This somewhat unpreposessing photo, taken sometime last winter, in the rain, is two-thirds of the back garden of the house that STILL ISN’T OURS. We first went to visit it at the beginning of June. Tomorrow is the beginning of October. And we still don’t live there.
I realise that four months, just heading into the fifth, is a very short period of time when it comes to selling houses. I know a lot of people whose moves have taken a lot longer, for a lot of complicated reasons.
But we’ve been living amongst boxes since the beginning (we had to put a lot of things into storage before our house was pretty enough to be sold), and I’m sitting on the sofa looking at two empty bookshelves and nine enormous cardboard boxes where the books now live. I haven’t been able to look anything up for months! All of our artwork has been taken down, the rabbit’s still living with a friend, and right now the weather’s turned so cold that I’m rather wishing I hadn’t packed the quilt that usually lives on the back of the sofa!
I think the worst thing is that it’s completely out of our hands. We’ve handed over and searched out and signed every piece of paperwork we’ve been asked for, and a few more besides. The estate agent, contrary to popular opinion, has actually been fantastic, facilitating communication between the three of us in the chain, and keeping us all as well-informed as he possibly can. It’s all with the solicitors, there’s nothing more we can do to move things along.
So all we can do now is wait. And wait. And wait.
(The difficulty being that I am really not a patient person.)