That’s more like it. Out and about in the car, rushing from one property to another. I’m out at the old barn conversion again and my first punter seems keen. She’s delighted to find a field at the back where she can exercise her dogs and fly her falcons. She says the owl doesn’t need much exercise. I suppose not, as they only go out hunting for food and, if she’s providing that, monsieur owl can just perch and decorate the living room. She stays so long I think she’s moved in but, she still wants to think about it, because she was bumped into her last offer, only to find there was woodworm and a £30,000 bill to sort it out. Not our agents of course. Seeing her desire for the property makes me want it even though I know I need three bedrooms, although it really appeals to me because I love the garden and the curtains. Not reason enough.
Later I have to meet my old boss, the consultant paediatrician, who is considering investing in a buy-to-let property. I have seen him once since I walked out of the hospital in tears, but it is nice to see him again, just so he can see that I am not still a nervous wreck. He tells me that the other dedicated secretary I worked alongside has jumped ship – I never would have credited that; I thought she would stay till retirement. I did feel better to hear that my replacement has had months off with stress, not to be unkind, but to vindicate my breaking point. I walked. They stay and crack up. I prefer to have my emotional breakdowns in private.
Having said that, it’s been rough having to sell my home and, despite Laertes noting that we only know what we have achieved by what we gave up in order to get it, I still mourn the loss. I always vote with my feet. I walked out of a good job, quite understandably, on a principle, and the fall out was having to sell up. I still grieve for the even more wonderful home we left in Devon, full of lovely furniture and curtains hand-made by myself, and, in dreams, I am back there so I wake up feeling displaced and disappointed.
Strange how some of us fall in love with houses, nurture them from neglect back to warmth and life, stroke every surface with paint and polish, and massage the garden into health and beauty.
Later I have to meet my old boss, the consultant paediatrician, who is considering investing in a buy-to-let property. I have seen him once since I walked out of the hospital in tears, but it is nice to see him again, just so he can see that I am not still a nervous wreck. He tells me that the other dedicated secretary I worked alongside has jumped ship – I never would have credited that; I thought she would stay till retirement. I did feel better to hear that my replacement has had months off with stress, not to be unkind, but to vindicate my breaking point. I walked. They stay and crack up. I prefer to have my emotional breakdowns in private.
Having said that, it’s been rough having to sell my home and, despite Laertes noting that we only know what we have achieved by what we gave up in order to get it, I still mourn the loss. I always vote with my feet. I walked out of a good job, quite understandably, on a principle, and the fall out was having to sell up. I still grieve for the even more wonderful home we left in Devon, full of lovely furniture and curtains hand-made by myself, and, in dreams, I am back there so I wake up feeling displaced and disappointed.
Strange how some of us fall in love with houses, nurture them from neglect back to warmth and life, stroke every surface with paint and polish, and massage the garden into health and beauty.
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