… this was a doozie.
After 14 years of marriage Eeyore turned 40 and decided life didn’t amount to a hill of beans. I knew I needn’t worry: we’d talked about The Move for years without actually doing it, so I decided to humour the dear boy. He said he resented my patronising tone and that after eighteen years of living in London when he’d only originally come down for six months, he meant it this time. Knowing full well this was just another passing phase I smiled indulgently and we started the process again.
We did it all exactly as Phil and Kirsty said we should: we took into consideration commutability (7am at the desk, all that), schools, direction from London, proximity to our families, where our friends lived, my need to be near water, his need for somewhere seriously rural, etc etc, and drew a triangle on the map. Next we rang agents, scoured the internet, leafed through Country Life and started tearing open exciting A4 envelopes with glossy brochures and thrilling names on them like ‘Strutt & Parker’ and ‘Savills’. Then we saw every single benighted hovel within a 200 mile radius of London and waited until I was very old and five months pregnant with child number three before we found what was clearly, according to the details, The Home of our Dreams. Were it not too far from London and 50 miles from the sea – but hey, that Saturday we found ourselves at a loose end and set off for a look, on the basis that it was easier than trying to occupy a truculent two year old in Shepherd’s Bush. Again.
If only we’d known.