. . . moving house. Removal men with rippling muscles and a large lorry are coming 1 August. Yessssssss. Any of you of a praying persuasion please pray it goes no more catastrophically than these things usually do. And more important that Peter finds he positively likes it there at Third House once he’s in. Any of you not of a praying persuasion are nonetheless welcome to dance supplicatorily around bonfires dedicated to minor deities who ease tiresome mortal rites of passage like house moves. I personally prefer Jesus, but I’ll take any good will on offer.
And minions of British Telecom, that delightfully efficient and customer-oriented corporation, are coming the day before to install necessary wiring because, as regular blog readers may recall, BT declares that there are no lines to Third House, that eighty or ninety year old cottage in the centre of town and with a phone jack in the kitchen which you might think BT would find a little embarrassing. HOWEVER we have got round my bootless fury on this topic first by the fact that we’re going to want wireless broadband and the connections for that probably do need to be updated from whenever . . . and second I just caved when the very loud, relentlessly cheerful woman who was brokering the deal rushed past the part about how they’d do all this for free if we bought their broadband. So we’re buying their broadband. And I am a weak, cringing worm. Yes. I just want it over with.
Eleanor finished cleaning Third House’s kitchen today.*
Jonas, who is a builder by trade and can do anything, is plumbing in the dishwasher because all the local plumbers are booked until Christmas 2017.
Atlas is getting on with carving out the Desk Aperture.**
Nina and Ignatius are coming twice this week to do anything someone else hasn’t got to first. They may make a start on clearing the space for my shed. And I may ask Ignatius to put up some shelves, since there is only one of Atlas and he only has two hands. Fie. You’d think someone who works in three dimensions for a living would have at least four.
And the hellhounds ate lunch for the first time in weeks.***
But too much stuff working might go to my head. So the ME gallantly stepped in at this point and slapped me down.† ARRRRRRGH.†† Therefore I think I’ll make one of my hilarious attempts to go to bed early.††† Night night.‡
* * *
* She has been giving me a very hard time about all the things I won’t let her throw away. That’s a perfectly usable jar! Leave it alone! She even thinks I have too many books. Friendships have been lost over comments like these. But not when someone is cleaning your kitchen for free.
** I’m failing to get on with finding somewhere to put all the books thus made homeless. See previous footnote.
*** Don’t get too excited. They didn’t eat dinner.
† Do I really need the ME too? It’s not like the next few weeks are going to be arid with ease and perfection. In the first place I still have 1,000,000 phone calls to make to/about various which will be quite lowering enough when 60% or so produce the equivalent of all the local plumbers being booked till Christmas 2017. I’m reminding myself we already own the house, no one can gazump us, that medieval torture device that has somehow been allowed to live on in the laws of England, Third House is in the same town and only half of us are moving anyway. Hey, my piano is moving! That counts! Also the hellhounds are sure to Faint in Coils which will fail to be edifying. But it could be a lot worse. Hold that thought.
†† It’s The Little Things. My last clean white shirt this morning had a big black spot at the centre of the neckline WHAAAAAAT?? I got the worst of it out with a sponge and wore it anyway. Then I put on my pale blue white floral cotton jeans which are automatically a calamity magnet because of the colour. And I was out in the garden this morning examining something or other while Pav had her morning pee and she galloped up to me and sprang . . . leaving giant muddy footprints all over my pale blue with white flowers jeans ARRRRRRRRGH. There was language. Pav ignored this, of course, because it had nothing to do with her. She usually does jump on me first thing in the morning . . . but this usually happens indoors, I’ve never taught her not to^, and the only reason the garden was muddy is because I’ve been WATERING because we haven’t had any rain in yonks.^^ ARRRRRRRRGH. Well I’m wearing the blotched up jeans anyway too, but everything goes in the washing machine tonight.
^ Theoretically she knows ‘off’. She doesn’t know ‘don’t jump up in the first place you muddy-footed monster’. Usually I find being jumped on by a thrilled-I-exist bull terrier ridiculously charming.
^^ It’s been long enough that a few Souvenir de la Malmaison roses have been unable to contain themselves to wait to go brown and mouldy in the next major downpour and have popped out properly. It only takes a few to make my entire tiny walled garden smell divine.
††† HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I kill myself, I really do.
‡ It’s too hot to sleep anyway. It’s not hot hot but it’s that kind of hot that sits on your chest like an incubus and won’t let you breathe.
One of the nasty little surprises awaiting me at Third House* was the FRELLING BOXES OF OLD PAPER FILES. Crushed frelling boxes, just by the way, since they’d got mixed up with the backlist. But when Atlas was loading up his trailer to take backlist to the storage unit last autumn I asked him to set anything that wasn’t book boxes aside. And then life happened and the last few months Atlas has seen more of Third House than I have.**
It’s quite amazing how much STUFF is left after you’ve emptied a house. Curtains. Rolled up rugs. Bits of china you never liked and hadn’t decided what to do with. BOOKS THAT MUST BE SORTED. It’s also quite amazing how many old files I seem to have. Speaking of things that need sorting.
Twenty or thirty years ago when I was buying filing cabinets in Maine you could get black ones. Or grey ones. Or black. Or grey. Or . . . I bought black. But I did not love them, and I left them behind because standard British paper is longer than standard American paper and it wasn’t going to fit in standard American filing cabinets. I had a gorgeous old wooden filing cabinet at the old house, its only drawbacks being that it took ten strong men and a team of eight Shire horses to move it and that the drawers kept falling off their rails. It then declined to fit through the door at Third House. MORE ARRRGH. So I sold it, and put the files in cardboard boxes. Which I was going to deal with. Later.
Well. It’s later. And I have to WEDGE everything I had sprawled all over Third House into the attic because the ground floor is now Peter’s.***
I went on line. I searched for two-drawer filing cabinets, because they have to fit under the eaves that make the attic a living space for people who like crawling around on their hands and knees. COLOURED FILING CABINETS. COLOURED FILING CABINETS. Be still my heart. So I bought a PINK one. Of course I bought a pink one. Two pink ones is so obvious however so I bought a yellow one.† Yaaay.
Except that the on line description says ‘self assembly’. Golly, I thought, nuts and bolts. But I have my secret weapon, Atlas, so, fine. I ordered. And I had them delivered to the cottage because of the whole WHAT DO YOU MEAN DELIVER TO AN ADDRESS NOT ATTACHED TO YOUR CREDIT CARD AND OF COURSE WE AREN’T GOING TO TELL YOU WHEN WE’RE ARRIVING SO YOU CAN GET UP THERE TO ACCEPT DELIVERY. WHICH WE WON’T LET YOU HAVE ANYWAY BECAUSE IT’S NOT THE ADDRESS ATTACHED TO YOUR CREDIT CARD thing.
I don’t know what the self-assembly part is but two filing cabinets arrived today. I looked at them and my heart sank. I wasn’t at all sure even one of them lying on its side would fit in Wolfgang’s boot.
Wolfgang, my hero.
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* That’s aside from the fact that we’re going to have to RIP OUT BOOKSHELVES to get Peter’s desk into his office. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE. What is wrong with it is that the second, smaller bedroom is now a staircase with a little angular wodge of semi-usable space around it. Arrrgh. Building regs^ ARRRRRRRGH. And Peter is so inconvenient as to have a LARGE desk. Why can’t he just balance his laptop on his knee? Feh. Half a wall of bookshelves has to go. Misery.
^ For anyone who wasn’t reading the blog then: I wanted to put a WEIGHT BEARING FLOOR in the attic for all the BACKLIST. As soon as you put in a weight-bearing floor the Building Regulation Goons are all over you. A weight-bearing floor means living space, never mind you can’t stand up in it. Or that it’s going to be full of boxes of books. Living space means you have to have a proper staircase. Good bye, second bedroom.
** Mowing the grass, propping up the frelling FRELLING boundary fence so next door’s evil little ratbag terrier doesn’t keep getting through and crapping all over my garden,^ taking over the garden shed with boy tools.
^ Evil little spiky-haired ratbag terriers are an entirely different, monumentally inferior order of being from, you know, bull coughcoughcough terriers.
