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

A CHRISTMAS DEBACLE

So, I expect you’ve been wondering where I’ve been for the past few months?  Oh I see, you’ve been watching ‘I’m a Celebrity’ instead of checking to see if I’ve updated any new posts.  Well, never mind because now I’ve got Mondays off, there’ll be a whole lotta blogging going on.  (Spare us!)

I finally managed to ditch the troublesome gallbladder and spent a month ‘convalescing’ under the watchful eyes of Nurses Kitty and Catty.  I’m sure they did more resting than I did!

NHS cat nurses recommended to aid recovery after surgery

Thanks to the soup and cream cracker diet, I lost a few pounds too but with Christmas on the fatty horizon, I’ve got a lot of lost meals to make up and no doubt the scales will soon be tipping the other way. 

When you’ve got time on your hands and nothing else to do all day, you spend more hours in self-examination than ever.  I contemplated my navel most days and that was purely to check on the stitches from keyhole surgery.  Healed yet?  Nope, check again tomorrow.   I did this for about 25 days before finally getting bored and moving on to obsessing over signs of ageing.

Have you noticed how pouty, pink lips suddenly become the thin red line of displeasure almost overnight?  Mine get slathered in plump action lip balms on a daily basis but there’s more substance in a plastic bag for life than in this ‘kisser’.  It’s truly depressing.

I've spent thousands on lip plumping balms!

Almost as depressing as this novel I’m reading called ‘A Christmas Debacle’ by Charlie Wat-the-Dickens.  It’s the bleak tale of a middle aged chimney sweep who finds his livelihood has been stolen by migrant children who can climb up chimneys quicker and for fewer pennies. 

On his way to the workhouse, the chimney sweep encounters three terrifying spectres:  the Ghost of Christmas Past (a ghoul stuck in the 1970s that wants to bring chimneys under state control), the Ghost of Christmas Present (only there’s no present, cos it’s a phantom Tory) and the Ghost of Christmas Future (a larger than life phantasm who is propping up the bar with a pint in one hand and a ciggie in the other). 

These three ghosts then proceed to spend half the novel trying to befuddle the poor chimney sweep with conflicting Christmas policies and half-baked mince pies.  In the end driven to desperation and trapped in his hovel by a large pile of election decrees blocking the front door, the chimney sweep dies in tragic circumstances when a small, ugly green dragon accidently sets fire to a lump of straw instead of the Christmas pudding.  

Ah, they don’t write classics like that anymore.  The sequel is due for release after 12 December.

Warning - contains distressing scenes and child poverty