Sunday, 29 September 2013

A Sale Tale

It isn’t just us who will miss certain parts of our current house.  Yesterday I spotted the cat in the fish pond. Well, not totally in it you understand, but definitely partially in it.  Front paws fully immerged.  Neck craning outwards.  Eyes looking full of mischief as they focussed on the twelve remaining goldfish nibbling serenely at some green stuff welded to the liner.  It’s a race as to who gets the goldfish.  Dolly, or our visiting heron that swoops and flaps off with three tails hanging out of its mouth.
          When we move to Stone our cat will have to content herself with a rectangular grass strip and tormenting the dog instead of a pond full of fish.  I, for one will rejoice in the rectangular grass strip. Previously I used to lug a hefty lawnmower complete with iron roller up and down the steps to the lawn.  And then I succumbed to a young pair of gardeners who now do the job for me.  At least in the new house I will be able to simply wheel the mower out of the shed and push it up and down the lawn with ease.
          Meanwhile I’m slowly taking the house apart and selling furniture and belongings in preparation for the imminent downsize.  This week a wardrobe and desk went under the eBay auction hammer.  Getting the wardrobe down the stairs wasn’t too bad.  The desk was another matter.  I remember my father originally assembling the desk in the bedroom that it has spent the last eight years within.  I assumed it would fit through the door if and when it came to moving.  Wrong.  As my buyer and I huffed and puffed turning the desk this way and that to get it through the doorframe, it became apparent it wasn’t going to happen.
          ‘Do you have a screwdriver?’ asked the lady.
          ‘A screwdriver?’ I repeated, somewhat stupidly.
          In this house that is a bit like asking if we have a spaceship tucked under one of the beds.
          ‘Yes, could I borrow something from your husband’s toolbox?’
          My husband doesn’t have a toolbox.  A lunchbox, yes, but not a toolbox.  The last time my husband was armed with items from a toolbox (my father’s) he destroyed the flat pack furniture we’d bought.  Instead we ended up selecting a knife from the cutlery drawer and going to town on the desk’s screws.  When we finally hoiked the desk out onto the driveway, the next problem was trying to get it into the awaiting car.  I felt like a contestant on The Krypton Factor as we tried to fit a rectangle into a square.  We needed that screwdriver.
          Fortunately my kind neighbour came to the rescue and removed another panel from the desk.  I heaved a huge sigh of relief when the damn thing disappeared into the bowels of the waiting 4 x 4.
          Meanwhile I have more desks and some beds to shift, along with kitchen cupboards full of pots, pans, bowls, blenders, juicers and all manner of paraphernalia bought when I decided to emulate Nigella Lawson in a brief moment of madness.  And I need to get my eBaying skates on, because the clock is ticking.  Which reminds me.  How did I get my pooch to stop begging at the table?  I let her taste my cooking...

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