It's actually rather nice to live in a tidy, finished house, and moan as I might (and do) about the constant housework, it doesn't really take that long and the results are gratifying. There now, I've said it! I think I may just have fallen off a donkey on a back road to Damascus. I hope I'm not dusty.
Not everything is finished, if truth be told, but it's achievable now. Margery and I cleaned the two large pan drawers under the cooker hob today, and found that when everything was put back in again (with only two items reaching the charity bag) there was a strikingly large amount of room in there, and cluttered, badly-stacked things no longer fell into the void behind the drawer, to be dragged out with the tongs.
And I found the little home-made rack that lets me put an espresso pot on the hob without risk of it tipping over very annoyingly. That little treasure has been lost for years.
The For Sale sign is irritating - not for itself, but because the two pieces of timber that keep it upright are at odds with its main post, and look scruffy. I feel like painting them black to match. I am getting more in touch with my own place on the autistic spectrum, I can tell.
And that Zephirine Drouhin is so messy with her petals! Tut.
I realised that I don't mind if no one buys my house for ages; I am under no pressure to move, and am happy in my home. If it does sell, I will find another house to be happy in, because happy is what comes with me, not what belongs to any particular house. But if it doesn't sell, then I'm having an interesting time living without clutter and heaps of paper.
I suspect that I shall tire easily of showing people round - just two viewings have shown me that talk of roof and drains is dull, and that remembering not to say "And this is the kitchen!" when it could be nothing else, slightly saps the will to live. Perhaps I need to work on my script. I could hint at a small secret door (yes, there is one, and I may tell you where it is when and if I do move).
Or I could print out nursery-class-style labels and pin them to the doors, with descriptions, perhaps, of what each room is and its hidden mysteries.
After all, the estate agent's blurb describes the upstairs sitting room, really the master bedroom, with far too many odd chairs, two unmatched desks and the computer, as the Drawing Room. Moi, having a Drawing Room! How very Jane Austen....
(If I really were to have a Drawing Room, it wouldn't have a carpet the colour of a damp digestive biscuit, that's for sure. A friend says I'm not to be trusted to buy carpet unsupervised, as, no matter what my intentions, they always turn out to be biscuit-coloured. And she's right.)
I could just send viewers to look for themselves. I could sit in the kitchen with my feet up, drinking tea, and waiting for them to come down and ask me fascinating questions about roof and drains....