Ruthless - and cruel too!

Some things simply won't fit into my new house. Some could be parted with easily, especially if they were going to loving homes (oddly, no one wanted Hamish*....) and some simply got left out in the back lane, to vanish very quickly. I have been fairly ruthless about some things, although the Lovely Son still thinks I'm taking far too much.

The old tallboy - or Scotch press (above) - was a source of some anguish, but really was too big and too much at odds with the style of the cottage to fit in comfortably, and a friend of a friend was thrilled to receive it for her Victorian house.

But this meant getting it down from the attic.....

Four strong men spent a very long time bringing it downstairs, my warning to NOT chip any paintwork on the staircase ringing in their ears.

We three women did other things meantime (I got rid of passed on a new carpet at the same time, showed them the brochure of the cottage, chatted about how many people we knew in common, you know how you do) and wondered what on earth was taking the aforesaid four strong men so long.

When they finally got down to the hall, puffing and sweating, well, I don't know what cruel impulse possessed me, but I found myself casually remarking that it had originally been carted up to the attic many years ago by Tricia, her weedy boyfriend, and me.

But it was true; it had.

Then, with miles of rope and more puffing and sweating, they heaved the tallboy onto the roof rack, and went off with it, where it will be carted into its new home - at the top of the house.

Now I must stop blogging and get on with the chaos that is packing of all the miscellaneous items.


* only kidding, Hamish, honest

Agreements

The solicitors are doing their job. They anticipate the worst at every turn; they envision disaster and bad behaviour from the other side at every opportunity; they attempt to protect us from our own naive, trusting, impulsive, easily-cheated selves. No doubt this suspicion and caution is built on decades of experience of how dreadfully badly their clients can behave.

The vendor and I - in reality two sensible women with 112 years between us and a shared wish to get this buying and selling over - get to the end of our respective tethers with the slowness and caution, and trust each other not to renege on either the sale or the purchase. We email, and have even spoken today, when it all looked like it would collapse because of extreme solicitorial* caution. And we took action. If the Land Registry doesn't explain the flying freehold situation in time for completion on Monday, a tenancy agreement that I had to race to sign at the solicitors' office late this afternoon (a 32-mile round trip! on a Friday! the first day of the school holidays! imagine the traffic thundering up the A1!) has been prepared at last, although it was the first suggestion that I made right at the start of this process.

It has been emailed to the other side, a copy going by post to the estate agent, in the hope that the vendor can call in to sign it in time for midday office-closing tomorrow, when she will be in the area to finish emptying the cottage. And of course it is very possible that it won't arrive in time, or that she won't make the 3-hour journey in a hired van in time.

So she has instructed the estate agent that no matter what, signature obtained in time or not, I can have the keys released to me (or rather my proxy, Lizzie, as I will still be on the road) on Monday. The solicitors do not need to know this; they would suck their teeth in disapproval. But tonight I can sleep easy, knowing that in theory at least, I can move on Monday, and can get into my new home.

And the Lovely Son is here to help. All will be well. Probably.

*yes, I made that word up

A moving account 4: a life half-packed

Mood swings? Swearing? Crying? Dropping things? Breaking nails? Panicking? Not sleeping? But of course. I'm moving house.

Sometimes it all gets too much, and not just for me: the animals are feeling it too. Flossie is on springs all the time. Someone - well, ok, Lottie - threw up yesterday right beside a packed box which then went all soggy and had to be unpacked and replaced. Feliway and Rescue Remedy are in constant use.

I don't know where anything is - oh, of course, I do: in one of those unlabelled boxes  that are everywhere. I get up fancying toast for breakfast, having the rare treat of a crusty loaf in the house, and remember too late that the toaster has been packed.

I wake at three in the morning fretting about not having read the meters - then remember that I don't actually do that until the very last minute - but then lie awake for a couple of hours with my head buzzing incoherently, feeling sick with tiredness.

The surveyor's report contains the words 'damp' and 'beetle infestation' one too many times, and I forget that the words 'treatment' and 'guarantee' also feature.

