Well, the grand old dame on Crawford Street (and I don’t mean me!) was well and truly tarted up and she sold for a pretty penny. But what a process it was! Plasterers, painters, home inspector, floor plan drafter, stagers, and photographer. The last time I sold a house, way back when dinosaurs still roamed the earth, the prevailing wisdom was, every time a prospective buyer dropped by, you were to have hot, just out of the oven, muffins, spreading their wonderful aroma throughout the house. You didn’t even need to do anything else.
Nowadays, valkyries from Valhalla (or Storm Troopers from Star Wars, if you’d like a more contemporary image), descend upon the house, spread out like locusts, and pack things up faster than one could imagine. I had to rescue a pair of shoes, my phone charger and the TV remote before they were banished into boxes. I still haven’t found my hand weights or some of my winter walking clothes. I finally found my running shoes in a box in the garage. There are things I’m sure I won’t find until I move.
And so the deed is done, not without some sense of sadness after 33 years but sadness mixed with relief as I know it is the right thing for me to do. Now I am onto Mission Number two which is to find another place to live. Change is definitely hard but it is also good. And as the good doctor said in an episode of “Call the Midwife”, as he was consoling his teenage children about their impending house hold move: “The memories don’t stay with the house, the memories come with us”.