I was going to show you a slideshow of what my house looks like post book writing but then I thought someone might call social services and dob me in for being an insane writer with a oak table covered in washing and a laptop.
I have been hunkered down, finishing my book, as well as finalising the details and signing papers for our new house. I forgot how exhausting looking at houses can be. Looking at houses reminds me of going into a shop and knowing it was a mistake from the get go, but having to be polite and wander about and nod as though you were considering all options.
So my new house, is old. Like super old. C. 1890. Kind of like the pic above but not. It’s very Practical Magic, and it feels much more like me, with stained glass, incredibly high ceilings and a magnificent palm tree, which those who know me know I have always wanted a house with an old palm tree.
A dear Lady friend is already sending me emails asking what days the pool boy will be on, thus I am buying Dave a mankini as we speak.
My sister tells me palm trees were a status symbol back in the day, as giant FU to the neighbours, ‘Here be my palm; sucks to be you, who is sans palm.’
What is the equivalent of the palm now? A particular type of car? A leaf blower? A tennis court? I always though tennis courts were such a weird decision to use for land, unless of course your child is the next Sam Stosur.
Now I have moving things to do, and like any one who loves a process, I am searching for the perfect and most sensible way to pack up my house. I now have moving insomnia, trying to work out the best way forward.
Any advice will be gratefully received.
Happy Friday Lovers.