journal of a writing man

Sunday February 24, 2008

All the crappy has now been removed from the house, and the big clean is under way.  Graham’s doing by far the bulk of the work, with me on kitchen duty and handling the business side.

Even so, it’s feeling tedious already.  We have moved house far too frequently over the past five years or so, even for us.

Yesterday we called in at Asda/Wal-mart on our way to Sainsbury’s, seeking out some cheap ceramic soap dispensers Graham had seen on our last visit.  They’re fine.  Then, in Sainsbury’s, he picked up display bottles of balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and puy lentils for kitchen staging.

I think a spark of non-conformist rebellion hit the both us simultaneously as we regarded them sitting in the trolley.

“This is silly,” he said, putting them back on the shelf.  “We have perfectly good lentils, olive oil and balsamic vinegar in the cupboard at home.  Anyone needing to see it can jolly well open the door and have a good nose.”

“Great,” I said. “Those times are past, I’m sure of it.  And I don’t think I’ll be baking bread rolls to impress, either. It’s all so yesterday.”

And that’s how it’s going to be.  The house is nicely decorated, clean, good-smelling, and tidy, and it’ll stay that way.  Anyone who wants staging can go down the road to the theatre.

Saturday February 23, 2008

I got into trouble several times yesterday and it took me ages to work out why and what to do about it.

See, each time Graham does something clever in the house doctoring project he calls me to have a look and pass judgement.  That ‘judgement’ is of course a figure of speech.  If he asked me to approve I could do that but judgement is a serious matter to me still, no matter how woolly my mind is become.

“You don’t like it,” he huffs.

“You shouldn’t ask me questions like that unless you tell me the appropriate answer in advance. I’m always happy to oblige if I know what I’m supposed to say.”

“Don’t get clever with me. Go and make some tea, why don’t you?”

And off I toddle, only slightly bruised, striving mightily to find a way out of this tender trap.

“I know what it is,” I announced as I brought another cup of tea to the slightly frazzled worker.

“What, then?”

“Everything we’re doing to this place in order to sell it, no matter how clever, is making it more and more the kind of house I really don’t like much.”

“Too smooth?”

“Yup.”

“Too bland?”

“Yup.”

“Good. That’s exactly what I’m aiming for. Don’t worry, we’ll do the Anna Madrigal bit in the next place.”

“Thoroughly pleased to hear it.”

Friday February 22, 2008

Yesterday the grass got its first cut of the year as Graham worked under lowering skies to get the job done before the rains came.

I should have got my camera out but I was too busy enjoying the spectacle and providing witty ripostes as he pushed the mower up and down our little patch of grass.

“This garden is too small for you,” I said.  “You need something much bigger.”

He didn’t agree exactly, but he did admit he’s really happy when he’s gardening.

“Makes me feel good,” he said.

“That’s endorfo-whatsits, I suspect.”

“Could be.  Tea helps, too.”

“Oh. Ok.”

So the grass got done, the skies darkened over, and Dolly went out for a tour of inspection. The wind came up, ruffling her fur and she came waddling indoors, all disgusted and disgruntled.

“That cat’s a whuss,” said Graham.

“No she’s not. She’s a Maine Coon.”

“I thought they were supposed to be tough, all tundra-cat, and wild with it.”

“I don’t remember them saying that, but then I lost the operator’s handbook years ago.”

“You’re always losing operator’s handbooks.”

“I know.  It’s got something to do with quantum, I suspect.”

“You sure it’s nothing to do with tea?”

Thursday February 21, 2008

Is it possible to hate someone on first sound, do you think?

Happened to me last yesterday afternoon when I was phoning estate agents.  The first one was fine. The third one was good, too. But the middle one was the epitome of over-familiar telephone manner, asking irrelevant questions and sounding me out to see if the financial side of the business had any hope of selling me a mortgage and/or taking over every aspect of my financial life. I suspect she’d have sold me a bag of coal had I asked.

“You don’t mind if I call you John, do you?” she said, all bright and bubbly-like.

“Well, yes, actually, I do.”

“Oh.”

Indeed.  Oh.  It’s just as well that you don’t have to like an estate agent.  It may in fact be good policy to dislike them from the very beginning, woking on the likelihood of your hating them by the end of the business.

I got through the chore, however, and we have three appointments lined up, one each on Monday morning and afternoon, and one on Tuesday morning.

“Did I do alright?” I asked Graham who’d been standing across the room listening in.

“How do you mean?”

“Do you think I’ve lost it yet?”

“Nah.  Carry on like that and the business side will be buttoned up, no problem. You do the business and I’ll do the physicals, just like normal.”

“Great.  Just so long as you know that I’m quite happy to resign from the field entirely and leave it all to you.”

“Oh no you don’t.  You’re not getting away with it that easy.”

Other than that, and the reason for leaving the calls so late in the day, we paid a lightning visit to IKEA in the morning, picking up gauzy curtaining for the second bedroom–to soften the blinds–and twigs for the dining room. And to catch an IKEA breakfast, of course.

The breakfast was good but I found myself struggling to finish it. My campaign to reduce my girth by reducing my intake seems to be taking hold. No promises, of course.

We finished the day with a dinner of Swedish meatballs, picked up in IKEA, and followed by the latest episode of Torchwood.  Both were resounding successes.

Today is starting off quiet and slow.  Graham had a bad night and has finally gone back to bed to catch up.  Dolly is flopped against his legs, keeping him company.  I’m doing my best to type quietly.

Wednesday February 20, 2008

All the windows in the house got cleaned today, inside and out, the last of the bedrooms got its reset, in this case from junk room to respectable second bedroom, and we sat down to make a short list of three estate agents ready for me to call today.

There’s a clean-smelling miasma creeping right through the house, one of tidiness and household cleansers.  All familiar stuff.

The time table is to get the agents lined up for valuation visits next week, select just one of them, call him back for photographs and contract formalities, and then instruct him to place the house on the market the day after Graham returns from visiting his mother.

It’s rather like the final stages of a jigsaw, with the last pieces clicking into place one by one.  The whole picture will emerge pretty soon, be admired for a while and then broken down once more and placed safely back in its box.

“I shall leave this place entirely without regret,” I said.

“Last time you said that we were moving from Reigate to Copthorne.”

“Do you know, you’re right.  And that move was entirely for the better.”

“So shall this one be.  Only more so.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”