I am not normally prey to maukish sentimentality, but I do harbour a (hopefully) hidden ocassional weakness in that direction. Also, for someone strongly grounded in rational pragmatism, I manage to embrace a supersticious belief that sometimes, if you look, the universe sends you signs, pointing the way (or maybe a way).
Well the house is sold. Not finalised, legal paperwork must still shuffle bureaucratically from solicitor to solicitor and bank to bank. It remains possible that some “i” will be undotted or “t” uncrossed, but I believe that we will be moving and that the story here at “Back o’ the Kennel ” moves on. Just over fifteen years we have been here, and I still recall with great clarity a moment from our arrival, where on his first visit to the house our eldest (then only, and very young) son ran into the bedroom and exlaimed with delight “Is this MY room?”
I may have noted in passing that the housing market seems inexplicably busy given our lockdown situation. Our advert was delayed – then went live at 7 pm, an interested party booked a view at 9pm, came by at 3pm the following day, and we had recieved their offer by 5pm. Less than 24 hours!
I was not present for the viewing – as it happens I had to work- although it had been made clear that I would not, in any event, be the one allowed to deal with the buying public (I do not suffer fools gladly-or in silence- and this was thought too big a risk). Hence my report of the event was second hand, but my wife’s telling of it was clear. The buyer had arrived with her young son, who had run in and exclaimed with delight ” Is this OUR new home?” .
[Blows nose, blinks in the low dazzling sunlight, mutters gruffly about “the Bears game”]
I knew then (as I believe did Chris) that we had found our buyer – the fact that they were also very struck on some of my “unconventional” decor (“the land of Oz” garden, and “inside the stained glass window” porch) didn’t hurt.
As to the future… well that comes with a sign as well. A clear and unequivocal pointer telling me this is where I am suppose to go. The new house….is number thirteen.
Next week: Packing, bloody packing…
Dalmallyfest the Asylum 