I'm onto the next stage of my Edinburgh house move and it feels like I'm drowning

The removals guy rocked up, in his cargo shorts, with 20 big brown flattened boxes and 30 smaller sized versions, plus a four-foot-high roll of bubble wrap, three jumbo tape rolls, and a soupcon of tissue paper.

I feel nervous, so ask him if a month is enough time to pack everything away. Yes, he says, and adds that some folk will leave it until the week before a house move.

That calms my nerves somewhat. We’re not the tardiest, by far. Plenty of time. Keep your heid.

As he heads out of the door, I wonder aloud if we can write on the boxes. You can do whatever you want with them, he says, they’re your boxes. Fair enough, I will hunt down my Sharpie.

Since his arrival, they’re looming in our hallway. There has been no time to admire the strawberry moon, as we’re looking inwards.

We are entering the chaotic long goodbye, when your place stops being your home. This is where you lay your hat, but soon that bunnet will be squashed into one of those boxes and you won’t be able to find it.

Let the packing commence, since we are tightwads who won’t pay for an expert team to do it for us.

I am already feeling overwhelmed and having little spikes of panic. I’m scared to do too much, as when those boxes are full, we’ll have to store them somewhere.

Once we’ve stuffed them all, there probably won’t be room to move in our flat, and it’ll be like living in a deep sea bathyscaphe.

When the hallway is at capacity, how will we make it to the loo, in the depths of the night?

Perhaps through echolocation we can find safe passage.

Already, I feel hemmed in, and unsettled.

We are also starting to dig deeper into our stuff. The superficial de-cluttering stage is officially over, and we’re putting on our mining helmets and diving into the awful Stygian corners of cupboards. I spend half my time itching and sneezing, as this is where the serious dust can be found. It’s the instant powdered version of primordial soup.

We’ve made something of a rough plan, and are starting by packing non-essential items.

Books first, then booze. They are essential to some people, but not us right now. After those have been packed, I’ll move onto winter boots and clothes, since we’re well past the clout-casting time of year. Then ornaments and glassware.

The booze stage will be tricky, mainly because I have accumulated a ridiculous amount of miniatures. Baby Draumbuies, tiny Chambords, wee whiskies, minuscule Lind & Limes.

All chinking together, Tubular Bells-style, in a big plastic container. It’s a mouse’s off-licence worth.

Over the last couple of weeks, we've tried to use some of them up, with cocktails that were reminiscent of raiding mum and dad’s drink cabinet, circa 1990, but about 50 remain unopened and will have to be packed. I don’t fancy wrapping them individually, so they’ll just have to take their chances.

There are also a lot of full-sized niche bottles, like a violet-flavoured gin and the bloomin’ four-fifths-full Advocaat. Christmas has got a lot to answer for.

Also, the inside of the Edinburgh press has been truly horrifying. I didn’t realise how much could accumulate in that supposedly shallow cupboard.

Books, yes, but also photo albums, framed pictures and random leads for defunct devices, two or three levels deep. And a squadron of spiders.

It seems they really enjoy reading, with those eight eyes of theirs.

I thought we could clear this cupboard in about 30 minutes. It’s been two days so far and we’ve used up four boxes on it. I am already convinced we’re going to run out.

My other half seems to be especially attached to his fiction and is reluctant to let any of his favourites go. I think, if you’ve finished, then it’s time to say bye-bye. Life is too short to re-read anything. Mind you, I’ve got lots of arty coffee table books that I never look at, but want to keep so I can feel 10 per cent more cultured.

Also, cookbooks. We’ve managed to edit the collection down to about 30 or so favourites, but, my goodness, they are minging. Each clarty hardback seems to have absorbed about a litre of fat, just from being on a shelf in the kitchen. I’m not sure whether to chuck the lot, or confit them.

As well as the books and booze, I continue to unearth some truly random objects.

One drawer yielded three pairs of swimming googles, but also three pairs of 3D glasses.

We have two unused tagines - one small, one huge - a Japanese book on cat fashions, three broken cordless phones from which the batteries have been harvested like organs, a rotary whisker, birthday cards for my 6th, 30th, 33rd, 41st, 46th; a paper bag from a shop I visited in San Francisco in the Noughties, a slide carousel, and two ceramic Lurpack butter dishes.

So many brooches. I never wear brooches. Does anyone?

Some things - oh, devastation - have been broken. It is such a relief to be able to bin them so I can totally skip the decision making and packing bit. I almost want to accidentally drop everything on the floor. Still, it’s not my style.

I think we’re going to need more boxes.

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