We have spent the last few days in the throws of one of life’s most celebrated torments: Househunting. A process that makes a roller-coaster of emotions look like a carousel of indifference. It started when we found Westlea Road. The house spoke to us, we loved it, it seemed just right. There was a back room that would be perfect for adding a catering kitchen and a garden out the front that we could sacrifice to the Beast so that it might come and live there with us.
We put in an offer. It was turned down. We regrouped, considered once again the second entrance and the really nice layout and made another offer. It was turned down. There was, we were told, another bidder. We considered finances, moved things around and mentally started decorating the living room. Final offer. It was accepted – if we added another £500. I panicked, Barny didn’t. We wanted that house. We offered the £500. I panicked again, perhaps we had done the wrong thing, paid too much, bent too much to the will of the almighty Seller. What if this wasn’t the end? What if in two weeks the wanted even more?
Luckily my fears were put to rest when just three hours later they phoned back and wanted another £1000. Screw you, house sellers. The hunt continues.
In other news the Van is embarking on its MOT on Tuesday, and we will (if it gets there) finally know how much road legality will cost us. I foresee a day of panic, but luckily my base level of panic is currently high enough to absorb something like an MOT without much more than a quiver. We will also hear back from another house tomorrow, also with a drive for the van to live and a kitchen for us to feed it from. Please now excuse me while I go and worry if we offered enough.