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In Country
'That it then?'
I nodded, and Derek the removal man turned back to the van, gave a wave to his driver and went to the back to lift the ramp, close the hatched and seal up the contents of my previous life.

You don't really want removal men to be efficient and clean; you want them to be burly, and surly, beer-bellied, with pie-breath and greasy flat-cap. You want them to pause, rub their aching back and take a sharp intake of breath; ‘dunno about that guvna. Isn't on the manifest.

You want chipped cups, splintered furniture, mashed boxes, lost boxes. Delays. Traffic jams. Running over time. Running out of time. You want stuff stored in the wrong rooms, too-heavy-to-move tea-chests dumped in the passage, stuff left behind to be collected, or not, three shame-faced weeks later, after seven increasingly irate phone calls from the new homeowner. You want inefficiency, damage and loss.

In fact, if you were in my position, you would want the removal men to simply forget to arrive; you'd want the estate agent to lose the contracts shortly before the exchange takes place; you'd want the utility companies to forget to switch.