A new home for my packing boxes, and a new mouldy dilemma

Well, it's done.

I have moved out of the maths house (though I hate to think what I left behind, stuffed down the sides of the couch, behind and under beds, and stuck inside the washing machine). And now, at last, I’m establishing myself as Coventry's newest, and possibly maddest, "Australian lady".

I'm living in a packing box-piled, semi-organised terrace house, doing civilised things like walking to the shops and walking my daughter to nursery. I am, to all intents and purposes, Settling In, although sometimes I feel that confusion follows me everywhere I go. Little things shock me, too, like mail suddenly poking through the letterbox in the front door, while I'm in the front room. My daughter, hearing someone, wants to throw the door open and see who's there, while I, feeling strangely violated, want to hide behind the couch. How dare those letters and junk mail enter my house without my permission?! They could have knocked first! Or gone into a letterbox at the front gate, a respectable distance away... yes, that would be far less intrusive.

(For those of you who find this strange, I grew up in a house that Australia Post didn't even visit. All our mail went to a post office box. This slot in the door thing is quite a shock to my system.)

The house has given me some bragging rights – yes, it has a renovated bathroom, six-burner stove, huge oven, nice little garden out the back. I’m also proud to announce, to the folks back home who think attics are Rich People's luxuries, that I do have a storage loft, with cute little pull-down stairs. (My puffed-out chest must deflate slightly as I admit I haven’t actually pulled them down myself yet, let alone climbed them. But I’ve seen it done, so I know it’s possible.)

And so, thanks to the loft, all the packing boxes will have a home until the next move. They’re ready to be reused yet again. Still sturdy, I think their willingness to keep moving will outlast mine.

On the downside of the house, it is, at its narrowest (the bathroom at the rear), a mere 172 cm wide. No bathroom cupboards. No room for the little cupboard that’s come all the way from Canberra to Potsdam to Coventry. (It’s sitting in the backyard, wrapped in bubblewrap, waiting for a home in the house, and hoping it doesn’t get rained on.)

Even the lovely stove/oven has its drawbacks. Evidently somebody got a bit vigorous with cleaning it in the past, and most of the information near the dials (oven temperatures, burner settings etc) has been scrubbed clean off. The grill is also extremely difficult to get going, and almost as temperamental as I am. We came to an understanding that allowed me to grill some cheese on bread this afternoon, but I’m sure we’ll fall out again soon.

And now, of course, to the all-important question.

Is the house mouldy?

The answer, my friends, is that there are some suspicious black spots above the kitchen window. And, unfortunately, some mould in the washing machine.

At this point I’d like to open myself up to suggestions. What’s the best way to get rid of mould, and the mouldy smell, in an otherwise wonderful washing machine? Any tips will be gratefully received.