Last week, we almost bought a new house.
Last week, we almost put our current house on the market.
I’m sure they’re two sentences that will strike fear into many a heart.
For us these statements are true. These two things may still happen, but not just yet.
This house we were interested in was lovely; too lovely, as it turned out. But there were a few nights when Adam and I laid next to each other in bed and did the sums out loud, discussed things about compromising lifestyles or possibly putting ourselves in financial risk. All disgustingly yuppie things to talk about, yes, but I for one don’t want to be one of those families you see on Oprah who are getting their homes taken away from them because they didn’t do their sums properly and bought a place they couldn’t afford. I for one don’t want Suze Orman coming down on us about our wrong decisions because that woman is orange, and, dammit, I don’t wear orange well.
Let’s flashback to last weekend, however; back before the sums were done and we were high on the Potential Of Our New Life Made Possible Through Real Estate. We spent half of our Saturday cleaning every window in the house. And they look nice, people. Once finished, I stood and looked out at our surrounding hills and trees and thought to myself, “Well, this view isn’t bad.”
And then during the week when our Realtors came to do our property evaluation, they stood at the same window and said, “What a nice view!”
So, we’re staying. And I’m surprisingly okay with that.
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It was also during this time when I began de-cluttering a lot of our spaces that have been neglected for some time; things like our ensuite bathroom, a scary prospect. As I threw out old canesten cream tubes and ancient makeup I came across a small bottle of White Linen perfume.
My father gave me this perfume two Christmases ago. My mother whispered to me secretly, pleadingly, to please please thank your father as he went to the chemist and picked it out himself. It was his present-buying expedition, a solo one, and in times past these never had turned out well. It didn’t this time, either, for I cannot stand the scent of White Linen – it is too heavy, too ‘mature’. I like light, floral tones, and they like me back.
So I thanked him dutifully, said all the right things, and it went straight into hibernation.
It just happens that this week I ran out of my usual perfume and I thought I would give this bottle another try; perhaps time, perhaps memory, or age, might have altered my opinion of it.
No, it hasn’t. I’ve walked around this week with an acute sense that I do not smell ‘right’. Yet I’ve still spritzed it on, and will do so until I find another right one.
So I hope wherever dad is, he forgives me for he will know that bottle is going back where it was, as I cannot throw it out. Not then and certainly not now.
