I’m experiencing an odd lightness at the moment, as if not only my own blood pressure is low but also the blood pressure of the shop, the play table, the above-the door-heater and the traffic outside. Breezy. But not carefree. Perhaps it is because my wee son is away on his first residential trip – 90 London kids terrorise Kent as they learn to do wall-climbing (apprentice burglary), archery (for when knives are no longer cool) and beach scavenging (scavenging anywhere is a vital skill for city-living, especially for the state school boy son of impoverished booksellers who find most of their most interesting interior design effects in skips).
Perhaps my headiness is due to the hangover of a tantrum a dear friend threw at me in my ballet (threadbare I may be but I am forever middle-class) class t’other night. I forgave her at the time and, indeed, threw my arms around her in horrified shock as she railed against the unfairness in her life compared to the cosiness of mine. She actually called me ‘smug’. Smug. Does smug mean contentedness? Three bloody jobs. Three bloody kids (one absent). Driven from Dulwich by our inability to make money. Or does smug mean resigned? We have to move, or we will be moved. Why is my effort so offensive? Then she apologised by the barrowload and we wiped the streaks off her cheeks and got back to our grands battments. No prizes for guessing whose arse I imagined kicking.
The event was still with me the next morning and today. Even when she phoned to say sorry again, my crossness fizzed. Even as I texted my insider at the Venture Centre and asked her to pass on the FA cup replay score between Spurs and Reading to my breakfasting son, I had to resist the urge to bore her with a tedious miniature but grammatically correct (I’m soooo old) Nokia rendition of the injustice I felt. I suspect though, the cause of my quease and sensation of untetheredness is the blasted landline call I took yesterday, which said, flatly, that the bastards who had given us hope and offered us half a million for our beloved home, had decided not to buy afterall.
Two months of relative emotional calm sifted out in a second. Two months of feeling like we’d done the right thing. We’d found somewhere we could envisage coping, a garden finally. Oh, and a new kitchen with cupboard doors. And importantly we’d pictured a future without quite so much stress in it.
Selling a house is such a public procedure. You can’t do it quietly. It is worse than being pregnant. At least that’s a gradual thing and you can half enjoy the is-she/isn’t she? glances. And having a baby is generally something that results in, well, a baby. So, the sign goes up and unless you send a postcard to everyone you know announcing that you are selling, you are then subjected to the slow-discovery as one-by-one the world drives past your domicile (semi-detached terrace in sought after location) and does a double-take. “I didn’t know you were moving,” they say the next time you meet. And I resist unkind sarkiness and launch into the explanation for the illionth time as to why we are leaving the area we like a lot, that we arrived at in the eighties as early yuppie pioneers of a tubeless district, in an experiment. And no, the children aren’t changing schools. And then, every time you meet them again, their genuine concern for your progress means endless repetition of boring stuff about searches and surveys and storage quotes. Being up the duff elicits a sweet, plumped up warming smile as your arm is squeezed in anticipation of pleasure, but selling a house returns a lip-chewed frown of solidarity, many times over.
As Christmas ambled off and we patted the back of 2007, we could look at the New Year with nice clean eyes and ideas and take a big fat draught of fresh hopeful air. I had gotten used to the world knowing our business. We are moving!! Be proud.
Now, we’ve gotta start all over again. Those words in that rotten call from the estate agents continue to make me sick and giddy as I repeat them: “The purchasers have pulled out.” How dare they deprive me of the sheer delight of being smug.
(Wasn’t that a novel by Milan Kundera?)
Spookily, art imitates life; when I got back after receiving the call, I found the sign had blown down.
So what's with breakdowns at ballet then? Never a one for years, then two in a row...At least I never called you smug. In fact you're the only people I know as poor as I am.
You know this may be the only way we communicate for a while unless you and John come over for a French tortilla.
Posted by: ronnie9 | 16/01/2008 at 05:09 PM
It was extremely embarrassing, very dramatic, & humiliating 'cos her ire was aimed directly at moi over the barre. It threw Fiona for entire lesson and gave Kirsty enough therapy material to work on for weeks. After that, one of Al's finest French tortillas would be an absolute bleedin' blessing.
Posted by: JACrow | 17/01/2008 at 10:50 AM
Richard and I PROMISE never to ask/text you about house moving ever again. We will wait to be told ;-) xxxxx
Posted by: Catrina | 18/01/2008 at 12:39 PM
Catrina, you can ask whenever you like and I am eternally grateful that you care. I am just a weary misery who missed her favourite legbends for the 2nd week in a row. House, schmouse!
Posted by: JACrow | 18/01/2008 at 08:31 PM
I picked up that sign and turned it over against the privet - the nails sticking out might have snagged someone's football kit.
Posted by: meloney lemon | 21/01/2008 at 09:32 PM
Pity it didn't snag a bloody buyer!
Posted by: JACrow | 22/01/2008 at 10:19 AM
What a shame they pulled out. Loved reading about the ballet drama, though can see it was traumatic for you.
Posted by: Meredith | 23/01/2008 at 03:55 AM