For the past few months I have been house hunting. Which means that I have met everyone’s worst idea of an estate agent, a breed that can’t tie ties properly, (so says my other half), tend to lie whenever their lips move and not listen to a word you say. There, that was a cathartic rant.
And during that time we have been in some lovely homes, some bomb sites and some downright smelly hovels. And though the second house we have offered for has turned out to be a non-starter, I have not yet lost all hope. Because, apart from the prospect of having a proper home, I will soon be able to make a start on my life’s ambition: a library that could well take over the house (sshhh, don’t tell him indoors). No longer will I have to curb my natural book-hording tendencies, I will be able to become the kind of person that has to (tearfully) offload van loads of books at their local Oxfam bookshop. I will have to learn how to reinforce shelving. And I will have an uninterrupted half hour or more every morning to read on the train ride in. Bliss.
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