Time is really running out, and I know that I'm not going to be ready.... and so on. Interminably.

That's when I go and have another look at the rather terrible photos that I took when I had that whistle-stop tour of the cottage, and I settle right down again, stop using words that would shock my grandmother, pause to take breath, and remind myself why this brief (as in extremely rushed) period of hellishness has to be got through, because:

Yes, because.

Because it will all be worth it in the end.

Monday.

A moving account 3

Before

When everything is quite impossible, with too many things left to do and not enough time or bubblewrap left, and a nasty little fear is gnawing at your vitals that a flying freehold spanner has just been jammed in the works, what you need is:

a) your cheerful hairdresser coming round first thing to sort out your grey roots and   unmanageable hair while making you laugh;

b) lovely friends coming a long way to visit (arriving too early - my hair was still being dried, but no matter) and - oh heaven! - bringing lunch with them. Anne has posted pictures on her blog; we interrupted our double helpings of lemon meringue pie to take poor Tosca - by tumbril - to the hated grooming parlour;

After

c) several calls from estate agents and solicitors to say, in varying tones of over-optimism and over-doom-ladenness (as per the nature of their jobs), that the flying freehold will be sorted but that my move on Monday is not being jeopardised;

d) a slow walk through the Dene, under dripping trees, breathing the lovely damp, woody scents after so much rain, not caring about my carefully-dried hair turning back into kinks;

e) and returning home to find the loveliest email from my vendor, assuring me that all will be well, all will be sorted out (by her), and adding "Don't worry about the flying wotsit - who cares, eh - it will get sorted one way or the other".

The only thing that could have made things even better was to find that the packing elves had been in while I was out walking, and had finished the awful, tedious, soul-destroying task of gathering together all those little fiddly things that are impossible to pack logically. But the slackers hadn't called, and now I must do it myself.

Soon, we can all relax.

6 days to go......

A moving account 2B

A disappointing day. The walk with Fran didn't happen - she was called away to her mother's nursing home, and the rain fell in sheets.

I signed everything I had to sign, and have just heard that exchange on this house should take place on Friday, with completion on the following Monday. All looking good so far. The wagons should roll on Monday morning as planned.

But..... but.... buying is another matter. I can't say I understand this problem terribly well, but the 'flying freehold' on the cottage is giving my solicitor a headache - the cottage stairs are under the roof space of the adjoining house, and the scratchy little plan provided by the Land Registry doesn't indicate either by the requisite colour coding or indeed any attempt at basic draftsmanship where my cottage begins and ends. (Higgledy-piggledy arrangements of this nature are common in areas where ancient cottages jigsaw in and out of each other, but should still be detailed in the deeds.)

Strong advice has been issued that I should not buy the cottage until this is sorted out. The Land Registry may need to clarify matters, and this could take a long time. The risk seems to be that until it is sorted out, and clearly set out in the deeds, the next-door neighbours could deny me access to my staircase or some such unlikely scenario.

So, bit between teeth, I went back to Plan A - the plan that seemed to be agreed at the time I made my offer to buy, but that everyone ignored because things seemed to be going along swimmingly - that I move into the cottage as a tenant until the legalities are sorted out. I did not wish to hold up either the sale of my own house or my planned move while solicitors tried to set things straight.

So, I now await news that a tenancy agreement has been drawn up, faxed to my solicitor, and that I am able to move in on Monday. Down the phone, I could feel my solicitor thinking that she was dealing with a reckless and foolhardy woman who would come to rue her impetuosity - she even said "Purchase in haste, repent at leisure".

Meantime my poor vendor, unaware of this high drama little hiccup, is on her way to finish the last of the cottage-clearing. She may be able to shed light on the matter of the freehold, but until she is contacted, the situation remains unresolved and worrying.

And to emphasise the moment, and express some of the tension we are all experiencing, Lottie climbed into Flossie's bed and wee-ed in it. Can't say I blame her....

A moving account 2

One week to go.

