Archives for January 2013

On November 12 the estate agent confirms that his clients are still interested. There may be a pre-Christmas closing date. An old friend of mine from college is doing our conveyancing. We sign documents with her on November 23. I have no idea what is needed. I am in a position to definitively confirm that any slight acquaintance with conveyancing I may have had 20 years ago is utterly gone.

That very evening I have the following conversation with Michael:

Michael: Daniel is always throwing his socks down on me from his bunk.
Me: Oh dear, would you like to have your own bedroom where Daniel couldn’t throw socks on you?
Michael [mournfully]: Yes. [Short pause]. But that does not mean I will ever move house, so don’t even think about it.

I gaze lovingly at photos of the house on my phone. Mr. Waffle points out that it won’t be half as nice when we move in as it will only have our beaten up IKEA furniture. I say this to a friend of my mother’s who says, “Nonsense, your mother will be so delighted that one of her children finally has a house with room for some of her furniture that she will give you lots.” I sincerely hope this is true.

In advance of closing, we go to the house with our architect. The estate agent, annoying to the last, meets us there with the wrong set of keys. When the architect gets in he is very positive. Is it wrong to feel optimistic?

That evening there is a knock on the door. Mr. Waffle answers it. “Do you know who that was?” he asks. “It was the vendor who grew up in the house – apparently our post has started arriving there [Ulster Bank being perhaps a little over prompt]. He said that they had been very happy there and he hoped that we would be too. We start to hear things about the vendors [the children of the deceased]. He is a magician. When she was young, she was so pretty that she would stop traffic on the road. She was the envy of the local girls.

Finally, finally we close on Tuesday, December 18. With a certain inevitability, our title deeds are briefly mislaid by the courier. Never mind. It’s ours. We’ll spend next Christmas in our new house.

I finally saw inside our new house on December 20. There was a charming card from the vendors, a bottle of wine and some chocolate polar bears. It is a lovely, lovely house.

We decided not to tell the children until after Christmas because I knew Michael would be upset. On St. Stephen’s Day we took them to see it. The Princess was pleased; Daniel was indifferent; and Michael was distraught. He spent the duration of the visit sitting in a fetal ball crying. When we got back to our own house, he threw himself on the stairs and said, “Goodbye stairs”, then he turned to the wall and said, “Goodbye wall.” “Sweetheart,” I said “we won’t be able to take the walls and the stairs to the new house but we will be able to take all your things.” “Will I be able to take my pear tree?” he asked.

Over Christmas, however, Michael became resigned to his fate and even began to run around the new house as though he might be able to contemplate living there. He has a couple of months to get used to the idea because we won’t be moving in until we get central heating.

The vendors have left a book of old postcards in the house with cards dating back to the 30s sent to this address. The house hasn’t changed hands much since it was built in 1890 [I find the title deeds fascinating in a way I never did when I had to deal with them professionally – I’m going to get copies and read the title] and I really hope that we will be there for a long time too.

Wish us luck.

We have to transfer the electricity in the new house from the vendors to us. The task of ringing customer service in the electricity company fell to me.

Them: Ring, ring, ring. Thank you for calling Airtricity customer service. Please input your account number. Please dial 1 etc etc. Eventually a human being comes on the line.
Me: Hello I’m ringing about moving an electricity account.
Him: You must be Anne.
Me: Sorry.
Him: Aren’t you Anne?
Me: Yes.
Him: I was talking to [the vendor] this morning and she said that you would be calling.
Me [faintly]: Oh right.
Him: Do you want it in your name or Mr. Waffle’s?
Me: How do you know my husband’s name?
Him: Did I get it wrong?
Me: No, no, you’re right, I’m just a bit surprised. Eh, my name please.
Him: Do you want to pay by direct debit?
Me: Yup.
Him: Give me your bank account and sort code details there.
Me [Give numbers]: But don’t you need me to sign something?
Him: No that’s grand. You’re all set up now from December 18th. That’s the day you closed, isn’t it?
Me [by now unsurprised]: Yup that’s right.
Him: I have the readings from the vendor; do you want to double check them or are you happy enough?
Me: That’s fine. I really hope that they are recording this conversation for quality purposes.
Him: Ah you’re very good Anne.

Utterly painless: Airtricity, I salute you. Although, if I ever acquire a stalker you will be the first people I will put on my list of suspects.