So, a couple of days ago, they came and slapped a great big “SOLD” sign outside our house.
Now, this is the house that we designed ourselves – at least, we paid someone vast amounts of money to design it for us (“Just tell me what you want and I will make sure you get it – unless, of course, it doesn't fit with my vision of Modern Australia – noen of your Middle Eastern Archway rubbish, thank you.”)
Our children have grown up here, changing from sweet toddlers and a baby who spent many a happy hour digging in the back garden, playing endless soccer matches and going on numerous Bear Hunts, to inert creatures who appear to need to be plugged into some form of electronic equipment in order to survive. This house has seen so many parties – children's parties with musical races across the lawn, puppet shows, treasure hunts – Christmas parties with carols round the piano, more puppet shows – soirees with string quartets, oboe quartets, flute quartets, Mendelssohn to jazz to Bach to Celine Dion. We have had game nights which have lasted through the night, cocktail parties, film showings. I have got to know so many of my lovely students here, run my baby music classes, rehearsed for various concerts; we have had countless friends for tea, coffee, barbecues, swimming, curries, of course. This house has been home to four cats, eight chickens, a million guppies, a hundred guinea pigs and my Guinny Pig. We have spent many fruitful and unfruitful hours in the garden, hours painting mosaic tiles on the walls, (more hours cleaning toilets, floors walls, but I won't go into that)
And now, with a single, four letter word, it is all coming to an end.
But the really odd thing, is that, right now, I don't care and I don't know why. Is it just that I have done all my grieving? Am I in denial? Is the worst still to come? I think that it's mainly because there is still sooooo much to do that selling the house is just one thing to cross off the list.
I think I will go and crochet a hat now. I have made eleven so fa