My house is emptying out day by day. Today a big truck backed down the drive and loaded up my French Salon Suite – Paris, circa 1890. It's headed for the lower North Island and a new home. I remember the day we bought it. A rainy Friday afternoon. That suite is imbued with memories – good and bad. All precious. I wipe away a tear and wave goodbye to them.

Daily, strangers traipse to my door to pick up a printer, a garden bench, a painting, tables and chairs. Still there are piles of boxes and mess in every room. The cat chooses to sit high up on the empty bookshelves and watch the disintegration of our home and life as we knew it. From time to time he jumps down and trips me up on the stairs as I heft boxes up and down. It's a "Don't Forget Me" ploy on his part.

"Of course I won't forget you," I murmur to him as I sit on a step and partake in some gentle head butting, "but we have to talk."

Like almost everything else I own, he's going to a new home. He will be extremely indulged and have four cosy beds to sleep in. Four adoring humans to cuddle, talk to and love. And, as they are good friends of mine, I get to visit him once I return from where I'm heading off to.

His scratching post, bags of treats, favourite biscuits and an old t-shirt of mine (unwashed) are packed and ready. It's just how to choose a day. The Goodbye Day. Maybe tomorrow. If not, then Saturday. Or Sunday....