A mild panic ensued as we arrived at our home for the next few months - number 27 Cromwell Road, South Kensington. Even the cabby who'd helped us haul our 74 assorted suitcases onto the street looked askance - blimey these poor bastards have gone from the Ritz to this hole, we could see him thinking. Everything that wasn't covered in scaffolding and plastic was literally filthy with dust and debris covering doors, windows, steps and columns. Even Nigel (the most optimistic, glass half full person in the world) was looking mildly panicked whereas me (the most pessimistic, glass half empty person in the world) had immediately thrown myself to the floor - silently fretting about how I'd squeeze past that muck everyday without ruining my Prada mac. In desperation, Nigel finally looked down at his phone and realised it was FORTY seven - thanks be to God - FORTY seven. As me, the cabby and my Prada piled happily back into the hackney carriage - we left Nigel to reload the cases, the donkey and the kitchen sink - serves him right for not wearing his glasses.
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