It’s good to be home


Home, sweet home

After a very tense 48 hours (when exchanging contracts became worryingly uncertain due to our buyer getting rather cold feet and coincidentally, in no way related to this event, I started making a buyer shaped voodoo doll), on 20 December, scarily close to Christmas, we finally moved house.

Having lived in my previous home for fifteen years, I have learnt some things about myself as part of this process. Firstly, I have TOO MUCH STUFF. Ten years from now, watch out for me on one of those hoarder programmes; Voiceover man: “Jo, who was divorced by her husband many years ago and lives with 28 cats, still owns cassette tapes, VHS videos, a carrier bag from Bejams and the leaving card from her first job back in 1994. Bejam was a frozen food manufacturer bought out by Iceland in 1988, Jo does not own any equipment suitable to play any of the recordings and she doesn’t even remember what job she did in 1994 nor can she decipher the ancient messages of goodwill in the card as the ink is so old that it has flaked off. However, Jo is convinced that she needs to keep hold of absolutely everything.”

I also discovered that I’m a terrible housework slut. The oven was remaining at the property that we sold. Given this, I thought I’d better do the right thing and give it a clean so that our buyer didn’t think less of me and have to deal with baked on cheese from a pizza that we ate back in March (this was before her cold feet episode; had I known she was going to cause me a shit load of stress, I’d have baked on some extra cheese for good measure). After I cleaned the oven, Brad remarked “Ooh lovely, you can see the food cooking through the glass in the door”…. I recognise that this should not be a novelty for the poor chap.

I also did not realise just how many ‘treasures’ my cat had captured over time which had found their way under the bed. Balled up sweet wrappers, more toy mice than I have ever bought, so I think there was some sort of breeding programme going on, and even a dried up half eaten cocktail sausage. I am truly ashamed, not least because I have no idea when I last ate cocktail sausages so that little devil could have been down their for years.

We were moved by ‘He-Van, Movers of the Universe’ (removal company chosen solely because of the excellent name pun) and we’ve moved to a location that is “sought after by young urbanites“, according to the BBC. I have no idea what an urbanite is, but the BBC consider young to be the 25 to 44 age category so I’m taking what I can get.

In order to afford such a desirable location, we have had to compromise on a few areas. Our new property is rocking some considerable ‘old lady chic’; we have carpets so patterned that you’re scared to drop anything because it will be completely camouflaged. I dropped a jelly tot on Christmas Eve which hasn’t been seen since (there is a chance that the cat has captured it and placed it in her ‘under the bed lair’ for the toy mice families to feed upon, of course). We also have floral wallpaper borders, random pillars and a significant excess of pink velvet curtain (not a euphemism).

On the plus side, we have a garage that will keep Brad occupied, an amazing garden and so much space that we can’t hear each other if we’re at opposite ends of the property. We now have no downstairs neighbours so if I want to do star jumps in the hallway* no one will complain and we’re in such a quiet location that I kept waking up for the first few nights because the silence and stillness confused me.

*extremely unlikely that I will actually do this

We* will start redecoration projects shortly, but in the meantime, we’re just catching our breath, relieved that the move is all over and excited for what lies ahead.


It’s good to be home.

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