Alex Salmond is not the only one who has done a Garbo and declared he wants to be left alone this week.
I too feel his pain, although, to be fair, I have not just seen my dream of leading my nation into a brave new era disappear as quickly as a double whisky down one of his compatriots’ necks, but I am moving house. For the second time in 10 months.
We all know that moving home is the most stressful thing a person can do – it hasn’t helped that we have bought our new home at a time when the property market resembled a Monte Carlo casino and the buying public (apart from us) appear to have their life savings burning a hole in their well worn pink Chinos.
But after a few near misses we finally found the place we know we will be comfortable calling home. We have been fortunate, but why do I feel so anxious?
According to The Boss, it is not as though I have contributed very much towards to this latest move. This withering insult initially hurt, until I sat down and reflected and realised that I have been something of a passenger during the whole process. But why the rising blood pressure and the sweaty collar?
It can’t be the prospect of packing lots of boxes because I am sitting that one out too.
Neither can we be worried about uprooting the family as we are moving less than a mile down the road. The answer to why moving home is such a palava is a complex one and is undoubtedly so for different reasons for different people.
In my case, I am terrified because for every rung of life’s ladder that I manage to climb it causes me to reflect on the fact that I have ever growing responsibilities, when the truth is that I am incapable of tying my own shoelaces.
For as long as bricks and mortar are important to society then the act of moving your loved ones and possessions from one property to another will continue to be the most aggravating thing that a human being can do.
I would not wish it on anyone. Not even Wee Alex.