Why I am never helping my brother move house again!

Moving house is always a challenging time, even more so when it involves my family.

My brother Jon has almost finished a placement year at University, and was moving from one house to another in Bristol.

Being the good sister I am, and sensing the opportunity for brownie points, I offered to help.

When I said help, I didn’t think I would be doing almost all the packing on the actual day.

Now what is it about boys inability to pack in advance?

I entered the house expecting to see it bare except for a line of neatly packed boxes, the sight that greeted me was very different.

Wet clothes were draped across airers as he had picked this convenient moment to do some washing.

Heading upstairs I saw a bedroom that looked as if it hadn't been touched for weeks, complete with empty water bottles, mountains of paperwork, and wires connecting his many electrical devices.

But it was ok, he cheerfully told me, as he had managed to pack a holdall full of socks and his XBox.

The look on mum’s face was a pure Kodak moment, and we decided it would be easier to just do it ourselves.

The packing was relatively simple, chuck all of his ‘stuff’ into bags and into the car.

Jon likes to keep everything incase it may be needed again. And I mean everything, from year old receipts to a miniature skittles set that had come out of a cracker and countless wires.

However, I was unaware of the trauma awaiting me in the kitchen.

On cleaning out his food cupboard I was not expecting to pick up a bag of onions so past their sell by date that they were growing shoots, and dripping brown sludge everywhere.

A few choice words and a very through hand wash later and I was ready to head to the other house to unload.

This went more smoothly than the packing, probably because I left him to get on with it and flaked out on the sofa.

Now Jon is settled into his new place for the next year. And when the question of moving comes up again I will be washing my hair.