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Moving On

The die is cast.  We’ve just put our house on the market.

I’m writing this as a form of an
announcement, and you, my loyal and patient readers, are among the first to
know of this momentous news. 

The plan, in the lingua franca of
the estate agents, is to downsize.  What
we’re going to downsize to, and where, are outstanding questions.  They have been outstanding for several years
now.  Somehow, no matter how many times
we discuss the matter, we never seem to reach a conclusion.  House or apartment?  Modest bungalow or sprawling mansion?  Town or country?  Now we must make a decision.  In the event of a quick sale, it will have to
be a quick decision. 

I detect in the air a whiff of
compromise.  Maybe we’ll end up in a
sprawling apartment in the suburbs.

I’ve moved several times in my
life, but oddly enough each one has involved a change of country – from Britain to America and the opposite
direction.  Now, for the first time, I
have to decide where to live within a radius of 30 miles (of my daughter and
her husband, who may or not be planning a family) and it’s a little
bewildering.  Narrowing down the
territory ought to make the choice easier, one would think, but not a bit of
it.  If anything, restricting the choice
only seems to increase the degree of difficulty.

M is dealing with the prospect of
moving with commendable fortitude, but always teetering, I suspect, on the verge
of some emotional outburst.  My assertion
that moving house is simply a matter of swapping one pile of bricks and mortar
for another is not helping.  It’s far
more than that, of course, but succumbing to sentiment is hardly going to ease
the coming logistical ordeal.

Whether you care or not – and I
suspect it’s a matter of profound indifference to you – I will keep you posted.


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