Okay: Here's some more for the stout hearted.
Henry. What am I to do? There he is, alone in the dark office on the coast - 26 miles away. We're in psychic, sympathetic communication, but I think I did better when I had him with me, in Louisville. I will bring him home. But maybe I should carry him with me! He would be on his own 9 hours a day in the house. He'll get dirty and torn up if I carry him around... We'll talk.
My house. I own 45 square meters - surveyor said it was the smallest house he'd ever measured. It had shrunk and shrunk in my Louisville memory, but what I find is that it has two rooms, and a kitchen, little conservatory, and roof space over the kitchen. Two rooms in winter! The toilet and shower are 'closets' off the 1st floor room.
The two rooms are not, in themselves, small. A bit less space than my L'ville apt., but hey! This one's an 1830s treasure, all modernised and nicely decorated.
So, I haven't put it on the market.
I did get the Gas Co., with whom I have an annual maintenance contract (for this one year, while I was away), to come look at the fountain gushing from the vacinity of my mains tap. Your Move, my letting agent, had advised me there was nothing they could do - it wouldn't be covered by my service contract.
But you know what? The gush was on the house side of the tap; lovely young man tightened up that olive, cut off the gush. Now the utilities cabinet, house wall and goodness knows what else underneath are drying nicely. True: had it been the olive on the supply side LYM would have smiled and advised me to contact my water supplier. YrMv took the wrong executive decision.
Problem probably arose when Mid-Kent Water, said supplier, fitted a water meter 3 months ago. What's that about? They didn't check? No one was home...? (I'll get the bill for all that gush.)
If I ever let this house again, Your Move will not be my agents.
And then there is Magical Mike. Other immediate problems (I don't need compensation from the tenants for the marks on the wall or mattress) included the faucet that dripped all the time before I left! And the 3 (of 4) downstairs ceiling lights (we're all posh and modern, with embedded spots) didn't show. And the conservatory doors didn't glide. Now they all don't drip, shine, and glide! For £22! He can come and fix the front door where the wood's split and the weather strip is broken; and the pelmet of the conservatory doors - held in place only by the vine bush plant thing - any time he likes!
With these immediate matters attended to, there are painting the front, refelting the kitchen roof, and dealing with the conservatory to address. I had the Brilliant Idea - completely independently of Henry - of getting Alan, the Surveyor of Old Buildings, to write me specifications for the work. Then I can give the specs to competing building firms - a private tender process! And can discuss options, esp re the roof, separately from an implementer's interests. I don't have to do it right away.
I should be able to fix the decoration failures myself - where new wood has shrunk, leaving cracks. (Henry smirks, says 'and you'll do this when?)
There needs to be a cash flow plan for all this. I finally today ordered $2000 back to the UK from my UK account. But I feel broke. Someone leaned or knelt on the bonnet of my lovely baby Nissan Micra. I reckon it was while parked in downtown Dover. But how often does a person examine one's car for harm? Normal course of events and all? - vandal!
I've brought several loads of stuff back from storage. My darling velvet winter trousers were in the last box.... I'll need storage furniture if I'm to bring more back.
Aha. If I am to survive for more than another decade (I'm 59 in 3 weeks) perhaps I need to embrace the loss-sprites, the nature of my life. Not try to see it as 5/5ths full, but just as what it is, a transit involving loss but also Henry and V8 juice, my Micra, occassional good weather; Jill. Perhaps that stance will empower proper exercise, proper drinking habits, humility at work (that is another post!). Be real; identify sentimental feelings and try to understand them, don't force 'joy' that I have now both Faversham and Louisville to love. These things are to be insightful notions to float; injuctions just don't work.
Being alive means an attitude of joy, at least optimism, something positive not down negative, so I and Henry think. But I can't think/dictate/sylogise myself there: it can't be pretended or manufactured. So what is the process, given what shit pain life deals? We all must be thistle-lovers, keeping an eye to the clotting rate of our blood. (Grasp thistle; attend to excessive outflowing of life strength - get reflexology/shiatsu/therapy/love when needed.)
I miss my parents, several thousand miles away; and my Louisville life and new growth. And I miss Henry, 26 miles away! They'd all be telling me to go to bed, for goodness sake! I've refound the blog; there is tomorrow!
Good night Henry, wherever, whoever, you are.
