POLICE STATE

Coronavirus Hotline.  Sorry but all our operators are off sick right now.  To help us pass the time, please choose from one of the following options:

Press 1 for Self-Isolation

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Ah, must have rung the wrong number there.  I was trying to get through to NHS 111 to see how I could blag a couple of weeks off work but as the police said in The Times only the other day-  this is a national emergency, not a national holiday.  Pity.

The other half has been running the gauntlet dodging police patrols, dropping off Ebay parcels at the Hermes collection point just to keep my online sales ticking over and picking up essential supplies of things like cat litter on the way home.  Can’t forget our furry friends even in these strange times, can we? 

What pandemic?

Oy!  That's less than 2 metres away

Interestingly he reported a shortage of cat litter so I hope people aren’t using it as a replacement for loo rolls but then again if it’s good enough for kitty then it’s good enough for humans too.  I've always wanted to shit in a tray.

Sending my get well wishes to Boris, who is probably cooped up at no 11 with a limitless supply of champagne, truffles and a Brexit crossword to help him get over his sticky bun diagnosis.  No DIY for him, I’m sure. 

Meanwhile, back in the germ infested depths of Charminster, it’s a case of keep calm and paint.  One coat of white matt emulsion on the ceiling plus a sprinkling of Deco Paradiso on the walls to use up surplus wallpaper and add a bit of texture to the otherwise plain walls and hey presto, our office now looks like an extension of the corridor.

Office stripped bare of pine shelving

Preparing for a spot of papering

Deco Paradiso to the rescue

Leave to bake for 5-7 mins before hanging

Dents and marks nicely covered

Room much lighter painted Nutmeg White

STAY AT HOME? IF ONLY

Driving home from the office yesterday was amazing!  Thanks to ‘sticky buns’, I was able to put my foot down on the dual carriageway and reach 30 miles an hour, a feat that’s usually impossible in normal conditions as the roads round here are typically clogged with biddies, ditherers and foreigners who forget cars come equipped with built-in indicators.

Boris is doing a sterling job in reminding us to stay at home in these troubled times and every day that passes, I read with envy the lists of businesses that have closed.  If only!  I’ve got a ton of stuff that needs doing at home but because I work in a cash handling office, I have to drag my sorry arse out of bed every morning to face this invisible virulent foe because I can’t work from home.

While everyone else is going stir crazy cooped up with partners, pets and pre-teens, I’m wishing for 14 days of self-isolation so I can paint my home office.  How sad is that?  What’s even worse is that I don’t even consider my job as a ‘key’ position.  My company no doubt has healthy capital reserves it could call upon at times like this so making staff keep calm and continue banking money is in reality quite farcical when it should be endorsing a fortnight of paid leave in the interests of personal and national safety.

I know I shouldn’t grumble because I’m lucky to still have a job (eye roll) and my health, although my hands feel like I’m wearing sandpaper gloves thanks to hourly sanitizing.  Boris hasn’t mentioned anything about introducing special moisturising measures to pay for the oodles of hand-cream I’m going to need to get these mitts back in tip top condition but it’s something he should seriously consider. 

In the meantime, clutter clearance continues as we strive to prepare the house for market.  Already the office is looking much tidier thanks to the new cupboard but I’ve had to transfer the PC into my bedroom so that I can strip the walls down ready for painting which I’m aiming to start at the weekend.

Boudoir office

White gloss doors and beige interior

Clutter sorted and back in place

Out of sight but not out of mind

AIRBNB - DON'T EVEN GO THERE!

The year 2020 is turning into a mega pile of pants, thanks largely to this sticky bun pandemic.  I suppose I should be thankful for being alive, germ free and employed but still, it does make me that teeny weeny bit cross to think that everything I was looking forward to has been cancelled thanks to invisible bacteria.

Today, I had to cancel my holiday in Munich scheduled for early May.  Instead of using Booking.com I’d booked our accommodation via Airbnb and let’s just say that I won’t be doing that again and when I say ‘again’ what I mean is NEVER AGAIN!

