Why you should never offer to help your girlfriend move house I heard the lorry before I saw it, as it rumbled around Finsbury Park. Then I had to unpack it. The first few loads were OK, but around the fifth bag of linen I began to ask questions. Questions like "you do only have one bed, don't you?" and "I thought you threw these away?." At one stage I carried a heavy box upstairs only to discover that it was full of other boxes and had to take a short walk to calm down. Worst of all were the cushions. Endless cushions, for the bed. Note: not pillows, cushions - items that must be removed from the bed before sleeping, and then replaced in the morning 'so it looks nice'. I have come to think of the bed cushions as a kind of psychic cilice, reminding me of all I love about my relationship by slightly irritating me every morning and night. The ordeal wasn't over. She was moving in with three other women, so there were three more vanloads. After what felt like hours the other boyfriends and I collapsed, shattered, in what had at the start of the day been a recognisable living room, but now seemed to be an entire branch of John Lewis that had been picked up by a giant, violently shaken, and crushed. With the manual labour over, the mental torture began, as the women discussed what the house needed. 'A particularly thorough burglary' wasn't on the list. You will not hear such passive-aggressive middle-class competitiveness this side of Eton sports day. I quote, verbatim: I just think an uplighter would make a world of difference. The utility room is a hell hole, it fills me with dread. We need some small storage-baskety type things. I spent £400 on bedding so I'm more than happy to spend £400 on candles. I'd like 24 matching white wine glasses and 24 matching red wine glasses. I think it would be nice to have a really large wooden cutting board, so when we have a roast the juices will flow into the grooves. We need tea lights, and we need jars to put them in. Don't laugh at me, you're the one with the strawberry huller. We need stainless steel pots for herbs, so that it's all matchy-matchy by the sink. You're right, we do need at least six lampshades. The next day they went to IKEA and bought it all. If the house ever goes up in flames, the whole of north London will smell like vanilla. I learnt one thing from Helping The Girlfriend To Move House. Next time I change address I am going to take a radical minimalist approach, and live like the CIA assassin in Homeland: one sleeping bag, one Kindle, one laptop, one of those fridges for tinnies shaped like a tinny, and a deckchair. No cushions, no boxes, no shoes, no shoe-boxes, no linen, no candles. And, after she's read this, probably no girlfriend either.