*** This happens to involve carrying all 1,098 crushed boxes of files up the stairs to the attic again.
† I probably need three or four. I’ll worry about that LATER.
Third House has shrunk. I should have realised that the shiver in the aether when Peter said ‘okay’ Saturday afternoon was reality contracting. Oh, and the books on Third House’s shelves have all reproduced. In fact I think most of them have had litters. Arrrgh. I didn’t notice immediately, I was too busy dancing the fandango* and telling Third House we’re finally going to live in it.**
The red-shifted or Dopplered or whatever mystery of physics describes what happens to a house you’re about to start living in*** became dreadfully clear, however, when Fiona† showed up Tuesday morning†† and we tackled the surprising amount of stuff left over from last autumn when I was clearing out toward handing it over to the letting agent.††† ARRRGH. Fiona‡ had already agreed to come for a day and make me by her presence GET THE FRELLING FRELL ON WITH IT, when I still thought I was going to be letting it. But we’ve been haemorrhaging money on storage since last autumn: get your butt in gear, McKinley. So I told Fiona that she was to keep repeating: NEVER MIND. NEVER MIND. JUST PUT IT IN A BOX AND PICK UP THE NEXT THING.
The angle of approach to the eventual goal has altered, but the merciless bottom line is still that it’s Too Much Stuff and Too Little Space. But at least it’s our too little space again.
And you know the most amazing thing? Fiona the B is coming back next Tuesday.‡‡ To do it all over again. Which includes the fact that doing it all over again is necessary, sigh. Now if only I could figure out a way to sic her on BT. . .
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* If houses can shrink, I can be two people and dance a fandango
** It’s a nice house. It should be lived in. Aside from housing shortages^ I have felt bad for however many years I’ve owned it that I’m/we’re not doing it justice. At the same time I was pretty discouraged about the prospect of letting it—very sensible, should have done it years ago, but it’s my house. I want my books on the shelves (and the floor) and my drawing table in the attic.
^ Which I don’t in fact feel very guilty about since one of the many governmental scandals that resurface when there’s nothing newer and hotter to develop migraines over is the number of council houses that stand empty because the local council can’t get its act together to have them set to rights. This would be less of a scandal if a lot of those local councils didn’t prefer to build new ones . . . which will need repairs shortly.
*** Usually they wait till you start unpacking your 1,000,000,000 boxes, but the situation here is unusual.
† Hereinafter to be known as Fiona the Blessed or possibly Fiona the B.
†† Well . . . um . . . it was still nearly Tuesday morning. Fiona the B had some silly story about a flat tyre. I had my usual silly story about non-eating hellhounds and going to bed so wound up I was humming like a gyroscope.
††† Unfortunately the need to do stuff like find out why the toilet tank erratically leaks^ and finally placate the ratblasted TV licensing mob who have suspected me of malfeasance for nearly a decade now^^ and enter into *&^%$£”!”!!!!!!!! negotiations with *&^%$£”!”!!!!!!!! BT^^^ has not evolved in the slightest.
^ and all you DIYers out there, no, it’s not that you just have to difflegag the dorgummer, because if it were the obvious thing(s) Atlas would have done it.
^^ She owns TWO houses and she doesn’t have TV in EITHER of them?? A likely story.
Yeah for Peter moving closer! Does this mean you’ll have to resume discussions with BT about the phone line?
Snork. The things you people remember. Yes. BT claims there is no phone line to the house despite the fact that it’s an eighty-year-old cottage in the middle of a several-hundred-year-old village+ and there’s a phone jack in the kitchen. And that if I want a phone line put in for the first time in eight hundred and fifteen years (approximately) it’s going to cost me a lot of money because they have to start with the Roman aqueduct.++ But Peter has said diffidently that he really does feel he would be happier with a landline . . . and I need my internet. And even Peter uses email+++.
I’m sure the hellterror will be happy- another pair of hands to pet her all day long.
