Picture the scene, if you will. A late night, a mildly drunken (and bloody cold) bike ride home, avoiding the detritus of youth resplendent in sheer stockings bent double on the promenade, skipping the worst of the hills, and arriving at a sleeping house rather flustered, and very much ready for bed. The door opens. Primarily because I put the key in and turned it before pushing, but let’s not spoil the mood. I begin the trial of manoeuvring the bike into the hallway before realising that that ball of ginger mischief is three feet away, having spotted the outside world and, more to the point, an opportunity for a stab at freedom. Well, when he sees freedom it really is conditional. Conditional on his knowing damn well the food will continue to flow. Continue reading
Well, now that was a strange and rather stressful series of events. I am trying to buy a house for myself and my ginger cat. Because my good friend Si Fenton (see his blog here) has decided for some reason that making a new life in Senegal is altogether more attractive than continuing to live in Brighton, attending to the needs of some of the more unfortunate of our society. Good luck to him, though he has his gris-gris, so he’ll be just fine. Well, that and the fact that he’s a thoroughly good bloke … he will make a real go of anything he does, and will make friends anywhere. Dammit, he even made friends with me, an I’m a cantankerous fucker at the best of times.
So. The house. At the last minute a problem appears, and I mean at the last minute, and I mean a problem. I revise my offer to take it into account … I won’t go into the negotiating process because it wasn’t a negotiation.
Suffice to say that at three yesterday I wished the vendor luck, and realised that I’d be homeless in a week. Oops. This was problematic. And stressful. I viewed another property, but no. I managed to find somewhere for myself and the mog, and that was that. I was looking at imposing myself on a friend (and imposing the mog, too) for longer than would be comfortable. I slept poorly, and irritatingly (apparently). At times like this the PD does seem to get worse.
This morning I woke, got on with stuff. Noted that the fridge had vanished, sold (as expected) and continued to transcribe the interview I’m currently writing up with King Mob, the new band of Chris Spedding, Glen Matlock and Steve Parsons.
The plumber appeared, and the heating came back on. The house I was buying came back on the market. Then, out of the blue came a mail asking if I was still interested at the price I had moved to. Excited, trepidatious, I checked with my builder and a friend … the answer was yes. So, suddenly I have a house again. Barring last minute madness, I’ll move in on Friday.
But if all looked rosy, I received a call from the hospital. My MRI scan revealed a slap lesion and a labial tear in my left shoulder (Googlers beware). No wonder it’s sore! No wonder my average has reduced … could I make an appointment on Friday? I laughed … Friday week, yes … So. I see the specialist. Within six weeks of this they’ll do some arthroscopy. Then I’ll spend six weeks, maybe more, with my left shoulder in a sling. Then a month or three of rehab. Good lord. I’ll be a mutant by the end.
But … I’ll have a fantastic house, my shoulder will work, I’ll have finished my novel, my play. Life will go on. And I’ll be right in the thick of it.