So, we have sold our house.
It is finished, and we love it. We are happy here, so why are we selling it? It is a question we’ve asked ourselves many times. There is only one answer: it is what we do.
I love looking at houses. It’s so exciting. And in each and every one I visit, I place myself. I imagine how it would be to live there, and not just cursorily, but actually. I transgress. I cross into another realm where I reside there, and I envisage what it’s like to do so. This feeling is a bit like a drug to me.
There is always the come-down, though, when you realise that, for whatever reason, the house you just looked at is not going to work. Even if you love it, even if you can actually afford it, you can’t make it “fit”. The hunt continues. And panic quietly sets in.
The situation is this: our house is under offer. We haven’t yet exchanged contracts, and so nothing is definite. Yet. But the ball is rolling and so, we must look. At the back of our minds, we are trying to figure out what happens if this exchange goes ahead, and we have but a few weeks to leave The Funny Little Bungalow.
We will be without a house! That is what will happen.
Scary, yes! But in our typical family tradition, we like to live by the seats of our pants, and throw curveballs at ourselves every on a regular basis. .
We’re moving out to get ourselves into a good position to buy. What we want is not yet clear, even to us, and so, if we see it, we don’t want a pesky chain hampering our progress. So, we have agreed to go. But where? And when? And should we be packing..?
Being under offer means we can legitimately look at our options. We have visited a few properties, and liked them. Or at least, I have. But they have not been quite right. We’ve seen a beautiful barn that was awkwardly cut into two small bits, considered a derelict shack with knotweed amongst its problems, contemplated a conventional house with planning to extend but not enough parking, viewed a bungalow with no kitchen, pondered a residence on a floodplain and – most recently- fallen for an exquisite Victorian lodge. There was one property on the M23 (I think it may actually have touched it, it was so close) that I refused to set foot in. And then there was the one that set the ball rolling, back in February, that we fell in love with and wanted badly… it had space, it had potential. But it was not meant to be.
No, we weren’t successful with that one. And even though we later really wanted that barn that was cut into two, our offer was too low. As for all of the others, they’re just not quite right.
Are we fussy? No, not fussy. I can live with mould, damp and dirt. I don’t mind sleeping in a shed – been there done that. We will consider everything – judging by that list above, that’s obvious. But it has to feel right. And we’ve yet to find that place. The fabulous Victorian gardener’s lodge seduced me, but there’s something holding me back. Set as it is within the grounds of a large old estate, I fear for our freedom. It’s almost as if it exists in some sort of dystopian alternative world; one that has been close by all the time but that you have to cross a portal (the A272) to get to; one that, once you’re inside, you can’t leave… and I swear there were surveillance munchkins behind the red hot pokers.
The hunt is on – and if we exchange, it’ll be on in a big way. Our next project awaits. Where is it? What is it? Does it even exist?
I refuse to pack yet. If this all falls through, we can enjoy another summer here at The Funny Little Bungalow. It’s a great place to be. But if the sale does go ahead, then I plan to document our next project from inception this time. I just hope it’s not a roof-off job again. That was hardcore.
I have been experimenting with Instagram videos, because sometimes, words just don’t cut it. Here is my latest offering, and hopefully it’s the beginning of a journey to find our next house!
Exciting slash terrifying!
Here we go again…
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