Guess which I'm about to do?
(Clue: It's the one I've already done three times in the last three years.)
On Wednesday night, calgor and I came home to a letter from our letting agents informing us that the landlord wants his property back and we have to clear out by April 5th having put everything back the way we found it (which means reinstating the hideous curtains and lampshades and attempting to conceal the four large holes in the wall made when the shelf I'd put up fell down again in the middle of the night).
We are not being evicted for heinous crimes. We have been quiet(ish), tidy(ish) and respectable(ish), and the most outrageous request we've made in a year of occupancy has been installing a pair of gerbils. We have been Good Tenants. The bloke just wants his flat back and we're in the way.
Nigel leaped into action immediately on receiving the news and went to look for flats online, while I permitted myself an evening of swearing, getting mildly hysterical and exploring the upper inches of a bottle of Smirnoff Red before buckling down to brass tacks.
We looked at four properties on Saturday, all of which were perfectly all right, and have more to view this week. We have plenty of time to sort this out and find somewhere nice - despite Nigel being on lates this week so we can't look at anything together, and our respective busy schedules, and the fact that I'll be out of the country on chucking-out date, and the thought of putting all my stuff in boxes yet again making me wake up in the night and whimper.
It is not yet time to panic.
I'll let you know when it is.