Notice: Please...

... touch your toes, ring the bell then limbo dance under the shutters.


What a fuck-up conveyancing is. Five, six households, each with their idiosyncratic hang-ups and priorities, each with a solicitor who doesn't know what attention to detail means and an estate agent with a fragile concept of truth who is focussed on whatever will make them the most money fastest. Then, when it looks like it might, just, come together, everyone has to find a removals firm available on the same day. 

We accepted an offer on the house I used to live in a year ago. Covid did for the first chain back in March and the current chain is being sabotaged by the person at the bottom who, when everyone else was planning to get this wrapped up in September, October, November, suddenly decided on Monday not to move until, ooh, shall we say February? Or would March be nicer?

The whole process needs a project manager, training for all the participants in communication and logistics, and the humane elimination of anyone who doesn't get it. Today, as I walked past his office, I went in to thank the estate agent selling the house of our buyers; he actually seems to know what a project is, is calming everyone down and is negotiating solutions. I met him well over a year ago when I started house-hunting myself, and this afternoon he not only recognised me behind my mask but remembered where I'd wanted to move to and was pleased to hear that I had.

My move happened six months ago so doesn't depend on this chaos (though my finances do) but I never, never, never want to do this again. I said that last time, 28 years ago. But if I ever have to, I shall seek out George.