Thursday, 8 July 2010
This is the hellish Waiting Time... the time when checks are made, papers drawn up, mortgage arrangements agreed, surveyors instructed to survey. Nothing is happening that I can see yet, so I'm sitting at home, slowly packing one house up and dreaming, thinking, planning another, but hideously aware that much could go wrong at this stage.
I am the mostly-grateful recipient of shedloads of advice and instruction. Willing helpers, most of whom still appear to think I am completely mad, are offering help with the eventual move, and I accept it all. A veritable convoy of friends will be moving ahead of me and with me; I will even have company in the car when it is finally laden with yowling cats and a vomiting dog for a very long drive from the North East to the South West. There's friendship for you, despite the upset feelings.
Frequently, I touch wood. People ask how the sale is going; I touch wood and say little; I can't quite say with confidence that I've sold this house - maybe that won't happen until I hand the keys over after signing the final papers. People ask where I'm going; I touch wood and tell them, adding "If nothing goes wrong." I am beset with nervous fears, fantasies and anxieties. I have unpleasant dreams; I wake at dawn; I listen to whatever is on the radio: farming programmes, the daily prayer, the shipping forecast. I touch wood when thoughts of my new house spring to mind.
I ponder what moving into a village will mean. Will it make me a villager? Maybe not; I was never a city girl all the years I lived here. I hope I won't be an Incomer for long, stared at in the Post Office.
I make sketchy plans in my head for a garden, much longed-for all these years and now soon to be mine - touch wood. I love the idea of being able to walk to the shops, the bank, the open countryside. I look at my house on Google Earth, and marvel that - touch wood - I could be living in it some time soon. I am amazed at how little I remember of the house when I viewed it, except for loving it; sadly, the horrible stinky house viewed immediately before remains a violently memorable experience.
I look often at the photos that Lizzie, female spy par excellence, took for me from a moving car. My house; my garden; my ivy-clad stone wall; my little road. Touch wood.
I tell the dog that soon she will have a lovely new home. She looks at me without understanding a word; to her, home is wherever I am. The cats will give me a hard time, I suspect, but they will come to learn that they have moved to a little piece of heaven. Touch wood.
And I don't want to wait too long: I want it to be Soon!
Posted by rachel at 21:20