Moving out
I’ve been waiting to write about J’s discovery of language, but it still hasn’t happened and I can’t let this silence continue forever, or I’ll be as bad as he is. He’s started a course of speech therapy, but there’s no speech to be therapied. But if there’s no action there, there’s plenty elsewhere: most notably the fact that we’re moving house.
It all happened rather quickly. We asked the local estate agent round to value the house, and four days later we were under offer. Our destination is the East Finchley/Muswell Hill border, a rare enclave of decent primary schools and not-abominable transport options already or soon to be populated by several friends. After quite a lot of looking and a fair amount of budget-ripping up, we appear to have found somewhere to move into. The lawyers are in action as we speak. They’ve been in action for a couple of weeks, truth be told. I genuinely can’t remember how long it takes them to actually complete their actions. The new place, other than being a fair amount further away from central London, will hopefully be a bit more family-friendly than our current house, involving significantly fewer stairs and also appreciably more en-suite bathrooms.
Exciting times ahead, then. Right now, though, times are far from exciting. They are quite annoying. They are filled with legal queries, and searches through filing cabinets in search of this or that long-forgotten document. And soon, all being well, there will be sorting and packing and moving and unpacking and resorting. Pretty damn annoying, as times go.
In unrelated news, this weekend Rachel and I went to Glasgow for the wedding of her friend Sara, who in an unlikely coincidence married a Watford fan called Simon. For the first time we left the kids for two nights, with Rachel’s parents, mine being inconveniently on a holiday of their own. We found it blissfully peaceful, and the kids seemed entirely unharmed by the experience. We must do it more again sometime.
