to give these fuckwits money for their provided "service". I use the term so loosely that it's in danger of falling off and shattering on an incorrectly priced kitchen floor. I now wish that I had spent my time in IT more wisely and invented a way to digitally wipe my arse on electronic funds.

We've offered on and lost either 3 or 4 houses we liked as the September deadline loomed ever closer. After finally finding a house we liked and a buyer who could get over the fact that the garden wasn't big enough to reenact the Battle of the Somme, we managed to sidestep solicitors of considerable and well-publicised incompetence only to meet up with them again further down the chain, like an ex at a party who has spent the years getting fatter, uglier and more prone to involutary pant-spoiling. It was therefore only fitting that the story would conclude itself like a James Herbert novel, twisting and turning as you flick pages with an ever-increasing feeling that the hero is going to die and that the murderous beast will do much the same thing again in a month's time, in an entirely different book about entirely different people. In the past two weeks, completion dates have come and gone, stretching beyond the start of my course (and thus dooming me to 12 more months of XML-inspired labour-camp joy) only to be snapped back with a sharp tug on the leash, spewing rabid foam through 3-bedroomed teeth. Ex-wives have appeared as if from nowhere threatening to withold required funds unless the universe cowtowed to her new untested physical laws. New universes have had to be created and positioned to hit the completion date.

But with one phone call, we are there. Our Bristol-based solicitors (Burrough's Day if you haven't been paying attention and are still wanting to move) have been exceptional. Our removal firm have been thoroughly understanding of the process. Our sellers' estate agents (Stratton Creber) have been awesome. Our buyers and sellers have been superbly reasonable and I advise anyone moving house that direct contact with these parties will stop you wanting to smash kittens with hammers. My wife has been an absolute star, managing to stay positive through the whole saga whilst sat at home surrounded by boxes and Cillit Bang.

So, next wednesday we move and a new life of sea-related beard-stroking draws near. By a stroke of luck and deft toboggan manipulation the fat kid may well end up on a hard shoulder filled with lusty, oiled, chunky-loving Playboy bunnies. Playboy bunnies with pie.