Dot writes: so, we have put down a deposit equivalent to one month’s rent on the teeny-weeny house in Dalkey. Happily, it is not as teeny-weeny as I remembered and I think we can be very cosy there, even on rainy days. I feel extremely relieved because I’ve managed to get my knickers in a right twist over this, to the extent of three successive nights spent in fevered insomniac calculations on how we will get all our furniture in. The problem partly has been that, after we decided on Friday morning to put in a fairly low offer and just see what happened, I ended up in a bidding war against another couple, with Ken at a colloquium and thus largely unable to take part, and by the end of the day, having had my final offer of five euros above the original asking price accepted, I was frazzled, tearful, and wholly unsure that I had done the right thing. If the filing cabinet would fit in the living room where would we put the blue bookcase? If we have the trunk in the bedroom does the desk have to be downstairs, and in that case where do we put the filing cabinet? Could we make room for the trunk if we put Hugh in the garden shed? These kinds of ponderings make for long and lonely wakings in the small hours, not improved by the fact that the main gate at Ridge Hall (which is right by our bedroom) has developed an irritating squeak.
However, I do now feel much more confident about the decision to move. This is because of three main developments. In reverse time order: we went to see the house again at lunchtime, and it is bigger and with better storage than I remembered. This morning the letting agent decided that, since they can’t get hold of our landlord, they had better make a decision on his behalf about our request for a rent reduction, and the minimum rent they’ve proposed is more than we want to pay. And, also making the decision to move rather easier, though otherwise not contributing to calmness in the last few days, on Sunday Hugh went out onto our balcony – our very own balcony – and got an inch-long cut in his foot from a great shard of glass that had wedged itself between two slats. Someone on the balcony above must have smashed a beer glass. This kind of thing doesn’t happen in a terraced house, unless your neighbourhood is cursed with very strong, very careless magpies.
So now we just have to pack. While stopping Hugh from constantly taking his plaster off. And marking exam scripts. But the weather is heavenly and we will have a garden!