never pure & never simple

Urgh, if it ever seems like a good idea to buy a house, my advice is: stick your head in a bucket of Marmite until the notion goes back to the deepest pits of hell from whence it came.  Offers have been made, rejected, re-made, negotiated, re-negotiated, cogitated … to cut a long story short my nerves are fucking shot.

I don’t think this woman is going to be satisfied until I’ve sealed the deal with my bollocks.

I completely understand that this is a negotiation in which we are both fundamentally opposed to each other in every conceivable way: she wants to get as much money as possible, I want to give her as little money as possible.

But still.

As the Bard said: fucketh it.

If it goes ahead, it goes ahead.  If it doesn’t, there’ll be other houses, and other home-owners to put me through the wringer.

Which strikes me as altogether ludicrous because – oppositional aims aside – I have a shit tonne of money, more money than is entirely reasonable to contemplate, that I am willing to give her in exchange for something she no longer wants.  Why is she playing hardball over this?  It’s a win-fucking-win.

(But I’ve already decorated it IN MY HEAD.)  Seriously, that’s the worst part of this kind of thing.  Going into a place and instantly being able to imagine living in it.  I’ve only felt that about Poet Road, although I’ve seen at least one other plausible candidate, which was basically a shagpad with the master bedroom done in shades of Do Me Purple.  It’s possible I just lack taste.  But I increasingly think, no matter how rational you try to be about it (and, let’s face it, rationality is really not a strong point with me) you end up buying … not a house but the idea of a life.  And it helps a lot if the house already suggests an idea of a life you might like to be living.  So, when I saw 2 Mummified Spider Drive, even though I objectively knew the Mummified Spider wasn’t a lifestyle choice, I would have forever felt that this was a house in which one lived amongst mummified spiders.

And Poet Road had DRIED HERBS hanging from the ceiling.  I would love have dried herbs hanging from my ceiling.  How amazing would it be to have dried herbs hanging from your ceiling? Currently all I have hanging from my ceiling is a cobweb I don’t have the heart to remove because it has a spider in it who has been chilling with us so long I’m thinking of charging him rent.

The one bright spot on the horizon is that a friend of mine who is going to be abroad for a couple of months lent us her Wii.  I don’t know why, because it’s not like it needs feeding or watering but perhaps I have a look about me that says: that man needs a Wii.  Like most things you would snottily disdain given half a chance, it has turned out to a stupid amount of fun.

Most pleasingly of all, H’s Wii-fit age came out at 47. Oh the mockery, it is an endless river.  Oh the competitiveness, that too is a powerful motivator.  Although I was recently letting off steam with the punching game – God do I LOVE the punching game – when in a fit of what I can only presume was frothing hysterical violence, lurched forward, tripped over a space of completely empty floor and punched a vase of flowers right where it hurt.

I think maybe I’m slightly stressed.

angst

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