.. apparently. Tomorrow we are meant to be signing over a huge cash wodge to take ownership of a house we’ve been trying to buy for – what feels like – most my adult life.
A second before that photo was taken, Jason was hammering down the trail with the look of a man knowing exactly what he was doing. Then – and I can only assume solicitors were in some way involved – he plunged into the bushes, only to be rewarded with a headfirst face plant into mucky sheep poo.
That’s a pretty good simile for how the house purchase is going. Here are the options for the latest deadline, expiring tomorrow:
1) We exchange and complete at the solicitors’ office. World peace breaks out, global warming is reversed and the credit crunch actually turns out to be a typo and in fact we’ve all been living in fear of a cereal bar.
2) A solicitors’ office is suspiciously torched in Malvern. A balding middle aged northerner is spotted in the vicinity sporting a box of matches, a can of petrol and a satisfied expression.
All I can say is when the latest missive from our legal team assured us the contract was fireproof, I sincerely hope he was speaking literally. Not that we’ve heard much since refusing to pay a bill that slightly voids the spirit of “fixed price service”
Still a day of non signage paved the way with rocks and huge lunches at a top trail spot in Wales. It was so much fun, I almost forgot to be extremely pissed off about the house. Or lack of it.
For the moment, I am sunburned, leg weary, co-located with beer and fairly sanguine. I do not expect that state of affairs to last one second past “Ah Mr and Mrs Leigh, there’s been a bit of a delay”.
Must dash. Flamethrowers to prime.
so feeling optimistic then?
Not really. However there is a flurry of activity at the Solicitors. Well when I say flurry, more a period of slow paper movement between late breakfast and early lunch.
We’re heading out there now to see what’s what. In my car as that has the Tool Of War in the boot!