Okay, so I might have sort of moved house. Again. I know, I know, I said that a quick change round of the furniture would probably cure me of my gypsy urges, that chucking out several tonnes of unwanted clutter would revivify me, that only someone with mental health issues and/or a bounty on their head would choose to relocate four times in three years. But then I did it anyway. Daft, eh?

Should it matter where you live, I wonder? If, as people always say, you take your troubles and joys, the essence of yourself with you no matter where you go, is moving house really worth the effort?

Speaking as something of a veteran in this field, I can confirm that there are some definite downsides to moving house. Only the toughest of people can watch a remorseless troop of their own possessions schlep in and out of a property without pledging to become one of those ladies who lives on a bench, gets her daily intake of vitamins from white cider and carries everything she owns in one small, rumpled plastic bag.

Take it from me, when you have watched a never-touched sandwich toaster travel to several different locations without mustering the nous to throw it away, you have known hell. Once ensconced in your new property, the toaster will sit in the corner and quietly mock you. "Ha!" it will say. "You carried me up and down stairs, in and out of boxes, up and down various crevices of the North-west of England and yet not once have you managed to use me to make a delicious savoury toasted snack. Nor will you." Don't you hate it when sandwich toasters are right?

Then there is the problem of getting help. Last move I recruited the expertise of two very stoned students, which was amusing in its way and, most importantly, cheap.

This time I hired a van and enlisted the Mostyn massif, on the basis that asking people to cart your stuff up and down stairs takes a bit of cheek and family are well used to such audacious requests. My, how my family can graft! Frankly I am alarmed by how much more energy my parents have than me and more than a tad embarrassed that as my mum (who is, I'm sure, part machine) carried on hoovering, wiping, boxing and packing, I had to have a little sit down and a read of the paper.

But it all went swimmingly and was well worth the odd bamboozling bit of dialogue ("Nicola, I've found these," my mum said importantly, as I was wrestling with a particularly troublesome filing cabinet, "These" being a half-eaten packet of mints.) But finally, it was done. And here I am in my new home. I'm sitting among the boxes, most of my belongings in some as yet unidentified location, living on toast (okay, I always do that) and having to write this column on the back of a BT bill since my PC is buried under 698 books, several billion electrical cables and a Swiffer. So, is moving house worth it?

Just as soon as I locate my marbles, I'll let you know.