Our host (I’m going to call her TFB for tight fisted bitch) refused to refund any part of the upfront deposit paid last year even on the grounds of sticky buns.  The fact that everything is shut in Munich and that on arrival we’d be forced to spend the week trapped in her room then face a 2 week quarantine on our return to the UK not making a blind bit of difference to the Sour Kraut.  Under her cancellation policy, she’s keeping our cash and that’s all there is to it.

TFB showed not an ounce of compassion in light of this global crisis and Airbnb’s convoluted ‘extenuating circumstances’ cancellation policy also ensured punters would not be seeing much of their hard earned cash returned in a hurry.  The most we can expect is a ‘voucher’ to spend next time even though there’s not going to be a next time (at least for me).  Lesson learnt – never book accommodation unless you have thoroughly checked all the small print in their cancellation policy!  

So, I’ve just kissed goodbye to £333 for nothing.  No holiday, no refund, no spending the week half pissed in some German bierkeller; just out-of-pocket misery and the prospect that life can only get worse before it gets better.

STICKY BUN PANDEMIC

The other half has now banned the use of the word ‘Coronavirus’ in his presence as he’s sick of hearing about it so from now on I’ll be referring to anything connected to this global pandemic as ‘sticky buns’.

I’ll be watching the daily news to see how many people have died from sticky buns and which countries have banned sticky buns altogether.  I’ll be scouring web pages for the best sticky bun survival tips as well as stocking up on essential provisions (not panic buying) so that I can keep eating sticky buns during periods of self-isolation. Yummy!  Always remember to wash your hands before eating sticky buns or else you could catch Coronavirus.  Damn!  I said it again!

Recycled as toilet paper

Whilst the other half hunkers down behind his beer barricade, I’ve been left to bravely venture out to Chichester for a delightful day of house hunting. 

Beer - curing all ailments for centuries

There were 4 candidates on today’s episode of ‘Blind House Date’ – a detached bungalow, a semi-detached chalet bungalow and a couple of two bed terraced houses.  It’s been 20 years since I last bought a house so to say I’m a little bit out of it would be an understatement.  My thinking is that if you apply the same mind-set used to buy a new outfit to buying a new house then you can’t go wrong.  At the end of the day, we all want a dress that looks a million dollars but at half the price, the same applies to a new house.

My first house-hunting adventure was like an episode of ‘Escape to the Country’.  First on the podium was the chalet bungalow.  Good location, plenty of parking space and lovely garden.  Nice post-war interior (being the last time it was decorated) and more cracks on show than a row of hairy-arsed builders.  Still, it had charm and without the Stannah stair lift, would make a lovely home.

Next, a quaint two bed terraced house neatly sandwiched into a row of other similar looking houses like a commuter on the 7.30 am Northern Line minus the sweaty pits.  Lovely décor if you don’t mind stripped bare staircases or walls with dents carefully hidden behind a sofa.  Deceptively spacious interior and unsurprisingly went under offer the day after I visited.

Third encounter of the property kind was the detached bungalow.  Situated at the bottom of a private cul-de-sac, I was conscious of every curtain twitching as I walked down the road to the front door.  Ah, neighbourhood watch area I mused.  Spacious interior, sun soaked South facing garden and a fug of doggy aroma that only heavy duty de-fumigation might clear.  ‘There’s a third room in the loft’ the estate agent helpfully pointed out – yes, up a vertical wooden ladder.  With my bad knees, I don’t think so.

And last but not least, the other terraced house.  Compact and bijoux were the words that sprung to mind as I stood in the centre of a kitchen the size of a postage stamp.  Spacious starter home for a midget perhaps but not for our vast collection of tat.  (I think that’s a definite NO then) 

So having met all my ‘house dates’, I came away un-wowed, un-infected and determined to spend the next 14 days on Rightmove drawing up the next shortlist of potential ‘suitors’ to check out.

Ready, steady, pack!

CLUTTER CENTRAL

Clearing out the detritus of ‘clutter’ hoarded over the past 50 years is no easy task.  For starters you don’t appreciate just how much stuff you’ve kept and when picking through it to decide if it’s being tossed out or not, you do wonder why you had it in the first place.

