Plan A: The revival
This blog is dedicated to our mortgage broker who, in my excitement and impatience, received a text from me at 9.30 last night. He is yet to respond and I don’t blame him. Dear Nick: I apologise for my impatience and I hope you’re having a good weekend.
The last 24 hours have been a roller-coaster.
Now I’m not new to swinging past balance on a regular basis, feeling high as a kite one minute, and experiencing a rock bottom low the next; yet, even for me, the last day or two have been ever so slightly insane.
I last left you in pursuit of Plan B; a plan that seemed less viable the more steps we took in its direction. What we originally thought was a safe and robust, if somewhat expensive, option was quickly looking like a mirage in the desert: Like a promise built on quicksand and wrapped in a bow. The more we discussed our options the fewer there seemed to be, and by 8 o’clock last night we were online looking at guesthouses across Cornwall and contemplating getting the overnight sleeper to St Ives. Not, as you might imagine, to beg the current proprietors of Porthminster View to reduce the price, but to look at a less exciting B&B option around the corner.
Spirits were low and my conversation had degenerated into phrases like ‘I was sure this was the universe’s plan for us’, ‘Are we ever *big sigh* going to escape London?’, and other useful epithets. Thoughts about going back to work on Monday without this on my horizon sunk me into a further low, and all the sentiments I’d been expressing to friends, about how if this doesn’t work out then it wasn’t meant to be, were quickly forgotten. Doom and gloom turned into bemoaning our fate, and sentences starting ‘if only’ were appearing far too frequently.
It occurred to me, at that point, how quickly these plans have taken over my life. Considering it was less than 6 weeks ago that we stayed in the aforementioned guesthouse, it has quickly become all we talk about, all we talk about to others about, all people ask us about. And my pride, dear god, my pride is killing me. I don’t want to admit that it hasn’t worked, I don’t want to tell all those people that we’re not leaving London after all, I don’t want to answer the questions that will inevitably follow, or deal with the sympathetic head tilts and cliched platitudes about how something better will come along. I want to stamp my foot, eat a bucket of ice cream, and talk about the unfairness of life. My friends – self-pity and self-righteousness – will no doubt come to this party, but I suspect anyone else I invite will politely decline.
After an almost entire pot of coffee, yet more back of the envelope sums, and mainly irrelevant internet surfing we decided to phone the current proprietors to break the news.
It was during this conversation that new hope was born. Like the amateur property people we are, we’d made an assumption about a particular piece of legislation, this supposition then became the basis which dictated how we decided to proceed… and, would you believe it, we were wrong. Not only a little bit wrong, but very very very wrong. So wrong in fact that it may be we could have had the mortgage offer sorted yesterday.
Someone I respect very much once said to me that he ‘knows enough [about a particular subject] to be dangerous’, and I suspect that’s the trap my boyfriend and I are just clambering out of.
Now, frustratingly, it’s the weekend and very little can be done about the information we’ve discovered, so I don’t want to go into too much detail or start castigating Plan B as we may still have to use it. However, we now have something we did not have at 8 o’clock last night and that is hope and, very possibly, a hernia.