Friends have come in and pulled their weight - we passed a wet Saturday afternoon dealing with the horror of the boiler/tools cupboard, with Annie and Lynn being both methodical and ruthless.

Sandra comes in daily, and even after she has gone home to collapse, pops in again with delicate proposals "It's stopped raining (torrentially, she means) for a few minutes; shall we tackle the shed?" and who am I to say no to such an offer?

The big things have been done - oh no, wait, there's still Lesley's mum's garage, in which a vast heap of big things lurk, already packed, thank goodness. Boxes and boxes of stained glass and equipment - definitely coming with me. The old kitchen table - being left for the buyer. Bookshelves. Laundry baskets. I can't remember what else, but I know it's there; I must go and look soon, soon....

But today, Fran and I are meeting at Plessey Woods for a picnic lunch and a walk; she was Flossie's boarding school Head (remember the lessons that Flossie so enjoyed?) and they will be delighted to see each other, if not so happy to say goodbye.

While I'm up there in Northumberland, I shall call in at my solicitor's office and sign some more papers - all this last-minute reliance on the post leaves me a nervous wreck.

Tonight friends are coming over for our once-a-month get together, and I must clear a space for us all to sit; they'll find things to pack, I know they will, and will be cheerful, but it will be our last time together in my house, and I know we will all be awash with emotion.

I am NEVER moving house again.

Getting worse before it gets better

Every room in the house is in a mess of some sort. The boxes are piling up very satisfactorily, although it's still a shambles, mostly because a packed and sturdy box tends not to fit into the (spotlessly clean) cupboard that once held its contents. Sandra comes in every day and helps; she is completely undistractable, and we get immense amounts done, without stopping to read emails or pop out for biscuits. It's nice to spend so much time with her. Margery came for the last time today, before she goes on holiday; she has been my weekly cleaner for about 20 years, and we said a stiff-upper-lipped goodbye so that she wouldn't collapse entirely.

I am tired, tired, tired; my neck hurts, my back hurts, my nails are wrecked, and I am thoroughly sick of the sight of my own belongings, wondering why I'm bothering to take most of them.

The dogs trot round after me, interested, unsettled, trying to lure me away to play. The boy cats hide. Lottie and Millie, my constant companions and supervisors, work in shifts.

I was so dozy this morning that I accidentally medicated myself with Tosca's painkiller instead of my own blood-pressure diuretic; both are small white pills. Just as well it wasn't the other way round, I suppose. My cruciate ligament (left back leg) coped well, I found, with all the stairs I've climbed, up and down, all day....

The new sofa was delivered today - flatpack - with a footstool (and a new computer chair: why do you always come out with more than you went into Ikea for?). I'm going for washable removable covers this time round, although when it came down to fabric choice, I chose the dry-cleanable covers, which I shall risk with a cool wash when the time comes that the cat sick and dog drool stains reach unbearable density.

When the current sitting room furniture is redistributed amongst friends next week, I shall assemble it here, as Ikea is closer to me in Newcastle than where I'm moving to, and I don't relish the idea of a 4-hour round trip to Bristol just to collect a missing bolt.

This is hard, getting ready to move in such a short timescale, after so many dreary and anxious months of waiting. But I'm not complaining.

The surveys of the cottage come back positive; nothing unexpected, given its age, and no remedial work required, although the vendor's insurers will poke a camera down the drains just to make sure.The vendor (such a nice woman! and unlike the last ones, genuine in her desire to make my move easy, smooth and speedy) writes to me, and I to her; if she were a neighbour, and not a previous owner who lives elsewhere, we would be good friends, I think.

She tells me why the cottage bears its name - after her old cat; how delightful is that?  - that there are frogs and toads in the garden, that anything grows there, that the house was a squalid stinking wreck when she fell in love with it 14 years ago and saw past the dog faeces throughout to the lovely tranquil home that she and her partner would create. He died last year just before they could retire to it, and she is glad that someone who loves it (and cats) will be living there soon.

She says that in autumn, when the neighbour's trees drop their leaves, I will be able to see the sea from my bedroom.

One week and three days to go.....

