March 15, 2016

Three Houses

 

So last 7 September Peter had a second stroke.* And he was clearly much weaker than after his first, and while he did regain some strength, he stayed very frail.  He moved to Rivendell.  There were some discussions between us and among the family about bringing him ‘home’ with 24/7 care;  I was against this—as Peter knew—I way preferred having him somewhere with 24/7 medical care on the premises** and also the constant relentless cycle of staff shift changes*** is a boost—a pathetic boost but still a boost—to morale and energy levels.  You know that all that professional cheeriness is professional but it still has an effect.  I was nearly as depressed as Peter, even if I could stand up and walk without a steadying hand†.  And Rivendell has big open well-lit corridors suitable for people in wheelchairs or walking frames and Third House . . . doesn’t.††

I also felt that while the fashion lately seems to be that people should stay in their own homes if at all possible, coming back to Third House where he used to be able to live independently and wouldn’t be able to any more would be a complete downer—and while the focus is on Peter, the ‘complete downer’ part would include me too.†††

I did suggest day visits back to New Arcadia and Third House but he wasn’t enthusiastic—I assume for some of the same reasons that coming ‘home’ with 24/7 care was less than attractive—and the twice (? I think) we tried it were not a success. A nice sticky cake at a tea shop was a much better outing.‡

If it had been entirely up to me I would have put Third House up for sale immediately and get it over with.  But—ahem!—I may be slightly known for rushing into things.  I was talked into keeping it a little longer and seeing how things went.  And, okay, miracles have been known to happen.

Miracles, as we know, did not happen.

But I wanted to be able to take Peter somewhere that wasn’t professionally run, whether it was Rivendell itself or all the tea shops within Wolfgang’s and my limited driving range.  I couldn’t take him home to my cottage;  there’s a steep half-flight of stairs up to the front door.  Even if I cleared off the thick accumulation of plants in pots on the steps he’d never manage it.  Also, assuming that I would later if not sooner sell Third House, I needed ground-floor access for my piano.‡‡

MEANWHILE, the little house, not yet christened the Lodge, had been on the market most of last year. Real estate is funny.  This is a desirable area and another house within a thirty seconds’ walk of me went indecently quickly for way too much money recently.  And we’re all getting slavering come-hither notices through our mail slots from estate agents saying ARE YOU THINKING OF SELLING YOUR PROPERTY?  YOU SHOULD BE, YOU KNOW, BECAUSE WE WANT TO SELL IT FOR YOU.  PLEASE RING AT EARLIEST CONVENIENCE SO WE CAN DO A VALUATION . . . which will be for a lot more money than the house finally goes on the market for but they don’t mention that and ruin their jolly frolic.  But the Lodge is really rather small and most people want at least enough room to swing a hellterror.‡‡‡

I have a bit of history with the now-Lodge. The woman who lived there when I first moved into my cottage was very kind§ and I liked the house itself on sight.  When she died I even tried to buy it.  McKinley the Real Estate Magnate.  Only I failed.  But that turned out to be a good thing because I bought Third House later instead.  Sigh.  Full circle time, bleagh.  Spinning in circles just makes you dizzy till you throw up.

So: tiny house.  Diagonally across the street—the twisty, potholed, one-lane-wide-with-close-crowding-brick-and-flint-walls-to-emphasise-this-feature street—from me. Barely a second house at all.§§  It’s more the summerhouse at the end of your garden with a full kitchen and occasional traffic problems and not nearly enough rose-bushes.  I talked it over with Peter.  And he agreed to loan me some of the money from the sale of the mews—remember the mews?—so I could buy the Lodge before someone else woke up and bought it out from under me (again), and I could pay him back after I sold Third House.§§§

Then he died.

I was by then committed to the sale and I don’t know if there’s a ‘compassionate withdrawal’ option in the TOTALLY perverse and screwed-up British property law. But I still wanted the house, to the extent that I wanted anything at that point.  My cottage is blinkety-blankety well jammed, never mind that I couldn’t get my piano up the stairs or past the chimney breast, and I was going to want to keep more of Peter’s gear than a whippet-shaped paperweight and a bottle of champagne, which meant I needed somewhere to put it.  So I stumbled along, signing my name wherever someone told me to sign my name, and bought another house.  Which is why I presently, unwillingly, own three houses.

