For the last eighteen months I’ve been trying to persuade Mr V to downsize. With only one child left at home, we do not need a big house with monster heating bills and a garden I struggle to find time to deal with. I’ve rebelled slightly in the last couple of months by hanging up my lawnmower and employing a gardener.
The gardener’s skills are impressive. Unlike me, he doesn’t hack shrubs about so they seamlessly blend into one another. Oh no. These days my shrubs are manicured. Each one is showcased. The gardener hasn’t yet reached the stage of shaping plants into peacocks, but that moment isn't far away. After all, my previously wayward holly bush now looks suspiciously like a Christmas pudding.
Anyway, I digress. Project Moving House was never destined to be something that would happen overnight. Not with a man like Mr V in the equation. Unlike my husband, I am a person who makes swift decisions and acts instantly. Some people might call this impulsive. Others (like me) call it not farting about. I don’t know where that expression comes from, but it’s very apt. Mr V is full of hot air about reasons not to downsize swiftly: like parting with hard-earned money over stamp duty (don’t get him on that subject unless you have a spare couple of hours), estate agent fees (ditto) and removal costs (ditto ditto ditto). His next pet hate is viewing a house in a street blocked with cars. Nor must a potential property be by a main road, or out in the back of beyond, or near a telephone mast, or pylons, or gasworks, or a railway station, or a motorway, or a massive supermarket, or a....
Is it any wonder that I feel battle worn before we even ring the doorbell of a potential viewing?
Yesterday we spoke to three different estate agents and viewed three different properties. I could have lived in every one of them. Right area, right price, absolutely no revamping required whatsoever. Mr V only liked the last property. But when I say liked, I mean blown away. The estate agents were eager to know our thoughts. Mine were unhesitating. I was having them all. Whereas Mr V said, ‘All I need to do is...think about it.’ This is major progress. Another 18 months and we just might be on the move.
Which reminds me. Did you hear about the estate agent who sent a complimentary bouquet of flowers to a client? Unfortunately the florist delivered a wreath with a card that read Rest in Peace. Furious, the Estate Agent complained to the florist. ‘Oh dear,’ said the florist, ‘somewhere there is a funeral with flowers on the coffin and a message that reads Wishing you every happiness in your new home.’