Alternative title: I have acquired so much tat and crap in all my years on this earth that I am standing amongst the ruins of many a textbook, items of clothing and magazines filled with bullpoop on how to lose weight with the dawning realisation that I am going to need another skip.
I am practically on first name terms with the guys and gals at our local recycling plant, I rock up with my car filled to the brim with 1980’s newspapers and an assortment of garments I haven’t worn since I was last out of my tree on Cider and Black (ah, the drink of champions) or bladdered on red wine (which is the drink of sophisticated champions … Who like to ride bucking broncos and drink cocktails out of bartenders trousers … I was a student ok!).
Anyway, you don’t want to hear about my drunken antics … What do you mean of course you do? That isn’t what this post is abou– Sigh. Fine. One drunken tale and then I’ll tell you about my house like the total grown up I really am …
Ready boys and girls? … Ok, I once drank far too much alcohol (I’d like to say it was gin and tonic with a twist of lime but chances are it was Special Brew) and took to dancing like an absolute goddess (ahem) on a wobbly wooden table … In high heels. Yes this story is as predictable as it sounds. While thrashing my arms and legs around to “Summer of 69” I managed to lose my footing, face ended up squashed on the wet (I suspect piss stained) floor and my skirt flew up exposing my fabulous bottom in a great pair of granny pants that Bridget Jones would be proud of. Worst of all though, I spilled my beer!
Can we talk about the new house now?
What do you mean you’ll pop back later maybe?
Listen to my stories of cracked paint and dirty carpets and lack of internet damn it! (I’ll be snaffling my parents’ internet to post this btw, told you I was a total grown up, totally resourceful!). It feels quite peculiar being a homeowner; I wasn’t expecting to be able to buy a place until I was at least in my late 40’s and yet, I am typing this post from the comfort of MY living room, in the bay window as a matter of fact as the sun sets casting a gorgeous pink hue over MY garden … Well, technically OUR living room and OUR garden as I share ownership with my other half (that said, “what’s his is mine and what’s mine is mine” … Until something breaks obviously). I assume this also means that I now share ownership of one Millie Mischief (my Bengal kitty step-daughter).
It has taken us a week to just clean the place prior to moving in … Granted it was nowhere near the horror story that befell my Weight Lifting instructor when he bought his place (is people not flushing the crapper after their final bowel movement in a house a thing? Or was he just unfortunate?), but it was still a little on the grim side … Any situation in which there is unidentified sticky stuff on surfaces and brown stains smushed into carpets is very much on the grim side.
After much blood, sweat, wet-vaxing and uncontrollable bawling we started moving furniture … Which in itself was a mini adventure, try hauling a mattress up a curved staircase with a Migraine chewing on your brain matter. I can’t say that was a pleasant experience. Nor was managing to trap my finger (yes, the same finger I smashed in a car door) between two pieces of wood for a shelving unit. AND, how many times do you think I managed to near knock myself unconscious getting things out of the boot of my car? Honestly, I can’t be trusted to wash my hair without somehow stubbing my toe.
I have no idea why I thought I could handle moving furniture about without some form of injury!
See, nobody tells you these things when you’re hunting for a house! It’s all “how exciting” and “I know this great house on such-and-such” and “so when are you having babies!” Not once did anyone tell me that I’d be high on fumes from cleaning products because it looked like a food fight happened in the front room back in 1979 and was left to merely crust over and I certainly don’t recall anyone mentioning the frustration of buying a toilet brush! (I’m all for whatever scrubs the stains away, M on the other hand wants the brush holder to be as aesthetically pleasing as one of them posh jeweled eggs!).
All this said we’re in the house. Our furniture is in the house. Millie Mischief is even in the house!
Home, Sweet, Home.
PS – We’re expecting our internet in the next few weeks so until then the posts may be published a little (a lot) on the late side! Sorry lovelies!