Wednesday Written All Over It

It was, I will admit, a week or two ago now, but I wrote, as I always do, three posts for the week. I liked them all – otherwise they would not have been published – but I thought that Wednesday’s was by far the best. A bit of a corker, I thought, destined to push my daily readership up into the teens. It therefore came as absolutely no surprise to discover that whilst Monday and Friday attracted what can only be described as a satisfactorily meagre amount of readers, Wednesday scored in the pitiful. I don’t know how much of an effect such things have but Wednesday’s post was a) about the dentist and b) featured a photograph of a dentist invading a mouth in – for a dentophobic such as me – a most unseemly manner which, now I come to think about it, would almost certainly put me off reading on. Perhaps, going forward, I need to be more mindful of the photo’s I graft on to each post. Perhaps I should avoid anything that hints at pain or discomfort, possibly I should head each post with chocolate. Maybe my readership is looking for something from me that I have never considered. Like Unicorns. I’ll consider it now…

Meanwhile, while mulling it over and in preparation for the big move I have spent the day – employing the technical jargon of the initiated – doing stuff. Should you wish to know, it turns out that downsizing involves either painting everything that does not run away, or selling it, with a view to replacing it with something smaller, but infinitely more expensive. I am not a fan of either alternative. I have always been a bit of a make and mender, but I’m also aware that whatever fashion dictates gets painted this year will also need to be unpainted twelve months hence. We need to get rid of the big dining table because we will have far less room. We’ll replace it with a smaller one, although it will need to expand into a bigger one when everybody comes around…

It is a concern obviously, this having less space business, but putting less crap into the space we do have, it appears to me, offers the possibility of a solution. I am wrong, of course. Tacking a bit more space onto the diminished habitat is the answer. I am of a very cautious generation. My wife, who is a similar age, is from an entirely different generation. Sometimes a different planet. I dread the thought that I will not be able to afford things (food, for instance) as I get older; my wife dreads the thought that she cannot do stuff now. I’m sure that she is probably correct. I’m sorry Mr Hartley* but it is tomorrow that is the foreign country. I’ve tried to burn my passport, but it is all in The Cloud now. I fear I shall have to go.

Life, they say, is not about the destination, it is about the journey. Well, seeing as few of us ever want to reach that particular – and ultimate – destination, it is a natural enough conclusion to draw except – let’s be honest – when you’re on your way to somewhere exotic – we’ll say Skegness – the journey is just the bit that stops you being there now. It is just a set of obstacles, a line of hurdles to trip over, and maybe that’s the way that blogging works. Monday is full of promise and Friday filled with the joy of arrival. In between it’s just bloody Wednesday. This post has got Wednesday written all over it…

*”The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.” L.P. Hartley – ‘The Go-Between’

Belly of the Whale

Well, it came as a bit of a shock, but we’ve sold very quickly and now we have to look for a house to buy with some urgency. I’m sure that neither of us thought that it would happen this soon and we are only just beginning to compute the implications. We have, I think, viewed eight properties over the last couple of days – they have been too expensive, too big, too small, too rundown and too much of a home for wallaby-sized rats – but we are left with one or two ‘contenders’ – nothing is perfect is it? Oddly the pressure I have started to feel is more in terms of getting ready to move out of this house than where we’re going to go to when we’ve done it.

We’ve lived here for forty three years. We bought it when we really couldn’t afford it, but we were young enough (and just the right side of stupid) to take on ‘a project’. At times I thought that the bloody thing was going to kill me, but we slowly got it together. We raised our children here and I think that almost everyone we have ever known has visited it at some time or another. Now we think that the time is right for it to shelter somebody else’s growing tribe. Our buyers (fingers crossed that they remain our buyers) are such; a young family whom I hope will be very happy here – as we have been.

So we have to start sorting through forty three years of assembled ‘stuff’. Mementoes of pre-parenting life; of the blissful days of early-parenthood; the more difficult, but ultimately rewarding days of parenting young adults; of letting them go; of welcoming them back; of greeting new family members and, eventually, our precious grandchildren – all of these have to be sifted through and either saved or abandoned. We are downsizing so the abandoned pile has to be the bigger, we both agree on that… until we get the bin bags out..

Our children are startlingly non-nostalgic and did not want to keep much of what we had kept from their childhoods when they left home, so they are even less likely to want it now. I wonder if this knowledge will make it any less of a wrench when we haul it all down from the attic and tip it into a skip? Probably not.

I’m not at all certain how we will feel going forward: our lives are woven into this house: we built this nest around us like little birds. It will, when the time comes, be difficult to leave, but hopefully we will walk into a new chapter… whilst we are still able to walk.

It’s hard to avoid thinking about mortality at times like this – if I’m honest, it is something you can never successfully turn your back on at my age – because if we live as long in our new home (wherever that may be) as we have here, I will be 109 years old and almost certainly not able to climb trees with the great-grandkids without the assistance of a block and tackle. Unless we get it very wrong – or decrepitude forces arthritic hands – this will be our last home: only the third we have ever shared. And all that we have to do is find it…

That house broke my back
That house I built skinned my knuckles
That house I built picked my pockets
And buckled every joint
It pointed me from youth and any truth I knew
Towards a painted sundown on a break your nose horizon… Belly of the Whale – Guy Garvey

I’m sorry if the title of this piece led you away from where it was actually going, but the song was in my head before I even started to write…

The Chain

In theory it works like this: a young couple want to move from their tiny flat into a 2-bed terrace house; the owners of the 2-bed want to move into a 3-bed semi; the semi owners want a 4-bed detached; the 4-bed owners , whose family have flown the nest, want to downsize into a bungalow before they can come back, and the elderly couple in the bungalow, now finding the garden a little too much to cope with, want to move into a flat. This is the house-buying chain: each link totally reliant on its neighbours, each one as fragile as the next.