And this blog post is now at least twice as long as it should be.# I don’t know that I was ever going to get on with clearing out poor Third House toward selling it very quickly but under the circumstances that I am obliged to do it## it’s been going very slowly indeed—rather like getting this post written.  But spring is trying sporadically to arrive and it will make all of us feel better, right?  That’s one of the things spring is for.  Doodah doodah.  And I am coming to the end of the clearing-out.###  And I will get on with my life.

I keep saying I’m going to post sooner next time.  One of these days I’ll be telling the truth. . . .

* * *

* ::starts crying:: It’s not corn-cracker crumbs^ that’s going to do for this laptop, er, ultrabook, it’s being cried on.^^  My tear ducts are going to need replacement soon too.  Or a medal for loyal service under intolerable circumstances.  Or both.

^ Maize and rice seem to be the only cereal grains I can eat without risking dire reprisals. And I don’t LIKE rice crackers.+

+ Note that I didn’t eat any of Ruby’s high tea.  Scones?  Clotted cream?  Instant Death.  But I can still admire.

^^ Crying makes your eyes blur. So you lean forward.  Over your keyboard.

** 24/7 care furthermore which has had at least theoretically enough sleep each shift to be able see what they’re looking at, or hear a client buzzer go.

*** See:  have had enough sleep

† And there were days when a steadying hand would have been a good thing. Or at least taller dogs.

†† Also . . . I worried kind of a lot about getting one of those 24/7 live-in home-care people that Peter and I could bear to have around TWENTY FOUR FREAKING SEVEN.^ At a place like Rivendell, a staff member you don’t much care for, hey, she’ll be off in a few hours and you may not see her again till next week.  Or he, but the staff is mostly female.^^

^ Also—for any of you who haven’t been through this mill—they’re not 24/7. They get at least a couple of hours off every day which isn’t a big deal in your schedule—I spent increasing amounts of time running around doing stuff, Peter’s last two years, out of despair and helplessness, but I was still at Third House more than I was at the cottage—but it’s a big deal in your sense of responsibility.  Also your standard, even-remotely-within-budget 24/7 home care person has no more medical training than you do.  This would not have done anything good for my already chronic insomnia.

^^ This might make me testier except that most of the admin are women too.

††† Like putting up with the 24/7 carer would be an issue for me too.

‡ And for some of the same reasons as Rivendell was a better choice:  because of all that public professional bustle and chat.  At Third House the walls tended to close in.  Peter and I were/are both introverts which is only a good way to be when you’re not depressed out of your tiny minds and having to resist the urge to crawl into your hole and pull it in after you.  That last two years, resisting meant Peter played a lot of bridge.  I went out and joined stuff.

‡‡ And SOMEWHERE to put a gazillion boxes of backlist, both mine and Peter’s. Not to mention all those other, other people’s books that are accustomed to being out on shelves.  The shelves at the cottage are FULL and we’re not even going to discuss the piles on the floor.  I’m tallish and thinnish and have long legs for my height . . . I can negotiate.^

^ The hellterror is a bit of a problem. Her little bedspring legs certainly can take her cleanly over book mountains.  She just doesn’t see why she needs to do it that way.  It’s so much more dramatic to approach these obstacles in bulldozer mode.

‡‡‡ The hellterror is also in favour of this. She likes the view from my arms because the hellhounds are a lot shorter than she is.

§ It was also amusing, after having lived in a nine-bedroom etc house, to have a visitor who thought the cottage was large. Her stories of my predecessor were even more amusing.

§§ People keep asking me, puzzledly, why I don’t sell both Third House and the cottage and buy one house that is the right size? The short form is that the cottage has been my increasingly-necessary bolthole for the twelve years we’ve lived in town and I couldn’t bear to leave it now nor any time in the foreseeable future. Also I like the Lodge and the hellmob and I walk past it a zillion times a day and it feels like part of the family.^

The slightly longer form is that I won’t find that house in the centre of New Arcadia where I am now. In hindsight I lucked into the cottage because the previous owner wanted to sell and it needed some updating^^.  And real estate in little old Hampshire villages has gone completely nuts—or even more nuts—in the last dozen years.  A quiet cul de sac^^^ just off the frelling centre of frelling town?  How perfect is that?  I’m keeping it.  And while the Lodge does front on the main road it’s end-of-terrace because of the cul de sac, which means I have one wall that is not common, to put my piano on^^^^ and to sing at.

