Soon there’s going to be a for sale sign nailed to our front gate. I’m not exactly sure when that’s going to be, but soon – very, very soon. And I’m not really sure how to feel about it, in fact I lie awake at night worrying about how I should feel about it.
I want to move, of that I am absolutely positive! This house, with it’s great transport links, has served us well. But it’s time to move on, to go back to my roots and my family. I’ve given Yorkshire a try (five years and counting) and it’s stolen a part of my soul, yet I know that Wales is where I belong.
This could be the last time
I now just have to get over that ‘this could be the last time’ feeling. We threw a dinner party the other evening and it crossed my mind that this might be the last one in this house, my mother-in-law came to stay and I got quite meepy when I realised that it would probably be her last visit to this house, we had a BBQ and I wondered if it would be our last. And on it goes.
Not that I have any particular sentimental attachment to the place, I’m not really that kind of person. I kind of go with the flow, live where I need to, do what has to be done.
But you see this house isn’t just a house, it’s been my first home with Andrew (Mr Chic) and together we have stripped the whole thing back to its very bones and put our own stamp on it. We worked out what is and isn’t our style in this house. And we’ve had a whole lot of decorating triumphs and disasters – in equal measure. And through the experience we learned about each other, and we’ve learned where our skills lie (don’t let me anywhere near the garden, I kill anything in it). It’s paved the way for future homes and future projects – a trial run home if you like.
So although I don’t believe that I will be clinging on to the the doorframe kicking and screaming when the time comes to lock the door for the last time, I do wonder how I’ll be about letting go of the home that we have built together knowing that I will never, ever be coming back.
This house is filled with ‘us’ and it’s been the stage on which we have played out some of our most wonderful and terrible days. This house holds the threshold over which I was carried after our wedding. It is where we got the news of our daughter’s engagement. It is where Andrew healed after breaking his back and neck. It is, and has been ‘home’.
And now somebody else is going to live in it, call it home and play out the scenes of their life. I wonder if they will rip out everything that we so carefully built, paint over the colours we so carefully chose, obliterate us. In a way I hope they do; after all we will be but a moment in the house’s history.
But I wonder if a small part of us will linger, a smudge on the living room wall that never seems to disappear no matter how many coats of paint are applied. And I wonder if we will ever look back at our ‘home’ and call it a ‘house’.