July 21, 2016 Leave a comment
Moving property is an epic headache. It involves a ton of faffing, an almost insurmountable swell of administration, packing, boxes to carry, payments to make, contractors to organise. Even if there are two of you sharing the load, it’s still possible to shrink and crumble and nearly start crying.
When you finally get into a new property there’s an equal bulk of stuff to sort out, boxes to unpack, providers to arrange. We found a house in reasonably good condition, not requiring much by way of immediate work. “Well-appointed” is a term I recently learned. Still though, there are things that aren’t ideal, stuff that cannot be fixed or remedied quickly. The missing door of that otherwise nice enough wardrobe, that rotten corner of wooden decking, the decaying corner of a shed. That large tree in our garden is some responsibility. Is it ok? What if it blows over into our neighbours’ garden? What if its roots screw something up?
Amidst all those fears, anxieties and neuroses are unusual sudden zings of excitement, prickles of, of… could it be, happiness? Some moments you feel yourself involuntarily smiling at things, your new life, all the possible futures. This conservatory is awesome! I feel distinctly middle-aged about feeling that, but I have a great view of some distant trees and fields and do not care.
You will always have worries about work and business and finances. Only a privileged few people don’t have those worries. But this place might be your anchor. This place might be great. This place might really be home. You snort an empowering sense of hope, a fleeting bubbling thrill about what happens next.
Until you remember the wider world and all its Brexshit, the economy and business and mortgage repayments. You must stave that off.
It’s not like there was unconfined misery back in our small city flat. It was a home of sorts, comfy enough, if extremely loud with bustling banging clattering shagging neighbours, and it never quite felt grown-up like this does. This feels frighteningly grown-up.
You look at all the new rooms and wonder what domestic scenes will play out in them. We plan to stick around here for a while.
Where will we have our first big argument? Might we keep a dog in this part? Conceive a child here? Have a heart attack there? Agree to divorce over there? Learn about the death of someone in that corner? Will she bury bits of my mutilated corpse under here? (Could explain her slightly excessive interest in life insurance).
Another zing flowered up the other day, exploring our new neighbourhood and finding all the paths and tracks through woods and fields, right on our doorstep. There are chunky sizable walks to be taken. Although we’re not based far from a constantly droning artery into the city, there is definite breathing space. You can easily distance yourself from the clutter of urbanity and domesticity. Relative tranquillity is a short wander away. A walkable affluent village is picture postcard pretty, the pub appears incredibly inviting, old, wise and characterful.
Of course there’s plenty to do here in the house, things to fix, decking to creosote, furniture to varnish, intensely boring grown-up things, people to contact and contract, assurances and insurances to get. But still, it feels like there’s a chance of happiness. At least until Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin use the UK as a nuclear frontline.
Chance of Unhappiness
*Scribbled a week on.
There’s a chance of unhappiness too. You can suddenly be struck with the fearful what ifs.
What if this doesn’t all work out? This house, this home, our relationship. It’s taking quite a while to really feel like home. It still doesn’t feel like our home. It’s still echoey and a bit empty and not ours. It’s still like a rented holiday home.
We still don’t have curtains there, a door there. It doesn’t feel as cosy as our flat. Is there too much space?
Why are we so fractious with each other? Is this where we will end as a couple? Where our marriage slowly disintegrates? We were ok in the flat but here everything seems a bit clunkier, fumbling and awkward, new and unsettling. Our relationship was born and steadily grew in the flat. The flat was our womb. It was all natural and intuitive, there was comfort to be had in it being indefinitely temporary. Here, we’ve displaced it by taking a jump to something different: real grown-up permanent life. We are anxiously kicking and screaming.
You feel a strange pressure as a couple, relatively newly wedded and now mortgaged. You feel observed by people, casual figures of amusement, even if you’re not at all because everyone is busy living their own lives. You imagine them excitedly thinking: what’s next?! Because there’s this screamingly obvious script of convention that says we must have babies soon.
Look at the world right now though. It’s fucking horrible and appears to only be getting worse. Look at all the hate and division and racism and powerful idiots and the economy and finances and wages and living costs and childcare prices and university fees.
On a more personal level you’re weighted by a compelling body of evidence suggesting your fragile infant bubble of domesticity might just fail. It regularly happens with marriage. Statistics bear it out. We will try really hard to make sure it doesn’t but who can ever know what life will be like two, ten or twenty years down the line? We might be dead of obscure diseases or nuclear war.
Building a home takes work and time, yes. Potentially rewarding in the long term. But there’s a real fear that it could go to shit if we’re not careful, if work doesn’t pick up soon and my cash ebbs away and I get increasingly stressed and worried, impatient and snappy, if we never find a replacement wardrobe door and the living room always feels a bit too spacey.
[BlogShrink: Ok. Now, I’m referring you to an earlier blog-post about chilling out a bit and not taking everything quite so seriously, ok?]