^ I keep having to remind myself that it now is part of the family.+

+ The house on the other corner of the cul de sac—so opposite the Lodge—has also recently sold and that makes me very sad because it’s part of the family too and I was friends with the humans who lived there and I will miss them and I don’t know if I’ll be friends with the new inhabitants or not. I never had any delusions of buying it however—in the first place that family had lived there forever and you don’t think about people who have been somewhere forever selling up, and in the second place it is LARGE.  Even if I wanted all that space, which I don’t, I couldn’t begin to afford it.

^^ Which I haven’t done of course. Fresh paint on the walls and I’m in.

^^^ Although there are going to be problems with the Lodge’s common-wall neighbour’s little mega-yappy frelling hysterical dog.  I’ll worry about that later.  Or maybe I’ll just let the hellterror eat it.  —Dog?  I’ll say.  You’re missing your dog?  I have no idea.

^^^^ Yes I know you’re not supposed to put a piano on an outside wall. It’s better than being AUDIBLE.  When my piano tuner comes I will ask him if I should do something like hang a RUG on the wall behind the piano.   I still have lots of rugs from the nine-bedroom country house with the gigantic front hall, despite several of the family gallantly adopting a number of them.

§§§ I wish I could tell you even some of the saga of The Buying of the Lodge. It is full of excitement and suspense . . . and morons. Especially morons. Morons who might conceivably take umbrage^ if I told my version even though it is the true version.

Well, here’s just a teaser: for various reasons, including the fact that I was out of my mind for about six weeks from the beginning of November to the middle of December, the whole rubbishing business of the sale went on and on and on and on and the moron-to-person-possessing-at-least-semi-functioning-brain percentages were not in the non-morons’ favour.

Peter had wanted to see the new STAR WARS and since I’d been sure it would be booked out weeks in advance I’d bought the tickets yonks before, for the two of us and some random family members. The tickets were for Christmas Eve Eve.  I declared I was going to go anyway because I didn’t want to blow off the last thing scheduled that I was supposed to do with Peter, and Georgiana said she’d keep me company.  We were going to Peter’s and my favourite restaurant afterward for supper and to raise a glass.^^

The film was the film was the film.^^^ Georgiana and I both dove for our iPhones as soon as we were sitting down in the restaurant—having ordered our fizz—because this is the modern world and that’s what you do, and because I was expecting the confirmation of the sale and the news that I was now the proud possessor of three houses^^^^ and Georgiana was worried about one of her in laws who was in hospital.

I had a phone message. It had arrived at 4:58 pm on the 23rd, so just as everything shut down for a week over the holidays.  And the message was that some creepazoid farther up the ‘chain’ [see:  capricious and degenerate English real estate law] had thrown all his toys out of the pram and declared he wasn’t selling after all, the chain, therefore, had disintegrated and my purchase of the little house was off.^^^^^

And Georgiana’s relative had just gone into intensive care. We got through kind of a lot of fizz that night.

^ I can’t actually imagine any of them reading fantasy authors’ blogs, but you never know.

^^ I don’t have to tell you that this glass would contain fizzy liquid, do I?

^^^ Not a rabid STAR WARS fan, sorry. And it kind of lost me in the first reel-equivalent when the English-rose complexioned sweetie was presented as living as a scavenger in a desert.  Although I did like it when that—ahem!—iconic object came roaring up out of a sand-dune [NO SPOILER!  NO SPOILER!] when she and her new confederate are trying to escape.

^^^^ And heavily in debt for the privilege.

^^^^^ I believe that everyone else involved—they let me off, which was kind of them, since I wasn’t really up to the full screaming, kicking and punching thing—went to this guy’s house swinging long lithe bits of heavy metal in a significant manner and told him you want broken chains? We can show you broken chains. However it was arranged, the sale was back on in the new year.

# For symmetry it should probably be three times. Um . . .

## Including that I now owe the estate the repayment of that loan.

### Of the house. Then I have to start on the garden and the shed and the summerhouse. AAAAAAAUGH.  But the estate agent can start showing it as soon as the house is clear and the heavily-armoured cleaning service has been around obliterating all traces of humanity.  And caninity.

Nor are we going to discuss the unpacking of the Lodge.  At least I’m good at jigsaw box-and-furniture arrangement, and Atlas, who is building the bookshelves, is used to me.