Such was the level of balderdash we had suffered over the previous 12 weeks, a song and dance wouldn’t have been too much to ask, would it? In fact, I think we could have been forgiven for expecting a chorus line.
Perhaps a quill would have been appropriate, one crafted from the tail of a passenger pigeon, dipped in ink fashioned from the wings of rare tropical butterflies and a contract written on illuminated papyrus scrolls.
On the day, however, the task fell to a leaky Biro, the paper didn’t even have a watermark and the venue was a document-strewn solicitor’s office. The deeds looked good, but we only got to see them for a second before they were spirited off to some dank bank vault.
So now what? We hadn’t seen our new home for more than a month. Or was that two? We could barely remember what it looked like.
There are two keys. One looks like a jailer’s and the other is a regular mortice lock key. The jailer’s key worked okay, but the main hall door lock wouldn’t open. For a moment, dreadful thoughts took over. Was it on the latch from the inside? Had squatters moved in? After a fair bit of jiggling, the door eventually opened. No squatters. There was even post. It was for us — even though the sender didn’t know our names.
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The envelope contained half a dozen leaflets advertising removals services, tile shops, carpets and so on. They didn’t waste much time. The place didn’t look much different. Most of the stuff was still there, assorted furniture including a dresser, a 1930s-style chest of drawers, some chairs, a wardrobe, a kitchen table and a couple of clocks — the simple possessions of an old lady. To turf these things into a skip would seem somehow disrespectful, so we need to work out a more sympathetic way to dispose of the stuff.
Over the next few weeks, there will be the inevitable string of viewings as curious relations and friends are offered penny tours.
They’ll doubtless proffer advice, heartfelt congratulations, shallow platitudes, barely disguisable contempt, consolation, cautionary tales, telephone numbers of ‘great builders’ they know and falling apart furniture they don’t want any more.
Assorted pearls of insight will drip from their lips as they snoop around the place like a Victorian fairground curiosity: “I think you did very well.” “Youse won’t know yourselves.” “There is a really nice feel to the place.” “It has great potential.”
Then they’ll make their way home, their tunes changing with each traffic light. “I think they’re mad myself.” “I don’t see why they didn’t buy a nice new house, like the ones we saw in Mullingar.” “They have some job on their hands.” “We were really lucky with our place when you think about it.”
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But enough about them, what about me? How does it feel? It feels a bit like when you go on a holiday and it takes an eternity to get there: delayed flights, items you forgot to pack, grumpy airport staff, language barriers, swollen feet, a domestic or two, bad aeroplane movies and inedible food. Then the car that was supposed to meet you at the airport doesn’t turn up, so it is a six-hour bus ride to your resort, which you can’t find. Eventually get there and collapse in a heap of contented exhaustion.
It is a bit like that, only you have to build the hotel as well.
The saga so far
Week 13
This week was unlucky for some but not us — we finally got the keys.
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Expenditure so far: Still small enough but the real stuff starts here.
Fundwatch: I didn’t realise copying keys was so expensive.