Buying and selling a house for your mother is a fucking nightmare and my once clear greenhouse of a head probably looks a little like this at the moment, the flowers dead, weeds proliferating, smashed and shredded but still there; just needs some reglazing and a bit of a sweep up, which ironically is what my Mum thinks we need to do in order to clean her house ready for sale. Its taken a very long time since an offer has been made and subliminally the removals worm has been burrowing into my head without me realising it until the last week when 30 minutes from exchange of contracts a solicitor at the bottom of the chain told us the cloaked news that they had found a problem with something they couldn’t tell us about until they’ve looked into this, giving them time to make up some bullshit excuse for their own lack of competence. But since we are now in the hands of the solicitors we can not do anything apart from spend a disproportionate amount of time on the phone to solicitors asking them for any news. They, who I now regard as the enemy at the centre of our lives during this moment, in the run up to Christmas, possibly having to change familial plans, putting my life on hold to wait until these incompetents get their shit together. Its exhausting. The lack of empathy, Grace, understanding of the ages of the folks moving and My Mum who are all over 80 years old; and one has Parkinson’s. I mean it’s just horrific. 

Writing about it makes me weary and thinking about this makes me weary, hence the lack of output, or content (as the kids call it) for the last couple of months. Hoping for a white Christmas and expecting the windows to be fixed by then so I can look out to see milky blue snow filled clouds through the green house whilst green shoots reach upwards around my feet. 

Maybe more later, Plus I can’t seem to find where Mr Fandango is again.