Moving House #1 ...

People have asked Saint Anley, “What made you move house?”
His summary answer is, “My wife!”

The whole story is, however, more complicated …

September, 2013 …
St. A and Mrs St. A are returning from home a leisurely cycle ride along the West Sussex coast.
Jane, in the lead, suddenly cries out, “Turn left!”
To turn left is not the way home, but before St. A can argue, Jane has taken the corner at break-neck speed generating considerable g-force.
Just north of a railway station they discover a new residential development where a large sign announces, “SHOW-HOUSE OPEN.”

To view the show-house requires people to go through a comfortably appointed sales office.
Veronica, the sales exec., greets them engagingly.
“What is your situation?” she enquires.
By this, of course, she intends to discover how serious we are about relocation.
Within moments Jane has divulged every confidential detail of her assets, our savings and investments.
“No, our house is not on the market,” says Jane.
“Ah,” says Veronica, “Have you heard about our part-exchange scheme?”
“Now, this sounds interesting,” thinks St. A, but Jane, true to form, does all the talking.
“From what you say,” says Veronica, “You should be able to make this work.”

St. A trembles at the thought of relocating all those redundant items that have been carelessly stored in the loft over 15 years.

“Would you like to view the show-house?” enquires Veronica. “This way.”
In deepening depression, St. A follows.
“That’s lovely!” says Jane as we enter a new, clean and tastefully appointed entrance hall.
We are guided through room after room that have all the character of a home that has obviously never been lived in: immaculately clean, no mess, no clutter.
The furniture and decor are not completely to our taste, but it’s only the show-home after all.
We sit for a while in a light, airy conservatory.
“Is the conservatory included?” asks Jane.
“Errr, no,” replies the sales exec. “For twenty grand we can put one on,” she adds in an undertone.

At this juncture, St. A’s depression achieves the quality of terminal melancholia, as he consumes all the complimentary boiled sweets that are on offer in every room.

We return to the office where Veronica plies Jane with all sorts of promotional leaflets, plans and artists’ impressions.



Artist's impression.

Veronica recommends a solicitor and a mortgage broker.
St. A looks on and listens in silence.

St. A reluctantly agrees when Jane says that we will go away and think about it.
After all, there's no urgency; most of the development is far from complete.

That same evening, a Saturday, Jane studies all the documents in mounting anticipation.
St. A dutifully prints out a copy of what joint finances we think we might have.
“We can do this!” declares Jane excitedly.

At 7.00pm the telephone rings unexpectedly: “Hello, I am a solicitor. I hear you are interested in a part-exchange deal with [housing developer].”
(Now, how does he know this?)
St. A passes the phone to Jane. There follows an animated conversation to which St. A is not party.

Phone rings again: “Hello, I am a mortgage broker …”
“Jane, it’s for you!”

“Right,” says Jane later to a morose St. A, “We’re going back tomorrow!”

St. Anley endures the first of many sleepless nights.