The first thing to know is that when buying of selling a property in England nobody is actually committed to anything at all until contracts are exchanged, and this happens at the very end of a lengthy process that usually takes several fraught months. Make all the plans you like baby, somebody is always going to pull out at the very last minute. Panic will kick in on either side of the crumbling link – someone no longer has a house to buy, someone else no longer has a buyer for their house. Somebody will end up panic-buying anything with a roof whilst somebody else is dropping the asking price by daily increments. Two separate chains become a knot and everyone within it is doomed!

It is a commonly held opinion that buying/selling a house and moving home is the most stressful thing that most of us will ever do. I doubt that many of us will ever sit in a roomful of snakes, so it is possible. And when the move is done, well, it doesn’t really stop does it? Now is the time to spot all of the defects you missed before you bought it; this is the time when you notice that a damp patch doesn’t stay painted over forever; this is the time that you notice that the hallway was light and airy only because the front door doesn’t close properly; this is the moment you realise that the sofa doesn’t fit…

Not that we’re in that position yet. We have neither buyer, nor anywhere to buy. We are looking, tentatively, but it is difficult: you either find a buyer whilst you have no idea of where you might go, or you find your dream home and lose it while waiting for someone to buy your own. This is Limbo. Meanwhile, we stalk around ‘maybe’ houses with uncomfortable homeowners who look as though they are waiting for the axe to fall, me looking for somewhere to store my CD’s and books, my wife looking for walls to knock down. We leave full of the positives and wake up the next morning full of the negatives. Sooner or later, I suppose, it will all resolve around us and we will become a link in our own little chain… and woe betide anyone who breaks that one up.

This very evening we have visited ‘a bit of a project’ – two bedrooms (we need three), a small kitchen (we ‘need’ a large kitchen/diner), a low-ceilinged conservatory that would almost certainly ‘have to come down’ in order to build a less Lillipution extension – and having gone through the motions inside we went into the garden which was ‘a good size for us’. I was by now at the ‘had the contact lenses in about an hour too long’ stage, but I made out something moving on the grass. “I think you have a bunny on your lawn” I said, and the owner shooed it away. But it came back defiantly, sedately enough for my poor beleaguered peepers to register that it was, in fact, the biggest bloody rat I have ever seen in my life; the result, apparently, of a next door neighbour keeping chickens. It was the size of a kangaroo.

The ‘project’ is not at the top of our list…

Listen to the wind blow, watch the sun rise
Running in the shadows, damn your love, damn your lies… The Chain – Fleetwood Mac (Christine McVie / John McVie / Lindsey Buckingham / Mick Fleetwood / Stephanie Nicks)

Just Looking

I very seldom open windows onto my day-to-day existence because I realise that inducing abject boredom in the reader is not something to which any writer should aspire. My aim is perhaps to engender a small iota of recognition somewhere in the dark recesses in the mind of my readers, not to render them senseless, so my ramblings here are normally rather more general than specific: small splashes of colour on the broadest of canvases; the parts of the story that Michelangelo would almost certainly have emulsioned over. Today however, I am about to stray into the personal when I tell you that we have started to look around other peoples’ houses – not, I feel I should stress, as some kind of nefarious new hobby, but because it is likely that, in the fullness of time, we will attempt to set up camp in one of them. We have decided that the time is right to leave our home of forty plus years and settle somewhere slightly smaller. To that end we also have to invite other people to troop through our own little nest.

The first surprise to me is that the downsizing I always imagined would place a wedge of cash into my back pocket is actually set to siphon all of the folding stuff from the front ones at an alarming rate. The knowledge that a single storey three-bed bungalow is so much more costly than a four-bed two storey house is quite alarming, as is the realisation that, for my wife, downsizing does not necessarily equate to moving into something that is in any way smaller than what we currently inhabit. I was relishing the challenge of excising all manner of extraneous crud from my life only to find that she is looking for a big enough loft/garage combo to accommodate it all. It is of little consequence if I am honest, we will compromise as we always do and I will throw out half a dozen pairs of old pants, a threadbare dartboard and a second favourite coffee mug (chipped) and she… will let me.

The real problem arises in the very act of showing people around our current home. To date we have had only very pleasant people – the kind that we would be happy to sell it to (and it is alarming to discover how much we actually care about who buys it) – but (and here’s the issue) they are all so bloody transparent when muttering the kind of fuzzy platitudes we all do when placed in such an unnatural situation: when you hate the colour of a wall or carpet, but you are being shown it by the very person who chose it. ‘It’s lovely,’ comes out of their mouths whilst the brain can be heard calculating the cost of painting it all over. And we are visiting other peoples’ homes and doing the self-same thing ourselves when hiding a ‘Why on earth have you done that?’ behind a conversation about how much light comes through a window (Seriously? Why else would it be there?) but for some reason, the rational part of the brain that tells you that there is no conceivable reason why anyone interested in buying your house would automatically share your taste in colour, is trammelled over by the bit that shouts ‘How bloody dare they?’ This is my house and any criticism, open, implied or even completely imagined, is an affront. ‘If you don’t like it, don’t buy it. Bugger off!’

I may have to work on my sales patter…

There’s things I want
There’s things I think I want
There’s things I’ve had
There’s things I want to have… Just Looking – Stereophonics (Kelly Jones / Richard Mark Jones / Stuart Cable)