I want this. I really, really want this to work out, and goodness knows everyone else would be pleased if I knew one way or another because I can’t stop talking about it, tweeting about it, updating my status about it.
On Saturday night Harry and I went on a rare night out and all the way there on the tube I kept feeling words form in my mouth, words about the house, nut I swallowed them because I was worried that I had become irritating in my obsession. “I can’t stop talking about it,” I confided over dinner.
It was a relief when Harry smiled. “Neither can I.”
We have built this elaborate fantasy whereby we get the house and have to put our flat on the market immediately. We find ourselves already looking at storage prices for boxes we may not need to pack for over a year yet. We consider which fixtures and fitting should remain when we have gone. Where is the nearest B&Q to Narbeth? Would IKEA Cardiff deliver all the way out there? Should we get ourselves new bedding, and maybe use our old stuff for a spare room? In view of my health problems, should we go down and register with the GP on the first working day?
I am now looking at London through the eyes of someone who may be about to depart. Lovely though Saturday’s concert was, I really noticed the smell and the noise and the sheer grime of the tube. I walk around our borough thinking, “Can I really leave all this? Am I ready to?” and the answer is yes. I feel really lucky to have had the experience of living in London for 11 and a half years, but I am mentally moving on.
Today’s the day that our estate agent friend will meet with the developer and the agent for the (not so) putative house. She’ll then tie all her findings together into a report which we can expect that this afternoon, or maybe tomorrow, depending on how much information is still to be incorporated. This means I will be frantically and pointlessly checking my emails every five minutes from lunchtime onwards, ready to text the headlines to Harry at his conference. I feel as nervous as if I were waiting for the result of a job interview.
“I’m worried,” I told my daughter, “that this will all come to nothing and Harry and I will be disappointed.”
“Disappointed just means you might find something better.”
This blog shows you the most recent post first. To see where our journey began scroll down or click here