If you are in your 50’s and thinking of moving, think seriously. It is physically and emotionally exhausting. It makes you realise your back, elbows and knees are entering the last phase of being fit for purpose.

Our reason for moving was simple. We couldn’t continue running two houses. Moving into mine long-term would not have been wise as we might have killed each other. We didn’t want to stay at Jennifer’s as she had neighbours straight from a Channel 5 documentary. So, we had to find somewhere we both liked.

Procrastination

When we eventually found somewhere nice, but pretty small and humble: life seemed straightforward. It never is though, is it? Not when you have solicitors with the enthusiasm of a duck offered a holiday in the Sahara Desert. We also had the purchasers of my property who appeared happy to move in, in 2035.

Just when we were about to give up, it all fell into place. I don’t really know how it all happened, but it appeared to be when we told the builder, estate agent, and solicitors, we had given up. It was British procrastination at its finest. Do fuck all about it until it looks like it is all about to cave in. I can’t criticise too much; I have been running my business like that for 25 years.

Misery

The move itself was miserable. If we hadn’t had help, I might have walked to Andover train station and jumped. We had two items of everything to either sell, throw away, or put in the new loft and pretend it wasn’t there. Remarkably though, both of us forgot irons, meaning I had to be creative with the outfit I wore to a wedding last week.

After a day of moving stuff with the help of others, I felt like we had broken the back of it. The following morning, I woke up and looked in the garage port. I wanted to cry. I just couldn’t imagine where all this stuff would go. I know it is first world hell, but a day of scraped knuckles, bruised shins, and stubbed toes, is not for me.

BT Hilarity

Then there is the changing of addresses and registering all the utilities. Woe betide anyone who dares go off script with BT Broadband. To lose control of a BT order is the stuff of modern nightmares. Once they are off the page, all sorts of bizarre events unfold. It feels like you are involved in an elaborate prank. One where a camera crew walks in just as you are bouncing up and down the room like Basil Fawlty, aiming a flurry of imaginary punches at your phone.

However, eventually, things calmed down. The petty backchatting became less hostile, the tiredness receded, and our little house started to look a bit more like a nice home. It’s a lovely location, on a hill looking out on countryside. It is pitch black at night, with the type of star gazing quality that could drive you batshit crazy as you realise you are nothing more than a speck of dust.

Out and About

There are loads of walks, two nice pubs and a shop where you can buy a trout and watercress flan for £6.00. It is a nice shop, one where if you start a conversation, you might not get out. Ask for information about local walks and brace yourself for a long day. One chap told me that The Wayfarers Walk was one of the best in the area. Then he informed me he had never walked the route because he has a motorbike. He then explained that he had lived in the village for sixty years but was moving to Wales with his Russian girlfriend. “What could go wrong?” I thought, but didn’t say.

We don’t have enough money to have the ultimate dream home (whatever that is). However, we have found a place where we will be left alone. Everyone has a different view of how they want to live and there are pros and cons to every home. My view is one where don’t have to deal too much with neighbours. It sounds mean spirited but its much easier that way. Be nice and stay distant, is my motto.

I think it’s going to be alright.