??? The hellpack and I are at Peter’s mews more than we’re at the cottage. We sleep at the cottage# and the hellgoddess imbibes her morning caffeine at the cottage. Then we schlep down to the mews—pausing to pick Peter up in front of the grocery store because post-stroke he can walk one way into town, not both ways. I usually try to hurtle critters back to the cottage for a spell in the afternoon to garden, do the laundry, shovel the accumulation of whatever off the stairs, etc. I AM SO LOOKING FORWARD TO NOT HAVING TO COMMUTE ANY MORE. As real commutes go it’s piffle, but it’s just far enough that you can’t nip back for something you’ve forgotten, and whatever you want is probably at the other house. Hence the whole gruesome business of two knapsacks, three hellcritters and Wolfgang, every frelling day, no weekends and no holidays. And you’ve still brought the wrong coat.
I love it when procrastinating on something big like renting out Third House turns out to be a huge blessing.
Ha. Indeed. Although I wish I’d merely procrastinated about turning the CLEAN SHINY EMPTY FULLY MOD-CONNED### HOUSE over to the nice rental agent rather than having stalled at the gee, wasn’t this supposed to have gone into storage/what about ALL OF THESE BLASTED BOOKS? phase. Not to mention the overflowing toilet cistern.
That sounds better! So does that mean you will sell your place, too, and move into Third House with Peter?
Good golly no. Third House is LITTLE. And littler than it was a week ago too, before Peter said ‘okay’, see above. It only had two bedrooms to begin with and one of them is now mostly staircase on account of the No You Can’t Do What You Want to Do with Your Own House building-reg disaster of putting a weight-bearing floor in the attic for the 1,000,000,000,000,000 boxes of backlist. Couldn’t one of us have been a chef or a horse trainer or something? My idea was an attic like at the cottage, which is finished, with a Velux window and a fitted carpet and everything, but you get in and out by something more like a ladder than a stair, and removable. That would No Longer Be Allowed### Because Building Regulations Have Decreed That a Weight-Bearing Floor Means Living Space and You Can’t Live in Something You Can Only Reach By Ladder.~ As I found out when I hired my architect. So I now have Living Space I can’t stand up in (it’s still an attic) and a second bedroom that you could maybe get a single bed in. Maybe. If you don’t mind rappelling in from the doorway.
Or, if you and the hellhounds are staying put (although the hellhounds will have lots more garden to roam in, which means lots more lovely photos!!!), is it a lot nearer and more convenient?
Yes. In the first place it’s a BUNGALOW so the only stairs are to the backlist and Peter has staff (that would be me) to fetch and carry. In the second place it’s across the churchyard from my cottage instead of at the other end of town and in the third place it’s a short level walk to the shops instead of half a mile and a hill.
I am SO LOOKING FORWARD to having that garden again. I stopped letting the hellpack play there when I decided to let the house so I’d be used to the loss by the time I gave it over to the agent. But I was really dreading walking past it—and it’s slap on one of the basic hurtles from the cottage, there’s no way I could not go that way some of the time—and seeing other people and, probably, other people’s dogs in it.
We haven’t started using the garden again because I’m a bit preoccupied with getting on with the house.~~
Less stress for everyone, I hope, and YOU GET TO KEEP THIRD HOUSE!
No bothering with renters! You could put the backlist back in the attic! …Well. If it doesn’t immediately fill up with Peter’s things.
The backlist has to go into the attic. WE ARE GOING TO GET ALL OUR STUFF OUT OF STORAGE. I was staring at the walls at the cottage this afternoon and thinking, okay, I can put another bookshelf up there. There’s still a terrifying amount of stuff to deal with, one way or another. The only reason I haven’t just run away from home and joined the space programme~~~ is because I keep reminding myself that the mews, while it has the most floor space of our three little houses it has the least storage. It pretty much has no storage aside from some unsatisfactory crawl spaces. What you see is what there is. Which is bad enough.
Great news … It would seem your life will be much less complicated and Peter’s much safer.
That’s the plan, yes, thanks.
+ Granted that telephones were rare in 1200.
++ Start what with the Roman aqueduct?
+++ And google at least twice a year.
# Theoretically we sleep at the cottage. We at least assume a recumbent position at the cottage. The hellpack, by the snoring, sleep pretty well. Me, not so much.
## Including a frelling landline phone and broadband at a speed not less than that attained by a dead muskrat.
### The attic in the cottage was done up by my predecessor. I’ve been there a decade (!) and it was a few years old when I bought the cottage.
