Minute’s silence
done. Pantomime prep on hold (it’s written, it’s cast and we’re rehearsing!)
This morning’s cake delivered and nothing more until next week, (though a couple
of enquiries to follow up). Period pains muted by ibuprofen, and the ludicrous
and inconvenient haemorrhaging every time I stand up seems to have stemmed
itself. (Sharing. You’re welcome.)
It’s time to write the blog entry that could possibly save me from my latest predicament,
but will definitely make me feel better for writing it.
(I know, I know – my
intention was to dish the merde on Le
Français, but this new issue has splatted onto the top of the pile and sits
there, steaming away until I deal with it.)
Yes, of course I’m
aware that the world has bigger fish to fry this week (or at least one bigoted
old turbot…), and yes, I am incredibly
lucky. Don’t you think I don’t know that? I practise gratitude on a daily basis.
Religions aim it at their gods, often in the form of praise. I aim it at… I
don’t know. The universe? Nature? Whatever it is that has brought me into this
world and keeps me going, I’m grateful for. I’m grateful for beautiful sunrises
and birdsong; the sky above my head; for fresh air, autumn colours, decaff Earl
Grey and Lindt chocolate; for the ability to walk and think; see and hear; sing
and feel. And live. I know that any of these things could disappear as suddenly
as they arrived, so while they are here I bathe in their beauty, scrubbing my
back with the loofah of wonder and drying myself with the towel of
thankfulness.
I know that there are
many, many people worse off than me. Unfortunately, thinking about them at
times like this doesn’t help. It adds to my guilt and makes me speculate that
maybe I’m looking at this molehill like it’s Everest. This is my problem and whatever happens, I will
cope. It is not the end of the world by a long chalk, only the demolition of my little world, whose green shoots
haven’t had a chance to establish roots on the rubble of the last razing.
So taking all that as
read, this is the problem: My landlady is selling the house I rent.
HOW I GOT HERE
Backstory time. Be
warned, I’m indulging myself in a spot of writing here, so if you don’t fancy another
episode of Jacka-snory, move on to the next sub-heading. (Move on. Always with
the moving…)
In my forty-one and a
quarter years, I have lived at twenty-two different addresses. Twenty-two. Two before adulthood;
thirteen as a student (1993 – 1998). This is my seventh address in the last
fifteen years, and I only moved here in April 2014. In all that time I don’t
believe I have ever felt as settled as I am now.
Being the avid reader
of my blog that you are, and not just a casual glancer (e.g. someone who I
served in the Mind shop last week and we got chatting and I directed you to
this website,) you’ll know of my turbulent times recently i.e. Hodgkin Lymphoma
(diagnosed and dispatched), splitting up with long-term partner (X), moving
into home alone, depression, la la la, all since Jan 2012. X and I had a mutual
parting of the ways, but were able to remain housemates for a whole fifteen
months after splitting. Sadly, we realised that neither of us could grow in
this situation, so it was decided (again, mutually) that I was to find my own
place. I’d been dreading that moment from the minute we became single. It was
every bit as unpleasant as I had expected – trawling websites to see house
after unsuitable house. The first one I saw that I tolerated enough to view…
was here.
It had only been on
the site for a few hours. I booked an appointment immediately, and was third in
line. X accompanied me. I managed to hold it together quite well. I knew I had
to live somewhere else, and this place was OK. Not as nice as the place I was
leaving by a long chalk. Also, it represented something scary – a life on my
own, with no-one to support me but me. I’d only done that once before, sixteen
years ago – my bedsit in the town next to the school where I taught briefly.
That ended in a massive breakdown from which it took a while to recover. With X
chatting with the agent behind me, I stood on the garden decking and cried. I
did not want this, but I had it.
Despite all that, I
managed to talk myself round. There was something about this house. When I
closed my eyes, I could see me standing in the kitchen, working away. It felt
right. Yes please, I said, telling the bemused agent to ignore my tears. Ah,
but I wasn’t first in the queue was I? And both previous viewers had said the
same. The Number Ones had been rejected instantly due to their pet ownership. (Ha!
I thought. Silly cat-loving fools. I reap the benefit while you have to keep
looking, while vacuuming animal hair from everything you have.) However, the
“Number Twos” (totally appropriate name) had a life devoid of clogged Dyson
filters... and became the new tenants of the only place I could see myself
living.
I was devastated. Not
just upset - M&S upset, which is what you get when you are depressed. The
littlest, tiniest thing is magnified beyond all reason, and that’s just the
littlest, tiniest thing. Something like this set me back weeks. It was too much
to even look at a property website again. Black clouds were all around me. I
retreated to my fur-lined rut and pulled the covers over my head. However, I
could still see me standing in the kitchen, baking away and being happy. Was
this a cruel torture? Or was it a future prediction? Maybe so, because the
estate agent called me a few days later, saying that the NTs had failed their
credit check and did I still want to rent the house.
