I’ve just sold a flat and bought a house. It’s been one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life. I can think of funerals that were more rewarding.

It was a disaster in large part due to the appalling communications between virtually all parties concerned.

In the last week my wife (above, left) has had to personally deal with three sets of solicitors, two sets of estate agents, one relocation agent, two vendors, two financial advisers, the Halifax, Northern Rock and a lovely lady at Wandsworth Council who saved our bacon yesterday by giving us access to their microfiche vaults so we could uncover the critical missing document.

My wife, being the wonder that she is, has managed to stitch together this mess of Chinese whispers, half-truths and mis-communication into something resembling a process. And the result is that she’s rescued the sale from the brink of collapse and it looks like we’ll be in for Christmas.

I can now enjoy tonight’s office Christmas party. Despite the fact that it’s at the kind of venue that Cheryl Tweedy might frequent, I think there’s going to be some live Rock n’Roll, courtesy of our own James Barbour.

Drinks on me I think! (Drinks are free, but the sentiment's there)