Sorry sorry sorry….

It’s all gone a bit Pete Tong here in N-o-T of late, hence my lengthy absence from the blogosphere, for which I apologise. I’m not apologising for not updating my own ramblings, but I have been unable to devote the time I would like to the much more enjoyable pastime of reading others’ updates.

When last I wrote, we were dipping our toes into the waters of house moves.  Well, those toes are now fully submerged, and I am hoping to be able to keep my airways clear as I sink inexorably under a mountain of “particulars” and try to cling to the wreckage of my happily married life. 

I exaggerate only slightly. TH and I have started conducting our conversations through rigid jaws and clenched teeth. It’s what moving house does to people, apparently. 

It’s like this: after putting our house on the market, and sitting back to wait, what actually happened was….nothing. And then, suddenly, people started wanting to have a look at it, just when I was beginning to think that our happy home had all the kerb appeal of a cave set in a dungheap. And, when they came, they made offers. 

The first potential buyer appeared to think we should pay him to buy our house, and throw in some Nectar points and our children. I have a feeling he believes that Phil Spencer is a wimp, and that making an offer on a house involves taking the asking price, halving it and then taking off 10% for his trouble. We politely declined his derisory offer, at which point he came back with his architect to elaborate upon his redevelopment plan for our home, and then reiterated his derisory offer as he was by this time convinced that we would wish to help him finance his extension. We politely declined a second time, at which point he advised our agent that he would see if our house was still available once he had sold his property, and perhaps make an offer again.  God loves a trier!

Fortunately, another buyer came along, obviating the need for buyer no.1 to renew his offer yet again. After some negotiations, we agreed a sale price. However, the only slight issue was that they wanted to move in during August if possible. The fact that they had actually viewed our house before buyer no.1, gone away and spent about six weeks messing about, and now want to move in within six weeks was a slight niggle. 

Having abandoned our own search pending being in a position to buy, we now find that there isn’t a house within a five mile radius of where we’d like to be that actually suits our needs or our budget. Hence the teeth-gritting and marriage breakdown issues. 

As the weather finally (and, no doubt, briefly) improves here in N-o-T, I find myself driving over hill and dale, sometimes with TH (in a silence which no-one would ever describe as “companionable”) past properties I’ve previously identified online, whilst TH hits the accelerator and mumbles “Nah” having seen the potential property in a blur at 45 mph from his rear-view mirror. If I’m alone, I take the time to stop, at least, before mumbling my own “Nah”. But that, of course, is different.

And, when I’m not getting lost somewhere in the hinterland of Guildford, I’m embarking on a new venture. 

I was fully intending to purchase a pottery kiln before TH announced his desire to move house. I then decided that it might be better to wait till after “the move”. However, I was then offered the chance to purchase a secondhand kiln, only a few months old, for a bargain price, so I HAD to go for it. Having made a significant investment, I now need to amortise this by actually selling some of my wares.

As a result, this weekend, I will be dipping my already sodden toes into yet another pool: this time, the pool of the Craft Fair. I’m doubly apprehensive. Not only will this be a test of the commercial potential of my crafts, it will be a waste of an entire Saturday that should, by rights, be devoted to house-hunting and jaw-gritting, in the passenger seat of TH’s speeding car.

I am sorry I’ve been so out of touch with the blogosphere. I promise I will try harder.

Aaaaaand breathe!

Oh, and Pee Ess: We got all scrubbed up and posh two weeks ago and went up to London for our Garden Party  with the neighbours. It was all very posh, and they even let us in through the front door, but I nearly died of hypothermia. Still, she does a nice round of sandwiches, and I couldn't fault the finger food, although after all these years I was expecting more than just a cup of tea. A small sherry for medicinal purposes would have gone down a treat.

An invite from the neighbours!

No, not those neighbours, THOSE neighbours!

The Windsors wearing smart/casual?

As a pair of fairly staunch republicans, this has come as a surprise but, apparently, TH has been “recognised” no, not from that time where HM the Q and Prince Phil nearly mowed us down as we were out for a Sunday stroll, but apparently for services to building a cable car over the Thames, which certainly expedited the transit of spectators from the Exel Centre to the O2 (AKA the Millennium Dome) during the Olympics.

I have just been e-mailed by a shell-shocked TH, who copied me in on the e-mail he had in turn received from the Grand Fromage at TfL, telling him to advise The Powers That Be of the name of his nominated guest. I am taking it that the guest in question will be me, largely because he sent me the e-mail.  Yes, we are to keep a date in May free, as we’re invited to take tea in the garden at the neighbours’ pied a terre in London. Provided we pass the security vetting….

So, it looks like I shall have to press a frock and Google the hat protocol, as well as studying the art of the curtsey and forms of address. 

I’ve joked for such a long time that they’re really miserable neighbours, having never invited us over for drinks in the twenty-plus years we’ve lived practically next door. The big concern now, if course, is whether they'll expect to be invited back?

I’ll be nice. It’s only polite.

Military manoeuvres

Well, this weekend, Nowhere-on-Thames has been crawling with troops and members of the press. Nothing exciting has been happening in N-o-T itself, you understand. It’s just that Somewhere-on-Thames has been largely sealed off as the neighbours (or, as they are better known, HM the Q and the DoE) have been hosting a couple of celebrations for the Diamond Jubilee.

On Friday, we were largely left to go about our normal business, although there were periodic traffic hold-ups as the Crowned Heads of here, there and everywhere turned up at the castle for a spot of luncheon, and Nicholas Wychell and the BBC news team cluttered up the pavement outside WH Smith to report on nothing very much at all.

By this morning, however, we were effectively imprisoned in our homes as the whole area was sealed off and 3000 troops plus their families and friends arrived for a Jubilee Armed Services Parade.

TH is anything but an ardent royalist, and my feelings towards the monarchy are best described as ambivalent, but TH was persuaded to venture out and watch the proceedings on the basis that there was to be a flypast of some 70-odd aircraft, and that’s a man thing.  Besides, we couldn’t go anywhere much by car, as all the roads had been closed, and what traffic there was in the village was largely made up of people trying to find a way around the resultant impasse.  

We set out to walk down the road to the castle, hoping to get a reasonable vantage point at the gate where the parade was due to enter the castle grounds for the final part of the proceedings. As the grounds have been churned up anyway (last week was the horse show), they’d obviously decided to make the most of the upheaval by creating a stadium on the same site to accommodate all the invited family members. The start of the parade was 10.30 a.m., but these poor folk had been told to take their seats by 9.30, and so were being entertained by a military band as they waited patiently for the parade and the royals to arrive. Thus, as the sound carries some distance, we walked down the centre of the road to town to the accompaniment of a medley of themes from the James Bond films floating over the river from the castle. 

We managed to squeeze quite comfortably onto the end of the crowd outside the gate, in a prime spot next to a bank of photographers from the press.  Having seen the TV news coverage of the event, it seems we were lucky in our choice of spot, as the main part of S-o-T and the starting point of the parade were very crowded indeed.

And so began a Long Wait…not as long as some, it seems, judging by the camping chairs and supplies of food and drink that were in evidence, but then we hadn’t had far to come. After what seemed like an age, but was only about half an hour, the procession began to arrive. Not before a flypast of nine Tornadoes, which caught me and the press corps completely by surprise, so my first photo opportunity was missed entirely. After that, I reached an accommodation with the person just in front of me, whereby she would lean to her right and I to her left, thus avoiding me taking several dozen snaps of the back of her head.

                                                     We even had our very own pensive policeman.....

Hats off to the Army, Navy and Air Force! If there’s one thing we seem to do extremely well in this country, it’s a parade. And this one was no exception.  Like a well-oiled machine, the troops trooped away for what seemed like ages, resplendent in their best uniforms, all shiny and ship-shape. It was a fabulous sight. 

  

After quite a long delay, the Royal Couple drove by in their car, followed somewhat incongruously by a few people in a silver minibus (I assume this wasn’t the other Crowned Heads who’d stayed on after the luncheon) and we were faced with a wait of almost 40 minutes before the flypast.

Local Knowledge being a good thing, we realised we’d probably see the flypast better from another vantage point closer to home, so we began the walk back, stopping off at the park to wait for the planes. My photography skills were tested to the limit for this bit, as trying to spot the approaching tiny grey specks in a vast expanse of almost equally grey sky was quite tricky, and these planes don’t exactly hang about for a photo opportunity, so my thanks go out to the Red Arrows for alerting me to their position through the judicious use of coloured smoke.

                                             Thanks for the help, Red Arrows!

After a brisk walk home (this time to the accompaniment of the National Anthem and a selection of Rousing Military Tunes) it was time for a late lunch, and to settle in for the long wait until we were free to go forth by car once more.

That’s it now until the next Great Upheaval.  Apparently they’ve sold 30,000 tickets for the Olympic Rowing. Guess where the spectators will arrive in order to be conveyed to the venue?