But Lo . . . The Perfect Farm

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Ah yes, he giveth and he taketh away. Shortly after discovering a house I hadn’t really wanted had been sold, I began thinking of nothing else, berating myself for the lengthy whiteboard sessions in which I weighed up the pros and cons in pens of different colours instead of  driving into town and handing over the money. I imagined a life in the house, a life that included freshly squeezed orange juice on the terrace, a little sketching, tiling in oversized man shirts and felt wistful.
Anyway, then I had a call saying there was a farm for sale, not too far away: small, habitable, with papers and electricity, and cheap. I went over the mountain and down a bumpy track to see it, and it was perfect: a ramshackle gem. If we bought it, said the farmer, he’d throw in a puppy. Ah well . . . that’s a yes!
Then a price was named that was €50,000 over the maximum, I took some photographs of donkeys and we all drove back in silence.

One thought on “But Lo . . . The Perfect Farm

  1. Lottie Nevin says:

    Grrr, how frustrating. I love your fantasy of tiling in a turban, I do just the same, not the turban, I mean I picture myself getting stuck in to some project looking bohemian and lovely, healthful and energetic but the truth is nothing like that. All work here has come to a grinding halt because we’ve run out of money, and far from the bo-ho chic look, I’m looking distinctly frumpy sat here in my fleece, my roots need attention and I’m longing for a lottery win so that we can get on with phase 2. I feel your frustration!

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