~ Tell that to Lothlorien’s elves.
~~ But I did buy an extra tray of snapdragons today.
~~~ Aside from there being no space programme to join, and that they don’t take clueless retirement-age-approaching women whose only degrees are BAs in English lit.
‡ the B
‡‡ I’ve told her the cattle prod is optional
PETER HAS AGREED TO MOVE TO THIRD HOUSE*
* * *
* He said, When I sell the mews we can buy a new car! I said, I don’t want a new car! I’ll just run it into things! I’m dangerous at less than 5 mph!^
^ Hate those frelling pillars at the Mauncester multilevel car park–the ones with the bulges below the driver’s line of vision! HATE!
I think I haven’t been to any of the New York Metropolitan Opera’s live-streaming cinema broadcasts this season, for a variety of reasons, including being fired by my dog minder, but also . . . and I realise how pathetic and lame this sounds . . . because Saturday night is my favourite frelling church service, sitting silently in the dark with monks. Saturday night is the only service all week that has the silent-sitting thing. I’ll try to catch an extra service at the abbey, I hope tomorrow night**, but if I want to sit silently in the dark I’ll have to do it by myself. Whiiiiiiine.
But this run at the Met is probably Joyce DiDonato’s last performance of La Cenerentola, and last night was the broadcast. And Radio 3, which would be airing it only without the eye-candy part, has been advertising it pretty hard. And there are, in fact, limits to my dedication to God (and monks).*** Joyce DiDonato, you know?† Not to mention Juan Diego Florez, who is adorable aside from the high Cs††.
Because I bought my ticket at the last minute I had a choice between being at the extreme end of one of the back rows and thus seeing the screen as if reflected in an unfunhouse mirror . . . or the aisle of the second row and thus needing a neck like a giraffe to tip my head far enough back to see the screen at all. I went for the second row. And brought a large tote bag with two big fat pillows in it—much to the hilarity of the guy behind me in row three†††—and lay down for the show.‡ Worked a treat, thanks.
AND THE OPERA WAS FABULOUS. STAGGERINGLY, GORGEOUSLY, JAW-DROPPINGLY FABULOUS. If they rerun it—which they sometimes do, and I would expect DiDonato’s final go at one of her signature roles would be a good candidate—and you have the FAINTEST interest in opera or classical singing or music—GO. GOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGO. GO.
And . . . just by the way . . . not that this has anything to do with anything . . . but there are three cute guys in it. This doesn’t happen in opera. You’re lucky if you have one who, compared with a dead fish, comes out slightly ahead. Florez, as previously observed, is darling.‡‡ Dandini is also pretty frelling cute.‡‡‡ And Alidoro . . . ::fans self::§ I mean, gleep.§§
. . . . Anyway. I have now spent over an hour sifting through YouTube clips§§§ because I am so devoted to the welfare of my blog readers, and I HAVE TO GO TO BED. Maybe I’ll get back to CENERENTOLA in a footnote sometime. . . .
* * *
* The etc is chiefly that we went to a National Garden Scheme garden today . . . and took Pav. I’ve been wanting to take her to an open garden but there aren’t that many that allow dogs—fewer than there used to be, I would have said, but maybe it’s just around here, or we want to go to the wrong gardens.^
This one was gorgeous, mellow old stone house on the bank^^ of one of England’s pencil-thick so-called rivers, but winding romantically, with waterfowl and reeds.^^^ The garden then extended back across fields with vistas and benches and the occasional outburst of perennial border. And the weather, which was forecast to be grouchy and streaming by turns, was glorious, bright blue sky and big fat scudding clouds.# I barely saw any of it, since Pav was trying to see, respond, engage, EAT all of it simultaneously and you couldn’t see those little short legs, they were churning so fast. ADVENTURE! WE’RE HAVING AN ADVENTURE! Pantpantpantpantpantpantpant. She did not seem to be sorry to sit in my lap for tea, however, where she was more easily suppressed than if I tried to make her lie down under my chair##, although I did have to keep a sharp eye on the cakes. NO. NOT FOR DOGS. NOT EVEN FOR HELLTERRORS. Cute is not enough. —She was much admired by several aficionados of the breed, however, as well as cringed away from by several people who think they know that all bull terriers are evil biting machines. Sigh. We saw Labs (of frelling course), Goldens, poodles, gazillions of ordinary boring hairy terrier terriers . . . but we were the Supreme Only Bull Terrier present.
