I often wonder why A. is with me?
There’s the rapier wit. The tender caring side who warms her side of the bed as I fall asleep with an early evening hangover. The ability to follow a recipe or even the ongoings of the natural wine scene.
But there is also the absolute prat that lurks ever so close to the surface at all times.
The latest reason for “me” to appear is because we have sold our house. I say we – when it is I that went away the weekend it went on the market. Then stood with my arms folded in the corner of the kitchen, hoping no one would spot me between the induction hob and the toaster.
We sold in under two weeks. Less than a working week if you count it going on the market and the winning offer coming in. Great stuff.
Now we actually have to find somewhere else to live and, well, I am being a prat. I guess what I am trying to s… no, I am being a prat. Simple as that.
I always have a reason why I don’t want to live somewhere. Quite often the reason can’t be said in words. Just sighs and disappointed looks. I say “We’re not the family to do a project” and then I suggest “but there isn’t a house that has been finished that I can say I really like”.
We need more space. We want to stay close to a school. I want the pizza oven to follow us.
I simply can’t see myself in any of the houses we have looked at. Then I go and send a link for an inappropriate house because “we could put #nightclubforone and a spiral cellar in the garage”.
Maybe prat isn’t strong enough?
So we need to move. I need to compromise and A. needs to stay with me until the kids are grown up and have left home. Because I can’t see any other reason most of the time.