Buying a house is simultaneously dull and fascinating: dulled by the sheer weight of process and documentation you have to wade through; but enlivened by the way that it impinges on faintly esoteric matters of property law and rightful ownership, and provides you with the sort of in-depth knowledge of where you’re going to live that, as a renter, I’ve never had before. Knowing where the drains under your feet go is like peering into a hole in the ground when the workmen have taken a break for lunch: a simple satisfaction of curiosity that would otherwise not even exist.
More than anything else, though, the process is time-consuming. It also takes up a great deal of mental space, which is largely why I haven’t written here recently. As I was saying to addedentry at his and j4’s simply fabulous party this weekend, my blogging here consists of having a number of thoughts which make me boilingly mad, and then writing them down. This only works when hot-headedness doesn’t make you feel drained like a nineteenth-century consumptive, which is what happens when you’ve also simultaneously got to think about homebuyer’s reports, sewerage adoption agreements and radon gas.
Still. It all proceeds satisfactorily. The estate agents have only missold on one major detail thus far, and even that might be considered to have been a typo in lieu of the HIP. As long as we get our insurances in place we’re almost ready to move. Watch this space: and until we actually complete, it probably will be a space.