^ We used to allow dogs when we opened our garden at the old house. Just by the way. We also offered free plastic bags. Ahem. Today this aspect of the presence of dogs was pretty funny. Pav in the heat of excitement had an unscheduled defecatory moment which—since I always have plastic bags secreted about my person in several places in case I forget and run out in the standard coat pocket location—I recovered. But there wasn’t anything like a bin to deposit the securely wrapped morsel in. I can’t now remember what we did when we had our garden open; did we expect people to carry canine excreta home with them? Surely not. Anyway. No bin. So Pav and I went back to the gate while Peter bought tea+, and inquired there if there was a public bin nearby? The car park this private garden was using for their open day was attached to some public wildlife preserve, you’d frelling expect there’d be a bin.
You’d’ve thought I’d made an improper suggestion++. Both ladies looked alarmed and revolted and the nearer one edged her chair away from Pav doing her I-am-a-lunatic-and-I-have-no-manners shtick but clearly secured by a thick+++, heavy, short lead. No-no-no-no-no, quavered one of them, clutching her twinset to her bosom.
I was tempted to make little dashes at them—like the bully in the playground waving a poor confused harmless snake at the wusses, although I would not describe Pav as poor or confused, or harmless if you’re wearing clean jeans—but I didn’t want to be told to go away before I’d had my tea. So I restrained myself (and Pav).
And took our parcel back to the car. Which was kind of a frelling walk. Next year the owner, whom I heard saying jollily that they’d had a lot of dogs today, should consider both the suitability of the volunteers on the gate and the provision of a small bin with a lid.
+ Including the all-important Cake Selection process
++ Live in a yurt! Buy an armadillo! Get legless on a night you’re wearing stacked stilettos and make the Street Pastors give you a pair of flipflops!
+++ and spectacularly gaudy. So gaudy I had a pair of meek little English men creep up to me and ask softly where I’d bought it. Oh, the States somewhere, I said loudly in my rich American accent. I forget.
So maybe it was the (pink) harness and rainbow-dazzle lead that the ladies on the gate were disturbed by, and the drooling hellterror exhibiting them was incidental.
^^ High enough, I guess, that they did not have water in their cellar this winter.
^^^ Rushes? Tall strappy-leaved edge-of-river plants.
# The best thing of all was how easy it was to find. It looked in the directions like it should be easy. But that doesn’t mean anything.
## HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. But she lies down very well if there’s cheese or chicken involved. And I did have chicken jerky in my pocket in case of emergencies.
** As I wrote to Alfrick, emailing to warn him I wasn’t coming last night, I start jonesing for monks if I go much over a week without a hit.
*** I’m a Street Pastor! I’m about to become a frelling (nonreligious, but God still told me to) Samaritan! Cut me some slack here!
††† And I wager my neck was in better shape than his at the end of the four hours
‡ Leg stowage I admit can be a problem in these situations, but as it happens there was no one in the front row, so I could rest my raised knees against the seat without anyone objecting.
‡‡ In the interviews I’ve heard with him he sounds like a decent human being too. I refuse to find darling people who are clearly major creepazoids.^
^ I’m old. My hormones are under control.+
+ Except for the ones involved in hot flushes. I thought you STOPPED HAVING hot flushes/flashes after a few years. I’m waiting. . . .
§ Hot flush. No, really.
§§ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pr2LBjN7K10 Gah. I have wasted a lot of time trying to find a clip where you can not merely hear but see him. There’s also quite a good one of him singing poor Cherubino off to battle but you don’t get a close up. This one is fairly explicit. He’s the one doing most of the singing, making up to the girl in the grey dress. ::fans self more:: Oh, Dmitri [Hvoroskovsky], you may have a rival.^
^ I’M OLD. MY HORMONES ARE UNDER CONTROL.
§§§ Okay. Some knitting also occurred.