I'VE been moving offices this week. In future this column will be wrought, or more correctly, written, from fair Essa.

Moving of any kind is traumatic but at least when you move offices it gives you a good excuse for weeks to come to say you can't find something because you have moved offices. This excuse will begin to fade about May, but I have warned you.

Moving houses is a different matter of course, and I envy those tidy people who manage to move with extreme efficiency. You know the sort. All their boxes are marked with things like 'put in small back bedroom with blue wallpaper, under window on left hand side', and lo and behold that's where they go. They are the sort of people who have everything ready on moving day, they don't pack the kettle at the bottom of a tea chest full of books and they make sure the vacuum cleaner is on hand to vacuum the whole house when it is empty. At the new house they produce a small pre-packed picnic they have prepared the night before and put in the boot of the car.

I'm afraid I come from a family more likely to be found running down the road after the removal van waving aloft a standard lamp and a plant stand; which the removal men, having already spent two hours longer than they expected to at the house, will pretend not to see and accelerate round the corner as fast as they can.

As for food, I can well remember the ham sandwiches meant for moving day lunch which appeared several weeks later trying to climb out of the bottom drawer of a bureau of their own volition.

Of course when you are first married moving is a doddle, because you haven't accumulated much clutter. Our first house had woodblock floors downstairs so we only had one small carpet square to move. Upstairs we relied on that good old standby, lino. I read recently that lino was making a comeback because people were now once again appreciating its aesthetic qualities. When we bought it the only aesthetic quality we were interested in was that it was cheap.

The house also lacked a garage. As everyone knows all garages are like a Tardis in that they can contain far more bulk inside than they look capable of containing from the outside. Get a garage and you start gathering junk which just might 'come in' at some later date.

By the time we moved for the third time we had accumulated a garage, a shed and three children, which meant that our household possessions had more than trebled and included cots, pushchairs, playpens, paddling pools and swings.

As we were only moving across town there came those dreaded words which send terror through any wife's heart. 'We don't need a removal firm, we can hire a van and do it ourselves'.

Yes 'we' can, but only if we have half a dozen burly helpers, only if we accept that things which went upstairs won't necessarily want to easily come down again and only if we are aiming for a quickie divorce in the very near future.

Now one of the problems with moving in this country is the way we arrange house selling.

I am assuming that the rules and regulations are the same as they were when I last moved and if they are the basic premise is that you don't actually own the house till completion day.

Earlier you have exchanged contracts, which holds you to the deal and if you try to back out you will face losing your deposit. But the bulk of the money for the house won't be handed over until completion day, usually in the morning.

The seller is unlikely to let the buyer do anything to the house before then, or move anything in. His point of view is understandable. He owns Dunromin in Magnolia Close until approximately 11.30am on completion day. So he's not going to budge. The new owner, having paid the money over, wants the old owner out by noon, and can usually be found parked round the corner in his car with the engine running. Usually accompanied by his removal firm.

This means that most people move out or move in in less than half a day, with all the accompanying stress. Should even one little thing go wrong it can be a disaster. I well remember asking the removal firm man who brought us to Cornwall 'have you emptied the shed yet?' and he said 'what shed?' This firm, booked by my husband, consisted of one elderly man and one middle aged man and had been suspiciously cheap on the estimate. The van was packed to the gills and there was still a lot of stuff left which we had to park on various friends with the promise of a free holiday in Cornwall at a later date if they arrived accompanied by three rubber plants and the wheelbarrow.

We drove off in our own car, also stuffed with extras and including three children and three cats. I have written of this journey before, with one cat totally unaffected by its tranquilliser, or more likely having spat it out after pretending to swallow it, and trying to get out of its box for every mile of the 200 odd mile journey.

We arrived hot, tired, cross, and in my case, badly scratched. The cat ran into a bedroom, lay down in a corner and slept for 24 hours.

Talking of cats, I have just had an e-mail from my daughter with a picture of her new cat Tigger. There are a huge number of stray and unwanted cats in Cyprus, fortunately there is also a wonderful cat sanctuary, situated on the same road as the Monastery of Cats, which dates back several thousand years ever since cats were brought to the island to rid the surrounding area of snakes. The children took hours to select a cat, there are so many to choose from, and finally picked a four month old tabby male with lovely pointed ears and gently slanting golden eyes. On the short journey back home the cat was just a little nervous in the car and backed away into a corner of its box. My granddaughter, who has been nagging for a pet for months said 'look, do you want a new home or not?'

(For those who don't know, Essa is the old name for Saltash.)