What? Lizzie wins? Not quite, as they also needed me
to prove I could afford it, which meant proving I was earning 2.5 times more
than the rent. “I’ll save you the bother of an investigation,” I said. “I’m
not.” I wasn’t far off it at that time, and a generous intervention from X (he
is a kind man, who probably wanted a kitchen of his own too – one that wasn’t
permanently coated in a thin veil of icing sugar…) meant that I was in.
I moved the day
before Good Friday 2014. I called it Bad Thursday. To begin with, my new
neighbour wasted no time in reducing me to tears. X had called to see how I was
doing, and parked his car across my driveway. Mr Cross-Pants-next-door’s first
words to me were swearing and ranting and going on about “you people” (meaning
the inferior life form that tenants are, as opposed to house owners, thus
reinforcing what I thought of myself at that moment). Apparently, he couldn’t
get out of his driveway because X’s car was near it. Not in front of it, not
obscuring it – near it. What a welcome.
Over the next few
months I did my best to settle in. A handful of pals (including one who passed
away the following year – not my fault, honest!) turned up a week later to help
me load and unload a big van packed with my possessions, of which I have a LOT.
They left me despairing among the boxes, alone and suddenly scratching away at
various bits of my bod. For a short while I was scared as this had been one of
my cancer symptoms, but the tiny red bumps that clustered below my knees reassured
me. Not cancer, just fleas. Houses absorb a lot of effort to make them homes. I
knew because I’d done it twenty-ish times before, mostly on my own. New sounds,
new places to put things, new furniture needed. Battling with bugs was not on
my list, and it compounded the pain. But I vowed it was going to be different. I
beat cancer! I can beat this! This time I’m going to be staying; I’m darn well
going to settle. A few visits from a pest control expert, and a few thousand mg
of antidepressant, and I succeeded. Gradually, I went past settling and through
to loving. I love living here. I
accepted that maybe one day I might have to leave, but that that day would be
miles away in the future. Not early next year. I am not ready to go.
WHY I LOVE IT
I know exactly where
to start: The kitchen. It was the room that made me gasp, the one I pictured
myself in. It’s where I’m sitting right now. I have different housing needs because
I work from home, and I don’t just mean gawping at my laptop. The
kitchen/dining room is perfect for me
to do my baking in. The space, the gas burners, the two ovens and the centre
island. The skylights – it’s a very light, airy house which works wonderfully
against my depression. I look out of the window and there is green and evidence
of other people. I’ve made a point of introducing myself to the neighbours and
being friendly and helpful where possible, even to the chap that shouted at me
on day one. (He’s had a couple of other rants too, and yet I’m still polite and
civil when I see him – life is too short not to be. I wish he could see past
the end of His Driveway to realise that.)
It’s not a massive
house, but it’s a generous size for one person. I have filled it with my
personality, which I never realised that I had been suppressing while
cohabiting. It’s familiar like an old friend. The squeak of the top step, the
stains on the carpet that I swear I will shampoo out when I get around to
it. When I close the bedroom door at night, I am safe and peaceful. It’s just
me and my home. That gratitude thing – I have done it thousands of times
standing in the hallway, or resting my head against a door jamb. Feeling the solid
walls almost embracing me. I am grateful beyond belief to be living here. After
that less-than-auspicious start, it has taken an extraordinary amount of
strength and self-improvement (and drugs) to get me to feel this way about this
building.
I’m also deeply in
love with the area. I’ll be heartbroken to leave the house, but desolate to
leave Dursley and Cam. It’s everything I love – open countryside, rolling
hills, trees, but also shops and people and things to do, community to be part
of, customers to be had - all at a convenient walking distance. I have never,
ever been so happily situated before. The area is something I might be able to
remain in of course, so that’s less of a concern, but still a concern.
REASONS TO STAY
When I write it all
out it seems so trivial. I expect most of you will be saying “So what? Why
should Princess Lizzie get to stay in her palace?” Sometimes I think that too,
but most of the other times I’m falling apart, or trying hard not to.
Since the spring, I
have done exceptionally well. The cake-baking business is soaring. I’ve made
forty-two cakes here, twenty-eight this year and all for paying customers. I am
following up two enquiries, I have another five cakes booked in. And I haven’t
even been advertising! I’ve been feeling so amazingly well this summer that I’m
finding the courage to charge better prices. Plus courage to offer myself as a
singer to places if they will pay me. I am poised to do that… but it’s all on
hold while I wipe this excrement from the ventilation device.
