Moving House and Minchin

I hate selling houses. It seems like a good idea at the time and then – BOOM! Your home isn’t your own, the slightest scratch or dent in the paintwork is punishable by crucifixion and the hamster, who  normally has the run of a large tank, is confined to smaller, portable barracks and chews the bars all night in protest.

It’s stressful, selling houses. No, not houses perhaps. Selling a house you don’t care about and love is probably not too bad at all. Even better if you don’t live there, or if was purely  an investment. But selling your home – your kids’ home! – is a different cuppa altogether.

Why then? You may well ask. Why would we sell our lovely, newly renovated, large-enough, spacious and convenient abode? Complete with ample (legendary) Shed, generous garden and (albeit above-ground) swimming pool? What would possess us to inflict the scrutiny of others upon ourselves, and to open our property up to the kind of analysis that’s necessary when thousands of pounds are involved? Especially when our house is “quirky” (apparently), and not for everyone.

All I can do is to quote Jacob in The Twilight Saga when he is explaining to Bella, through gritted teeth and with iron resolve, why he will join in the fight to kill the nasty vampires: “It’s what we do.”

It is what we do. We love a project – and a shake-up. Once a house is finished, I guess we miss the buzz of the potential, and the excitement of alterations. Weird, perhaps. But at least it’s one thing that Big Seymour and I have in common.

Two weeks in and seven viewings  later, the novelty is wearing off, though. I am not a perfectionist in real life, but I do like to try to make the house look its best for viewings. And I have come to the conclusion that this would be much easier if I didn’t source all of my furniture from Freecycle. I love a bit of interior design, but object to the price tag of most new stuff. This is fine, until the photographer comes in and takes pictures: the grey chairs look purple, the bedspread clashes with the walls and the lampshade simply doesn’t go.

No sooner had we put the house on the market, there was an epic storm and a three day power cut. And then, a terrifying war broke out, scaring everyone in the world, and rightly so.

In other news, I start my new job tomorrow.The DBS certificate finally came through and off we go.

I am inordinately nervous – even though it’s a job I am supremely over qualified for. The pay is paltry. It will be complicated with Mini Seymour, and even though I have tried to arrange my hours to fit round her school day, I’ll be dashing about like a blue-arsed fly.  So, remind me why am I doing it?

“Personal Development” is all I’ve got.

Meanwhile I am off down the Shed for a bit, to learn the piano quickly, so that I can re-invent myself as a low-quality tribute act to the marvellous Tim Minchin. In terms of appearance, I used to do a good Russell Brand, so I think I could pull it off.  I already have a karaoke machine in my Amazon shopping basket. And do you think that if I wear a T-shirt that says “I am not Tim Minchin and I didn’t write these songs but I just love him” that I can get around copyright?

(It reminds me a little bit of the time I vowed I’d play tennis at Wimbledon one day…)

There are fine lines between reality, optimism and total, utter f*ck*ng delusionism (is that even a word?) but the delusions are way more entertaining. And they, alongside Lovely Tim’s Youtube videos, are distracting me from the utter shizzle that is selling one’s beloved house. And the war, of course.

Check out #woodyallenjesus. It’s bloody genius.