Dot writes: I reckon my signature has declined at least 20% in legibility today. I’ve signed: a loan offer (on the front and at the end, two copies); and some sort of declaration to say we’ll conform to the conditions of the mortgage (again twice); and an undertaking to pay lots of money to the lawyer (just once for that one, I think); and, again in duplicate, at least four different pages of a contract to purchase our new house; and a cheque for nineteen thousand euros (nineteen thousand euros! and that’s just the balance of the deposit); and, for all I know, a promise to have a Fianna Fail advertisement tattoo’d on Frank’s face, I was getting so muddled by the end of it all. Regarding the tattoo risk I’ll just have to pin my hopes on the fact Ken signed all these things as well (apart from the cheque) (I am always ruining the flow of blog posts by my compulsion not to give inaccurate impressions of very minor facts). Our solicitor has also drafted wills for us which we have taken home to peruse: the big question being whether, if we both die prematurely, we want the children to have unfettered control of their inheritance at 25, 27 or 30. We seem to be going for 30, even though said inheritance will largely consist of philosophy books and beer bottles – oh, and the house, since we are taking out a mortgage protection policy that will pay off the mortgage in the event of our untimely demise, untimely being defined as before the bank have got all their money back. Our solicitor is a gentleman of a certain age, kindly, chatty, paternalistic, and thinks 30 is no older than necessary to shoulder such burdens. We had a pleasant hour with him this morning, watching our signatures unravel, and emerged without any indication at all as to when he thinks the closing date will be. Hey ho. Our broker has said it could possibly all be wrapped up this week, but we’ve learned over the last few months that he is insanely over-optimistic about this kind of thing. Very nice, very hardworking, but frequently wrong.
Nonetheless we were touched by the broker’s optimism and have started packing. The living-room is beginning to turn into a fortification of brown boxes, which the boys have to be dissuaded from climbing. I can’t help but feel melancholy; we have been so happy here. There will be a new neighbourhood to explore, new friends to make, a new garden to plant, and an unspectacular but welcome increase in our living space, but I know what I’m losing better than what I’m gaining, and I’ve always hated moving. Still, the boys have both discovered the game of hiding in cardboard boxes. There are few things a spot of cuteness can’t improve.