Housekeeper's Diary

In the deep dark night I wake myself up by bashing myself full in the face and stare at the angry red letters of the alarm clock startled to see that it is apparently £2.99 in the morning. The world has gone mad again. Too many blankets tangled around my legs and the sighs of a dog sleeping at the end of my bed, punctuation to my worries. What on earth are we going to do? (sigh). How in the name of all that is rosy am I going to carry on paying for the bills and council tax on not one, but two houses if the sale on my little cottage does not hurry up and complete? (sigh). Why is there never any escape from money worries? (sigh).

Ste has lost his job. And in the limbo period between two houses we are churning up the creek without a proverbial paddle. Though reason tells me I should be frightened out of my wits, I am not. Money isn't real. I understand that and I have been self-sufficient long enough to know that I have survived worse. Much worse. But oh what a plain old bummer life is at times. At each and every turn it feels like two steps forward and three steps back and the timing could not be worse. 

Luckily in the face of crisis I am nothing if not stoic. And so I am doing what I do best. Filling the fridge with meals fashioned frugally from what we have. Mopping the kitchen floor in lavender and lime to lift my spirits. Planting copious pots full of salad. The garden already brimming with rocket, and lettuce. Making Finley howl with the kind of dubious laughter inspired by both mirth and tweenage embarrasment. Reminding him that we are quite safe even when I don't feel it myself. Selling our old life on Ebay. Working late in to the night on BrocanteHome. Running in and out of the house to see whether the noise in the chimney means the wood pigeons that live on top of it have actually fallen in. Scrawling plans for our survival on a whiteboard and jigging the budget around YNAB over and over again until it makes sense.

This then is an opportunity to cut away the froth decorating our lives. All the nonsense we have carted from that house to this. It is a chance to concentrate our combined efforts on cutting corners. Establishing what really matters. Doing car boot sales (oh how I HATE doing car boot sales). Cajoling solicitors and estate agents to get a move on. Teaching Ste to mediate so his brain doesn't burst with worry. 

Onwards and upwards. It is already £10.99 in the morning and I have got a to-list as long as my arm. Time then to show the universe, yet again, exactly what I'm made of.

And that m'dears is steel. 

On My Wishlist...