Defeat

You sort methodically, you label neatly, you pack tidily, you label some more, and then....

....you come to THAT kitchen drawer.

You gaze in despair at the junk that undoubtedly holds some essentials, and will take more time than you have to separate one from the other. Cat-medicating syringes, rubber bands (perished), saved string, an old toothbrush, a sheaf of tokens clipped together for some money-saving scheme long ended, a knob from something important, flower food sachets, a single earring, a strainer bag for jam-making, several packs of those bizarre cat treat sticks that have to be hidden from Millie, who adores them but who hasn't learned to open drawers in order to steal.

And so much more. Rather squalid, rather unappealing, but not so nasty that you can throw it out untouched.

And so you tip it into an M & S carrier bag, and tie a knot in the handles. Then you put it in the large cardboard box marked 'Kitchen Misc.' and walk away briskly, humming to distract yourself.

You don't think about unpacking it at the other end. Hum hum hum, la la la.....

A moving account 1

You've suffered alongside me all this time, so you might as well stay for the rest of the stressful bits!  This is what we are doing. Chaos, disorder, brown cardboard, and helpers everywhere.

On Saturday Charlotte and the Handsome Young Policeman are coming with her dad and his van to take away all sorts of small items of furniture that I didn't want to keep but were of some sentimental value, i.e. not just to be left for the buyer. Charlotte and the HYP are setting up in their first home soon, and are delighted with our arrangement, as am I.

Human helpers Rose and Sandra, who unlike some folk, didn't have to hop into every empty box first, worked like little machines yesterday, wrapping all the mirrors and pictures.

The walls are almost bare now, and the bones of this house are showing. I am too busy to feel very much, and in fact I think I said goodbye to my home and all it meant last year, at the time of the first intended sale. But there's no doubt that I love it still, and that it represents a large and eventful period of my life. I refuse to think about the people I am leaving behind, or I would be in tears every five minutes, but there is a deep well of sadness about friendships and neighbourliness having to change that I must face again when I can.

The Lovely Son arrives some time next week to help finish things off, and to drive with me to Somerset. I don't need him any sooner, as I have my own scheme of packing (I'm trying to be tactful here!) so I'm trying to get most of the heavy-duty business completed this week so that we can have a quieter final week to follow. (Anyone offering to lend a hand finds that yes, they certainly can, and is given a job very promptly!)

I will then attempt to lull the cats into a false sense of security before the dreaded transfer (oh, Hamish, Scooter, how I agonise over you!) into containers and car for the long trek south.

And Txxxxx Cottage awaits. It's 400 years old, and is very patient. I'll tell you about it next time.

Now where did I leave the packing tape?

Peek?

No, can't show you yet*. 

But you might want to walk with me through the neighbourhood. We'll step out of the little house with its thrilling Sold sign, wander along to Lizzie's house to collect her and her dogs, and stroll up the lane.....

Maybe we can say hello to the neighbours....

We can look at the scenery and listen to the birds....

If we look beyond the horse, we can watch the deer leaping the fence....

We'll amble past the cottages on the path with the walnut tree. Good for windfalls in autumn.

Then we must climb a little. Come on, you know you can; it will be worth the effort.

Past what Lizzie terms the Auntie oak.

And higher yet, watching for little ears popping up from the bracken as the shy deer watch us pass by.

Or big ears and curious faces....

Up and up, until we can see the sea, and Wales across the water.

And then we can see the next village.

We'll have lunch there, I think, before we go back by another route.

There are so many lovely walks like this near my little house! I plan to move into it in just over two weeks' time.

I hope you'll come again.

*No house-peeking, not until all contracts have been signed, sealed and delivered!

A Move to the (West) Country: Mission Impossible?

Not a bit of it.

Some overcoming of long-held prejudices required though.

"I don't want anything with low ceilings and black beams. And not an inglenook fireplace either!"

So what have I just bought?

