Nearly the end of April and I've still not properly kicked off my annual flat hunt. Do it every year. Like the first daffodils, it's a sign of Spring around here. The moment I swing their door open, the estate agents in West London know it's arrived.

Should get my buns rolling. Can't let them down.

To actually move though. If I could do that. Not to quietly dread coming back as I do where I live now (and have for years), wondering what I'll come home to: the argumentative neighbours, the frantic scuttle of mice across the false ceiling, drone of nearby TVs and stereos.

I'd like to think of my flat as a home with all the warmth and sense that imbues, not somewhere I lay down in at night hoping to sleep.

Careful for what you wish, for, as if on cue, the dull thud of music is coming through the walls.