Well sort of. As of about 20 minutes ago, we accepted a cash offer for our house. Now being a simple sort of chap, I naturally assumed a van load of used readies would be immediately delivered in unmarked suitcases. Apparently, this is not the case, and it shall be necessary to peruse the entire lexicon of property law between now and a mythical beast known only as “completion”
I know nothing of this journey other than it seems strewn with the kind of obstacles that may well damage my liver and add a double scoop of hair pulling* stress.
On the plus side, we’ve sold it to some friends of ours at a tad less than the asking price, which had the estate agent foaming at the mouth. “We can get the full asking price if we screw them over, lie, cheat and start a bidding war with the other interested parties” was their opening negotiating gambit. “Yes, but that will make me a cock of epic proportions and you’ve failed to factor in good manners and karma” said I chewing a lentil.
Although we have set the snarling capitalists snapping at the financial heels of the estate agent from whom we wish to buy. Because, frankly they deserve each other. Although, as this is Herefordshire, negotiations have stalled over the exact bartering value of a frisky goat. But assuming we can debug the complexities of ungulate to sterling ratio, there’s a ludicrous plan forming to get the hell out of here during the Easter holidays.
However, so many things can go wrong that an entire new field of mathematics will be required to count them. It shall be based on the “every bugger wants their cut” numeracy system overlaid with “Stamp Duty, fucking hell haven’t I given enough already?“. The prospect of dealing with both estate agents and solicitors** during a compressed period of hemorrhaging money seems devil sent to ruin our lives.
Still focusing on the positives for a second, this is a bloody great excuse to get drunk. While i crack open the champagne and open champagne over some crack***, here are a few pictures. The first two show some cheeky riding five minutes from the door and a wintery view over the Malvern hills. And because a few of you aren’t obsessed with Mountain Bikes, a couple more depict the “Welcome to Cabbage-Land” garden aspect, and a picture of the house. Which is odd, but you’d expect that.
So we’ve not really sold in the true sense of the word and we’ve currently nowhere to move into. All the detailed transactions over the next month will be carried out using whatever transmission methods are available in a camper van, 12,000 miles away from the action. And the full horror of fixing up the new house is likely to permeate my sober moments.
If anyone has any chickens that need counting, send ’em over !
* And let’s face it, that’s a pretty scarce resource where I’m concerned. Two difficult phone calls and I’m bald.
** Which is an anagram of Clitoris. Okay it isn’t, but it should be.
*** It’s a play on words Mum, ok?. Don’t call the police.