It’s done. We have sold our house! I didn’t tell a soul, mainly because I didn’t want to jinx it, but after accepting an offer a few weeks ago, we have exchanged whilst on vacation and will complete four days after our return. No, I am not panicking. (Christ, where’s Whisky when you need it?) The husband has terminated his part of the holiday prematurely, in order to clear out the loft, take apart tables and sofas and to create a general sense of ‘being-there-ness’. All the while I am soaking up the last bits of sun, trying to keep little L from drowning herself in the waves and scribbling down lists for things to go into storage.
We will be moving from a 3-bedroom house into a rented 2-bedroom cottage – there’s no way I would have committed to paying rent for anything bigger than that. You might as well pile up a stack of cash in the patio and set fire to it. Within the next year, I hope to have found a new place to buy, do it up and call it home.
Where? Well, … I know, I have been talking about the countryside, more space and greener grass a while ago. But since we started thinking about moving, we realised how happy we are in London. We just haven’t been overly happy in Islington. So London it still is. South Kensington, to be precise.
It’s going to be an interesting social experiment, going from being one of the few people with clean hair and a full set of teeth in her mouth in my local Sainsbury’s to living amongst the trimmed-and-groomed-to-within-an-inch-of-their-lives posse. I wouldn’t be surprised to be addressed as the maid or the nanny. Coming to think of it – that’s happened before. Twice.
I am not scared. I am adaptable and if needs be, I can do Eurotrash very well, vielen Dank, merci beaucoup, mille grazie, darling! The only thing I am scared of lies in the faint possibility of finding out that South Ken isn’t our hood either. And then it all starts all over again…