I’m still trying to sell my flat. I put it on the market in October I think. Or maybe September as the photographs in the estate agent’s brochure show leaves on the trees and roses blooming in the ‘stunning’ garden. Mind you, our rose bush burst into bloom on Boxing Day so maybe the brochure is merely a record of the effect of global warming in Lambridge.
They say that selling up and moving house is the most stressful thing you can undertake apart from getting married. But I’ve had thirteen different addresses inBathactually quite like moving. Time to chuck out the tat, both physical and mental. And decorating a new place in one’s head is a blissful way to spend sleepless nights that could easily be filled with much worse worries, I can tell you.
No, it’s keeping my apartment in perfect show home condition for potential purchasers that is the stressful bit, especially as I am not that good with mornings. The bleary eyed daily routine runs as follows: make the bed with triple pleats in the counterpane, put washing-up away, neatly fold tea towels, collapse clothes drying rack and hide socks, put away private letters, credit card statements and final demands (don’t want them to think I’m desperate to sell), sweep up about fifty dead ladybirds that have tumbled out of the highly desirable Georgian shutters, switch on plug-in air freshener, hang freshly laundered towel over chipped bath enamel, plump sofa cushions and finally on leaving, dustbin bags in hand, straighten that blooming coat rack by the door that is always skew-whiff.
Then going out the front gate suddenly remember leaving a pair of pants in the middle of the bedroom floor.
Once I got distracted by a friendly neighbour. I had gone through everything on my mental list in my normal morning zombie mode and stopped for a quick chat in the front porch. Halfway down the London Road on the crowded number thirteen I suddenly realised I was still holding my bulging black garbage bag. Luckily I had remembered to tie it up. Nevertheless, it was still a tad smelly. I had to nonchalantly get off at Morrison’s and make my way back home to dispose of it.