Moving house is no picnic. Especially if you’re selling to friends, and want their entry into your house to be as smooth as possible. Every last staple must be hoovered up, and still there are more things to pack.

Spiders who had bred peacefully over several generations and thought themselves safe are displaced with a bright blue duster. Unhooking curtains cascade dust. Sunlight streams into corners, dazzling the bare boards.

The windows, clear in any other light, are now in need of the window cleaner’s ladder. Skirting is scuffed, walls streaked, picture hooks hang listless, their colourful canvases gone.

The empty fridge hums too loudly. The kitchen surfaces gleam, bereft of clutter. A fly buzzes angrily against the glass. The house echoes underfoot as I walk around it one last time. I can’t say goodbye without remembering how it is, even it it’s not how it was.

Outside, the peonies have never displayed more petals, like ballerinas’ up-raised skirts. The damsons are ripening, while the raspberries are hang heavy and sweet with only the birds to enjoy them.

The frogs are now emboldened by a dog-free zone. I found one hopping across the grass before noon – a rash act more hazardous than crossing the A34 while we lived here.

The happy shouts of children bouncing on the trampoline next door are silent. All are at school. I wonder if they’ll notice the house, unusually quiet.

The milkman has delivered for the last time, starting me awake with his electric milk float. The neighbourhood hens, early morning layers, are preoccupied, scuffling around in the dirt, oblivious to the gigantic removal truck turning out of the road.

There’s nothing left to do but pull the door and walk away. It’s been a happy house, and will be again.

But what’s this? Arriving at our new address, the removal men have pulled up on the green verge, last seen full of tulips and daffodils, the cherry blossom full – now fruiting.

South Parks grass is newly cut – a great swathe of green, curving upwards along the flank of Headington Hill. Crowds of people are enjoying the sunshine: it’s like ‘Where’s Wally?’ – fascinating to watch.

One of the hard-working removal men grew up in Blackbird Leys. “You’ll hear a few sirens,” he tells me. “Nice area the one you left.”

A young man offers me his flat’s parking space, while I go to change my car disc from Summertown to East Oxford.

A homeless man pushing a trolley is followed down the street by two students in white tie and tails. They keep their distance. It’s the Balls season, after a tough year’s exams. I’m glad the weather’s holding – for all of them. I feel lucky to have a place to stay.

The check-out chick at Tesco has a warm greeting for everyone.

“All right, lovely?” she says to a man wearing a pork pie hat. “You’re lovely”, he replies. And she was.

Inside our new house, surrounded by boxes, we made a pot of tea. There was a knock at the door. Our son disappeared to open it.

He returns with a pot of local honey and some newly laid eggs. “From Sara,” he says.