Panicking

Caramba.  Not only do I now have a permanent sick feeling when I think about the To Do list, but I'm now worried my next blog may be from prison.  I can already see the fat face of the female screw and hear the menace in her jangling keys.
 
I noticed something about a Consent to Let document among the junk mail from my mortgage company. Large, rusty cogs turned in my head (the ones that got me a degree from university: the rust is from breastmilk) and I had a conversation that went like this:
 
Me: "What's a Consent to Let? Does this mean I need Consent to Let my property?"
Woman: (crisply, like a headteacher to a naughty child) "Yes, or you're breaking the law. It's dependent on conditions and we don't always give it. It costs £75."  I then started bleating about moving to Switzerland, already found tenants etc etc but realised this was a stupid thing to say, in fact the whole conversation (at least my side of it) had been extremely stupid.
 
I will need to sell a lot of bric a brac at next Sunday's car boot sale to make 75 quid.  My chances are not great, though my Prince records might make me a tenner.  Other items on sale include:
a sombrero (never buy stuff on holiday)
a flamingo pink furry coat (the raving years)
a briefcase, new and unused (???)
assorted bits of china - including a mug commemorating the engagement of the Prince and Princess of Wales.  On second thoughts, I might hang on the that - it could be Emma's ticket to public school.