I'm not superstitious - I was born on the 13th. I was 40 on Friday the thirteenth . For God's sake there's nothing more to fear on the 13th day than any other, is there?
The trail of detritus that is Cs unfinished paperwork continues. Just had another android on the phone - but this time working for Cs bank. He's forgotten to pay his credit card and as I'm not officially authorised to have access to his account, sorting the whole mess out took an age. When I finally got to speak to a human she was so sweet and as I blurted out the scenario to her she just said 'oh bless'. And so it was that I burst into tears talking to a call centre in Birmingham. It's time I got a grip.
I love my little house. OK technically it's not mine in an 'ownership' sense of the word but it certainly is territorially. I exchanged proprietorship for tenancy 14 years ago, and it seems to me that if you do have a mortgage instead of a rent, when you do finally finish paying it off the government take the house off you - because by then you're so ga-ga you need care that you have to forfeit your house to pay for. Anyway I do love my little house.
I might be able to be philosophical about repossession of former marital home but actually the whole thing was a bloody nightmare. To cut a long story short, I was not in a position to pay the mortgage as I had chosen to put career on hold once I had H and be a stay-at-home-Mum, so when I found myself unexpectedly as provider as well as home-maker I couldn't afford the mortgage. Six months of hell and brinkmanship ensued during which time I managed to sell the house and seal the deal with one day's grace before court proceedings were due to commence. In the run up to completion the sale was on/off on a daily basis and so when it was finally confirmed I had eight days notice to clear the property.
I remember sitting with the Yellowpages, ringing round every removal firm in the district, trying to find one that could both move us out and take the furniture into storage with just a week's notice. Finally one nice lady in Windsor said they could accomodate us and their manager was in the next village so he'd pop in and price the job. The gentleman came, I levelled with him and assured him he would be paid, he agreed to use my furniture as a bond and even suggested that I negotiate with the guys on the day to move basics (mattresses, sofa, bedding, clothes etc.) into the hostel.
The bitterly cold November day came and I watched my life being put into boxes with the same sense of uncertainty when thinking about the future that I experience now - but for other potentially more devasting reasons. The guys who moved us were so kind and helpful and non-judgemental. Then three and a half months later they moved us into our new home as I had been lucky enough to be give a housing association house in one of the most sought after postal districts in England. It was only when I was chatting to them after they had tirelessy deposited my surfeit of furniture into house, attic and overspill into garden (yes I was downsizing), that I discovered they were in fact the Queen's personal removal team. The day before they had taken Princess Di's clothes up to London for the charity sale. I was moved into my council house by hands that had shuffled the Queen's bedroom furniture around the week before.
I was so lucky to be given it. Although things were a bit dodgy at first, we formed a resident's association, worked to settle confict and managed to turn the estate around. And I am blessed with the nicest, kindest neighbours anyone could wish for. It seems both a long time ago and also only yesterday. The kids were so young and now they're so grown up.
Sometimes only egg and chips will do and this is one of those moments.
Speak soon. A soldiers Mum x
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