A Grade II listed building - a roomy 3-bedroomed cottage on two floors, mostly surprisingly light and airy, with stairs going off in all directions, crammed to the gunwhales with charm and character, new kitchen, bathroom and boiler, a smallish walled garden, lovely neighbours with cats and a young black labrador, and just as exciting, vacant possession and a vendor willing to let me rent it if the legalities are not concluded before my preferred moving date.

And it's on the same road as the house I had intended to buy, but that the owner is still unable to vacate.

There will be pictures. Oh yes. Be patient.

But you may uncross your fingers now,and breathe out. You all contributed to this success.

Back soon.

PS That poor Lizzie deserves a medal for having put up with me gibbering and flapping for the whole of yesterday while the matter was resolved.

Showing at a cinema not near you....

is this.

The Lovely Son is coping stoically without his Beloved the Scriptwriter while she spends a few days in Moscow with her Mother the Producer, who has travelled from Mexico City to show their film. How he, the film buff, would have loved to be there!

The Scriptwriter can also be seen in Still number 4.

Hectic days

I have packed almost all the books and got rid of some mouldering horrors weighty tomes that I will never read. (I could say "re-read" but you wouldn't believe me, and you'd be right.)

I have cast a beady eye over how much unnecessary junk I'm on the verge of moving with me, and will apply some ruthlessness. A box has been marked 'charity shop' and will be filled.

I have walked one dog, medicated and cosseted the other, and tried to find out who amongst the cats is peeing in Flossie's bed. (Scooter or Lottie, I reckon; both worrying in different ways.)

I have gone to bed early and woken regularly at 4 a.m. with a head full of drama and crisis, and fears of "what will I do if things go wrong?" Worries that mount up and overwhelm. I have jittered, and wept, and babbled anxiously at everyone. Little wonder that one of the team wees in another's bed....

But this, appearing yesterday, was a lovely calming influence.

I have stuck faithfully to my healthy diet, apart from a nice lunch out with Anne, where we ate sandwiches and a large piece of fruit pie and cream, and I have lost 16 pounds - that's 32 packs of lard, you know!

But mostly I have spent hours and hours and hours online, searching, sifting, sorting, discarding, suffering motion sickness on Google street view as I whizz up and down those winding country lanes, prioritising likely properties to view, and dealing with estate agents.

Ah yes, the estate agents:  they fall into two camps - the hearty (male) dishonest ones who don't tell you about the planned bypass link road and housing development that is about to be unleashed on the land across the road from the house you're arranging to view, and the cheerful friendly (female) ones who warn you about that attractive, quiet, secluded house actually backing onto a secluded but busy road.

I have a full itinerary for Monday - 3 properties to view in the morning, and another 3 late in the afternoon. All empty, having been lived in by retired elderly couples, or could be vacated very quickly by owners who are becoming less independent. All have gardens, some have views, some have er...interesting garden features. I may post pictures. Other houses will be viewed during the rest of my stay with Lizzie, after some drive-by excursions - Google street view for real.

I have changed my house hunting criteria too - these are all small, much smaller than I originally planned, but have gardens, and all will need work of some sort, cosmetic only if I'm lucky, major upheaval if I'm not, but all affordable. I have become thrifty, less ruled by my heart, scaling down but not compromising my list of essentials.

And the house I've been kept hanging on for? No longer at the top of the list - in fact, it has just about slipped off the list entirely, although the vendor hasn't been told this yet.

And, coincidentally, what has just popped up again? The house I lost last year when the dratted Dr D failed to buy my house. The house that I have never really stopped regretting, for its ample rooms, generous land, its beautiful mature copper beech, the little stream at the end, the scope to really create a garden of my own. I gave it up, but never really said goodbye to it properly.

It has had some improvements made by the person who bought it last year, and the garden has been tackled very nicely. I doubt if I could afford it now, and it's not close to the sea. Perhaps I should view it, just to close off that chapter.

And anyway, I rather relish the challenge of downsizing, of turning a tired little house in need of work and TLC into the serene haven of my dreams. A pocket-sized haven.

So I shall be flying down on Sunday, and by the end of the week will know if the dream is attainable. Watch this space!