Oh, how I've ached today.

Despite fighting my hoarder's nature in getting rid of more than 100 videos (either chucked or donated), two large bin liners full of unwanted clothes and farming out a box of books (lent and crossed), the amount of stuff I've acquired in my 31 years still alarms me. And all of it needed moving. In big, heavy boxes.

Although the actual process of moving out of Elgin Avenue was relatively painless, thanks to the sterling effort provided by Thomsk and Robin, the aftermath has been somewhat less pleasant. Bits of me I didn't know could hurt are reminding me of their existence.

Still, the day gave me two funny little moments to hang on to.

The first came just after Bobs had arrived with the van, and we were preparing to load. As if officially saying goodbye, my cherished King's Troop trotted by for their daily exercise with their cannon.

I'm no military man, but the regular encounter with this regiment of the Royal Horse Artillery has been one of my favourite things about living in W9 - beautiful beasts every one, they always made me run to the window when I heard the characteristic sound of scores of hooves on tarmac and the rattle of gun carriages. It's the kind of thing that really gives a place special memories and something that I'll definitely miss.

But on this occasion, something happened that I'd never previously witnessed: from the front of the convoy a bugle sounded and the whole lot stopped outside my front door. As the 40 or so horses and their riders held up the traffic on this significant thoroughfare, one animal was brought to the back of the line. Whether it was lame or had shed a shoe, I don't know, but the soldiers duly led it into the huge horse transport that always accompanies the procession, and brought out a substitute mount. Then with another blast on the bugle, the train set off again. A very special moment indeed.

Then some time later, while driving the van down the Uxbridge Road to the storage facility, something altogether more bizarre occurred. We'd been flipping through radio stations trying to find something good, and had landed on something playing music from 1984. One track ended, and then with no drivel from the DJ, 99 Red Balloons started playing.

(Anyone old enough to remember the original appearance of Nena's only significant hit will also probably share my memories of living with the bomb. There was a time, principally under Reagan and Thatcher, when nuclear war seemed a very real possibility. This song always reminds me of that fear, and makes me feel relieved that, even though those evil weapons still exist in their thousands, the threat of imminent annihilation is less obvious now. Even with the war on terror, would today's kids really comprehend what we had to live through?)

Anyway, the track gets going and Thomas and I suddenly realise where we are. Neither of us had heard the song for years before a few weeks ago. Funny thing is, where we were on that occasion was less than 50 yards from where we were this time. Weird.

So now I'm at Thomsk's flat at least until the New Year, bracing myself for another assault on the housing market. Although not that disappointed about losing the particular property, I do feel quite scarred by the debacle, and a little wary of the process.

What doesn't kill us makes us stronger, I know, but I need a little time out before I can really find my next home.

And one thing's for sure - I can't do that aching.