On Monday I was
beside myself with grief, and all the behaviours and feelings that I have
controlled since the spring came back in one dollop that had me pinned to the
shower, unable to move. Literally unable to move. Panic attacks can take
different forms, and some are of-the- everything – is - s – l – o – w –ing down variety. I got stuck, hugging myself and
leaning my head on the tiles as the water cascaded. I knew I had to be
somewhere and I was late, but getting on with it was not an option at that
moment. The somewhere I had to be was the charity shop where I have been a
volunteer for just over twelve months. It’s helping me more than I help it, and
this was a case in point. Knowing I was due there helped me overcome the panic.
“I won’t let anyone down,” I repeated through the mixture of tears and shower,
and gradually I was able to bring myself together. The rest of the week has
been the same.
I could do without this overwhelming tiredness. It’s sucking
hours out of my days. I get up (a struggle, as I’m often groggy when the alarm
goes), I get a bit of work done, then I start to nod off like an old person. No,
bod, I do NOT want to fall asleep after lunch and wake up a few hundred minutes
later wondering what the hell the time is. It’s difficult because bed is
somewhere warm and secure where worries can drift away. My winter duvet is
heavy and soft, like someone’s arms around me. If I need a hug (and I do, repeatedly),
that’s where I’ll go. The big D makes sleep even more enticing. The dream world
is not the real world therefore it can’t hurt me. Come to bed, Lizzie…
I don’t have much
time on this planet. I really don’t want to waste it sleeping day and night.
One of my tactics for
fighting this awful condition has been to fill my time and do as much for other
people as I can. My goodness me, it works. It’s another thing that has taken a
lot of courage and mental effort to do. I don’t want to have to set it all up
again. My new (and as yet unrevealed on this blog) hobby is also based locally.
Yeah I know I could do it anywhere, but not with the people I do it with here.
It’s close. I cycle. I walk, absorbing the delicious country all about me. I
LOVE IT HERE. I know I won’t necessarily have to leave this town. It’s just
another reason why I want to stay.
I don’t want to live
with other people. In that multitude of addresses is included a plethora of
housemates, some were born housemates, some achieved housemateness; others had
housemate status thrust upon ‘em. As I’m not good with work colleagues, so I’m
even less able with home colleagues. Living alone works for me. It’s a two-way
thing – no-one to irritate me, likewise no-one I can irritate by working odd
hours or leaving the kitchen after a marathon caking session to sleep (or even
live a few days) before I’ve cleared it up. I’m not good with through-the-wall
noises, especially bass beats or kids screaming. Conversely, I sing. Very
loudly, a lot of the time, whenever I feel like it. I’ve taken to practising
piano just before bed. I am not a quiet girl. My current through-the-wall
neighbour is so deaf that (if I had one) I could turn the volume down on my TV
and listen to his instead. This actually doesn’t bother me! At least I know he’s
alive…
The space works for
me. The lounge is predominantly a music room (see previous blog entry) housing
my piano, now furnished with the Grade 2 pieces I am fast-tracking my way
through. I’m making that dream a reality, and that is definitely thanks to the
house.
It is not to say that
I won’t find somewhere I love just as well, maybe better. The point I am making
is that I don’t want to have to. If it ain’t broke etc.
Moving takes a lot of
effort – physically and mentally. Finding somewhere, viewing it, liking it,
having your application accepted. Then all the packing and worrying while you
continue with your daily life. The day itself. The aftermath – all that
settling in malarkey, changing postal addresses for everything you are signed
up to. Getting broadband and phone suppliers sorted out. I know I’m an expert
now, but it doesn’t get any easier.
Each time I’ve moved,
the transport and assistance I’ve needed to do so has increased in size. I
can’t imagine what vast vehicle I’ll have to hire this time, nor the swathes of
mates I will have to beg to help. At least I know that there are mates. And,
like the items I have accumulated in my time here, there are many more than
there were when I moved in. Unlike those items, I won’t be having to flog them
to make space and reduce my embarrassment at having them all paraded out in
front of me and bunged in a van.
REASONS TO GO
Because I have to.
THE PROBLEM
Why can’t I remain?
The Landlady has been very kind throughout my stay in her house. She continues
to extend that kindness by offering me first dibs on the house. Me? Buy a
house? I never saw myself as a homeowner, for reasons that take us to the crux
of the matter – cold, hard cash and my lack thereof.
If you want some
figures, I can let you know privately. It might be foolhardy of me to discuss
finances in detail on this worldwide stage. Suffice it to say that I have Y% deposit
scraped together, meaning I would need to borrow £Zk to make the balance. Easy
peasy? For an employed person maybe.