I mean, why on earth have I got a cardboard bottle of Southern Comfort?  I’m not going to elaborate on how this item was acquired – let’s just say it came into my possession as a result of youthful misdemeanors and we’ll leave it at that.  But in the overall scheme of things, it has no purpose other than to gather dust so it’s now got to go.

Southern Comfort still brings me joy

The fourth bedroom (for years used as a home office) is now under the clutter clear-out microscope.  It’s been the dumping ground for all those things you use every now and again but have no other place to store – picnic baskets, surplus bedding, old board games, photo albums you’ve not looked at in years and a vast array of cables/power leads that seem to have mysteriously multiplied in the dark. 

OMG - what a mess!

According to Marie Kondo, that arch nemesis of hoarders, you should get rid of all stuff that doesn’t bring joy into your life.  But let’s face it, at some point in time everything you had must have given some kind of joy.  Even that cardboard Southern Comfort bottle, it always put a big smile on my face looking over at it as I racked my brain thinking of something witty to blog. 

Still, I guess it’s now a time to say goodbye to all those things you’re unlikely to miss in your new life such as the magnetic crazy cat lady, a yellow NY cab and your collection of Clangers (no! never!).  Cheerio old friends. 

Every home should have one

Souvenir of trip to the Big Apple

Clangers are forever and not being got rid of

To help keep the remaining clutter in check, the recessed nook in the corner of the office has been turned into a cupboard.  Once sorted, whatever needs to come with us to our next abode will at least be out of sight if not out of mind.

How to hide clutter

Convert recess into a handy cupboard

Then paint it to make it look nicer

2020 VISION

Glug, glug, glug… Resurfacing from my sub-aquatic lair like a Kraken awakening after a long watery nap.  Has it stopped raining yet?  I’ve never known such a wet wishy-washy winter in all my recent years.  If I could only convert rain into some eco-fuel like Keanu Reeves did in that epic movie ‘Chain Reaction’ I’d be well and truly minted by now.

So I’ve woken up from soggy hibernation only to find I’m confined to my sopping surroundings by Covid-19 or Coronavirus, a condition that has sent the whole world into hysteria the likes of which was last seen when the Beatles played the Cavern Club decades ago. 

Hedgeye sums it up perfectly

Everyone’s gone crazy stockpiling everything from corn-plasters to Vimto.  The other half’s built himself a barricade of beer and pizza and I’ve decided dry cat food may be the answer to prospective food shortages so have purchased a truckload in case self-isolation becomes compulsory for residents of Charminster.  This is 2020 - what a crazy start to the year!

Coronavirus quarantine pod

And things are likely to get crazier still as we’re embarking on our own epic adventure to re-locate to Chichester.  Yes, after 20 years in Charminster, it’s time to up sticks and head off to pastures new in West Sussex.

Why Chichester?  Well, why not?  Having regularly visited the town during son’s university years, we actually thought the place seemed quite nice.  ‘Quite nice’ doesn’t really do it justice as it’s a jewel of a town nestling in a lovely bit of countryside.  Chichester seems to have it all – a good selection of shops in a compact and easily walkable pedestrianised zone, a Weatherspoon’s pub, train & bus station, beaches close by and above all character, something that seems to have gone out of the window in Bournemouth’s sprawling high rise, high density, student infested metropolis.

Chichester's market cross

Living in London has for many years been my life’s dream but the reality of buying an affordable property in a nice leafy suburb is less achievable than you think unless you’ve got a large tidy sum tucked away.  Short of killing my parents for an early inheritance or robbing a bank, chances of a life in London are slim hence our decision to move to Chichester.

Chichester will be a good halfway house for us, easily commutable to London (about 1 hr 45 mins to Eltham) and still within easy reach of Bournemouth for family visits.  The idea has been slowly percolating through the subconscious and now it’s time to make it a reality.

Of course you know what this means, don’t you?  There’ll be plenty of blog rants on the trials and tribulations of house buying/selling – oh the joy!  In the meantime, was that a sneeze?  Better batten down the hatches, scrub my hands till they bleed and place another online shopping order for paracetamol and loo rolls before they become rarer than hen’s teeth.

Hope she's bought enough Dreamies