I hope anyone out there who might be reading this post isn't anticipating a joyous account of moving home. Actually, I'm still upbeat and optimistic about how things will turn out while, at the same time, strangely depressed.
My mobile phone sparked into life this afternoon but conked out again by the time I'd taken a pic of the beginnings of the raised beds and tried to send it to my email for downloading - some things aren't meant to be and it seems it will be another three weeks or so before my new phone arrives. Unless I find the digital camera in the meantime there'll be no pictures, pretty or otherwise.
I suppose it's a given that while trying to make things better, everything gets inexorably worse (think eurozone). The upshot is that I have a front garden that looks only marginally better than a Roma gypsy encampment. It's a tip with an old hob, burnt-out oven and dilapidated sink piled on top of discarded wood, old fencing panels, rotten worktops, sawdust, clapped out electrical fittings and packing cases - all that's missing to complete the Roma picture would be running sewerage and a suitcase full of stolen Rolexes and Cartier bracelets.
The upside is that the new fence is brilliant - 5ft high and solid so the neighbours don't have to see the mess. Speaking of neighbours, I have one, who will not be named, who peeps over the fence with increasing regularity, has asked intrusive questions and wandered into the garden looking for Suki. I'm now seriously worried about not having fitted a blind at the bathroom window! One job on my list was to file down the bottom of the gate, which grates noisily on the cobble-stone path to the front door. I've decided to leave it - no guesses why. I've also reluctantly decided to erect a trellis at the front and that's a shame because I didn't want to be cut off or isolated from my, on the whole, friendly neighbours. There is, however, a world of difference between friendly and downright nosey. 'Oh, I thought you were out'; 'So, who owns it?'; 'How much is all this costing you?' I'm getting the distinct feeling that if I say one thing to one neighbour and something else to another the gossips will get together and make a bigger picture to spread around the neigbourbood. My advice to myself: Stay schtum and carry on.
P, the builder, has made marvellous inroads into myriad jobs to be done and he has the patience and kindly humour of a Saint - and he does like his tea! The ability to fix mirrors, paintings or netting to stone walls is not one of my accomplishments, neither is fitting a new kitchen but he's done sterling work and I've been very grateful for his help. His next big task is either to paint the frontage cream/ British Racing Green (the rear has gone hang for years so I see no reason to change) or to put in a new central heating/hot water system and bathroom. Either way I'll be keeping him busy for a few more weeks.
My problem now is that I look around and just see piles of boxes from floor to ceiling that need opening and furniture that needs moving from room to room. If the stuff in the boxes was any good I'd be more enthusiastic about the task but it's been in storage for two years in deepest Kent so, really, it needs to be sorted through and most of it will have to be thrown out - it's grown, it's shrunk, it's out of date. Oh, and my LPs are ruined, including my Beatles' Please Please Me: most of the covers have stuck together and the records inside are covered in a fine, pinky-coloured dust. It's inevitable that after all this time there will be casualties.
Everything seems to happen in St Marychurch, not Wellswood. If I ran NatWest and it were up to me I'd open up a new branch in Wellswood for fear of losing my custom to the local Post Office - yes, one still exists and it's run by a lovely chap who always seems to have at least two regulars in there who just go for a chat and are always propping up the counter. London this is not.
Next on the list of things to do is to find a doctor, a dentist (cap disintegrated during my breakfast of toast and Marmite), a chiropodist (not sure but I think it's either a splinter of wood or a verucca). I normally do things like nails myself but I really feel in the need of pampering at the moment. I'm holding off because I think I might regret the cost and why pay someone to do something you can do yourself? My hair is another matter and a trip to the hairdresser is in order.
So that's an update, sans photos. I'm still here and still adjusting - life in Torquay is so different to life in London; it's easy to immerse oneself in localism and forget the bigger picture (I'm talking politics here). London smacks you in the face or stabs you in the back but Torquay beguiles.
Here's Julien Parrott, UKIP Leader/Chairman of Torbay Council, in action six days ago (he's the one in fancy dress):
Kudos to the local UKIP group who challenged the flag of the European Union flying over Brixham Harbour. The sad rag has been taken down. Yippie ki yay mf.
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