Real life | 2 February 2017

As if by magic, a sign that I am doing the right thing by moving out of London arrived in the post.

And not a moment too soon, for with all the to-ing and fro-ing over arcane anomalies in the floorplan of my flat I had become so heartily sick of the conveyancing process I was almost ready to jack the whole move in.

Two identical, suspiciously thin and official-looking A5 sized envelopes arrived at the same time. This is either the Inland Revenue telling me I am going to jail for believing that half-asleep guy at their call centre who told me I shouldn’t worry too much about my tax bill, or it is something even worse, I told myself, fingering the envelopes gingerly.

I ripped one open without further ado and a letter from Transport for London came out. It featured the usual photo of my Volvo doing something it shouldn’t.