I’ve accepted defeat in my effort to move house. I’d thought that Cambridge offered a very decent standard of life-excellent schools, you can cycle everywhere but the four other people in our family of five took a different view.
The money that was nearly spent on the Home Information Pack, prior to marketing our London house, has been refunded by the estate agent. But I’ve not had the heart to tell Bidwells, who continue to send through details of properties in Cambridge with which I torment myself.
Visiting family there the other day, I looked at one of them. From the outside, it was charming, approached along an avenue of flowering cherry trees; mentally, I had already taken possession by the time I nosed the car back onto the Trumpington Road. Oh, the pain of disappointed dreams.
Actually, this kind of house moving, purely a figment of the imagination, beats any other. None of the Sturm und Drang of having to sell, pack up or have someone outbid us. And a tiny bit of myself knows that my martyrdom in staying snugly put in our present quarters is a trump that can be played in any of those differences that arise in even the best-regulated households. I wonder what Bidwells will send next.
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