For a couple. For an employed couple, lovely. Not for “businesswoman” Lizzie Lindsell,
spinster of this parish.
Everyone has to jump
through hoops to achieve a mortgage, right. If you are self-employed, they add
a few more hoops and stick them up high. Then set fire to them. Then hand you a
blindfold. I’d have less chance of getting through than a hell-bound snowball.
I have to provide evidence of my income for the past five years. As mentioned
earlier, they haven’t been the greatest five years of my life, so my income
isn’t half of what it would need to be. I’m trying to get some solid financial
advice on this, but not getting far as the advisers take a look at my figures
and, knowing that commission on £0 is £0, don’t get back to me. Not even to
laugh in my stupid hopeful face.
SUMMARY
(For the word-shy and time-pressed)
1)
Landlord selling house I rent.
2)
I cannot buy it.
3)
I don’t want to move.
4)
Please help.
WHAT
TO DO
As a true Lizzie, I am not giving up without a fight. (I
will fight first - then I’ll give up.) However the first battle is getting
myself battle-ready, through the renewed depression and everything else. I don’t need this now. The pantomime,
Mind and [new hobby] are where I’m diverting my waning energy because they keep
me sane and stop me thinking of myself. Most importantly, I have to keep
working, and working harder as my income MUST increase. Christmas is usually a
good time for sales, though I don’t have the Food Fairs any more, making it
less easy to find custom. Maybe five years down the line I will be in a
position to buy, but I don’t have five years. I haven’t even got five weeks.
The house will go on the market at the end of November.
You will argue to me that I can make anywhere my home. I’ve
done it before, you will say: I can do it again. Let me stop you right there. I
KNOW. And I will if I must because I will have no choice. Oh Lizzie, you’ll
cry, you are such a strong person. I AM. But maybe I’m fed up of being strong,
huh? Maybe I’m exhausted and could do
with some respite for a change.
I’m still trying to get advice. I’ve heard that there is
government assistance, though how helpful that will be, and my eligibility are
still unknowns.
I could try crowdfunding, but I haven’t the first idea of
how to go about it. And besides, who’d give me money just so I can live in a
house I like? There are many more, worthier causes. I’d feel a fraud even
asking.
Reading this over, I see that my thinking has slipped back
to the old “poor me wah wah wah” style which I do not want to resurrect. I need
to find the positivity. Here’s a little tip for picking yourself out of a
depressive slump:
Focus on something else.
This is so effective, but requires concentration if you’re
doing it by yourself. It’s quite easy too. E.g. walking back home this morning
I started to cry. Knowing this wasn’t what I wanted, I made myself look at my
surroundings. It’s like waving a rattle at a crying baby. A distraction
technique. The beautiful autumn morning helped a great deal. Don’t just look
though - see. I saw autumn leaves on the ground, some still clinging on, some
falling as I passed and such beautiful colours. I saw starlings taking a bath
in a gutter. A blackbird hopping about on a lawn. The sky over my head – that’s
a very good one. The sky is always there. Look up and feel its greatness. It’s
vast and it’s right above you. Listening is good too – such beautiful birdsong
on a really peaceful morning. I didn’t even notice that I’d stopped crying, and
I was no longer hunched over as I walked. A couple of caveats though: firstly,
it won’t work if you don’t want it to. You must allow it. Secondly, ignore the crap
stuff you might also see. I noticed litter and it made me angry, but that was
not helpful. Getting cross about it and even picking it up and taking it to a
bin was for another day.
The reason I wrote this is to ask for help. Help can come in
many forms. If there’s none to be had, that’s fine. No-one and nothing, except
maybe your eyeballs, will have been harmed by my asking.
CAN
YOU HELP?
I don’t want something for nothing. I don’t know what I want
really, other than to stay here. I’m an excellent tenant (no pets, no kids,
respect for the property, rent paid on time) and I always say that
sarcastically, but it’s true! If I could part-own the house, that would be even
better. Giving me a chance to build my income and investing my piddly deposit
into something that might make it grow. If staying is not an option, I will
accept it, but it will take everything I have and more besides to keep my head
on the air side of the River of Despond.
Email me at thewizzylizzie@gmail.com
with your thoughts or kind words; share this blog as far and wide as you can.
There must be someone, somewhere who can throw me a lifeline.
In the meantime I am bracing myself for the ultimate cruelty
of my situation – assisting in a house sale that I don’t want to happen and won’t
benefit from. All the stuff one does to prep for selling - I’ll do it. And with
good grace, because it’s right and that is much more important than winning.
This
lightning storm
This
tidal wave
This
avalanche, I'm not afraid
C'mon,
c'mon no one can see me cry
