I just arrived home on Friday 13th to discover my landlord is kicking me out of my flat so I have to move by early September. Or, given I fly overseas on 27 August, by mid to late August. Or, given I’m paranoid, by early August.

You could say I’ve had bad luck with rental properties. It seems everywhere I move, within a year or two the owner wants to move in, or renovate, or move a member of their family in, or sell the place. If it wasn’t for my spotless rental record I would start getting a complex.

But the thought of moving doesn’t bother me too much. Since 1999 I’ve never lived anywhere for longer than two years. As I’ve always felt unsettled anyway, moving regularly just feels like another aspect of that feeling. Don’t get me wrong, the actual act itself is rarely fun – as a book nerd, music geek and archivist I have: a) lots of books; b) lots of music, music gear, big speakers etc.; and c) lots of other stuff stored and filed away around the house. But I’ll hire some people, borrow a car and get it done with minimal pain as soon as I find a place.

There is also a glass-half-full version. I am in the midst of seriously exploring starting a PhD next year and already have at least one possible PhD iron in the fire. As part of that I was thinking I should downsize for a few years to cut costs so it’s made that thought a reality.

Maybe it’s the universe telling me I should do a PhD. Maybe it’s fate. Except I don’t believe in fate, destiny, luck or superstition. Which is another reason being kicked out of my flat on Friday 13th doesn’t bother me. It’s just something which has happened, and (to slip into Buffyspeak) I’ll deal. Life is meaningless, fate is doesn’t exist, the universe is indifferent, and the number thirteen is just the No. 13 Baby.