One of the things about the life that I’m currently leading is that I’m always cleaning the house for someone else.

I do like to live and work in a tidy space, but a few of my personality traits (a little bit lazy, a little bit do it tomorrow, a little bit pick up the next thing to do before I’ve quite finished the last) mean that I tend to do the one enormous clean every now and then rather than the few simple cleans done more frequently.

At the moment, we’re always cobbling together accommodation options that are founded on favours either going out or coming in, picking keys up from here, dropping them off there and, in the process, trying to leave things, as my mother taught me to do, in slightly better condition than they were when they were loaned to me.

And of course it’s part of the process of saying goodbye, isn’t it, the scrubbing of the bath? As if you could leave knowing the floors had not been cleaned.

Which is all a long-hand way of saying that tonight, I’ll be sitting in a house that I’ve tidied and cleaned, and it will be a slightly different colour than it is right now, and I’ll be thinking, as I always do, ‘Why didn’t I do this last week for myself?’