Solicitors
My next battleground. On top of a broken roof, it appeared that we had a leak in the bathroom seeping down through the lounge ceiling. By this point, I’d had enough of problems and worry, so I drew up a list of our ‘red-lines’ for the solicitors, an ultimatum. Sure they were positive. Of course, it’ll be fixed in time. So I took a gulp and signed on the dotted line.
And then the paper trail began. Searches had to be ordered on our new property, but at the same time, there was an issue with the ‘Leasehold’ on our flat, which needed to be signed off by our upstairs neighbour, who was of course, out of the country. This was all par for the course so they said, it’ll all come together. I didn’t share their optimism one bit.
There was, apparently, an ‘anomaly’ related to the back door of the new place. It had been damaged in the past or broken into we feared, leaving some unattended paperwork to be resolved by the solicitor. Also, there were insurance arrangements needed to be sorted out to do with the shared access to our back gardens. My head was literally in a spin by this point.
…and still, as the moving date drew nearer, we hadn’t exchanged contracts.
Moving Day approaches
I reluctantly organised a removal firm, with a date ‘pencilled in’ for the 15th. It can change they said, some don’t exchange to the day of the move, but if the date does change, we can’t guarantee we’ll still be available. Once again, I took a leap of faith.
I called up the solicitors one last time, on the 14th, the day before the move. In her usual carefree/vacant manner, she informed me they’d already been signed and we were good to go. I felt the stress release valve give out a little steam, but not too much. The worst was still yet to come.
We hadn’t done much packing, of course. That was right on the bottom of our list of priorities. Our boiler had finally given up the ghost with a mere 24 hours remaining. Should we leave it for the new owner or do the right thing and summon Fergal the Boilerman? As luck would have it, he was available the next day, the day of the move at 12 pm, but crucially it all relied on the part being delivered beforehand, one single part to rule them all.
This, of course, presented a new set of problems. First of which, to remove our washing machine we needed to disconnect the water (don’t ask), which we couldn’t do until the boiler was fixed. Solution? Delay the removal company a little, move most of our stuff out, and do the washing machine last. Bad move, but I’ll come to that.
We then ran out of packing boxes, so I jumped in the family car, itself on its last legs due to battery issues etc. It couldn’t could it?, on today of all days.
It did.
More Car Trouble
As soon as I pulled away, a brand new error message appeared on the dashboard. “Pull Over Immediately”. I had now entered panic mode.
Riding our luck again, we happened to live just opposite a garage. The exasperated salesmen had tried to sell us an upgrade for some time, but we just couldn’t manage it financially, and here I was, cap in hand, begging for help as the removal van arrived over the road.
With a calming cheery demeanour, he immediately diagnosed the issue as oil and went about replacing it with a can he had sitting on a shelf. Problem solved and I was on my way, guaranteeing him payback. Sadly, I never did manage to thank him properly, the garage now being replaced by a co-op.
B&Q was welcome respite as I picked up some more boxes mercifully without issue. I was ready for the final push, or so I thought.
The Keys to the castle
By this point, Fergal had arrived as the flat was getting cleared. More good news, the part had been delivered (thank the gods) and we were still in the game, hanging in there, but only one trip away from disaster. Next, pick up the keys!
A truly proud moment to savour. I pulled up into the Morrisons carpark in Whitley Bay about to embark on a new chapter in life. All the hard work had paid off and I was about to receive the keys to our new home, our future. I walked beaming into the estate agents bang on 12 pm, thanking everyone for getting us here. Even the keys themselves seemed like a huge upgrade, I couldn’t wait to get moved in. I had till 5 pm to return with the keys to our flat, plenty of time wasn’t it?
Back at the house, Fergal’s job was done. Boiler mended for the final time. What a hero. The two-man removal team were making great progress. This was it. I took the strain off again, strolled down to the new place for the first time for a look around. As I turned the key and opened the biggest present I’ll ever buy it hit me what an improvement it was on the old flat. No rats, no broken boiler, loads of space, front and back gardens, more rooms, huge windows. I checked out the bathroom to inspect the fixed leak, and my heart sank again.
Final Sting(s) in the tail
The vendors had, of course, confirmed the leak had been corrected in writing before exchange of contracts, although they had refused to fix the roof. This proved to be a lie as we visited the house before the move to confirm it definitely was NOT fixed, so I should have expected this. To be left without a working toiled on the day of move though, this was getting too much.
A plumber was arranged for 3 pm but we had the biggest and last problem still to deal with. The rapidly approaching 5 pm deadline!
By now the house was about half-way clear, not a problem I thought, we can organise something, the estate agent will understand. However, this was the law of the land we were dealing with here, and at 5 pm the flat would no longer be mine. We had the kids toys still out in the backyard as 4:30 pm approached and our buyer demanding my keys. I pleaded with the estate agent for an extension. But they were packing up, going home for the day, rules were rules, no exceptions.
At the 11th hour, a compromise. I suggested handing the keys to the buyer direct at 5:30 pm, to which, after an agonising wait, was agreed. and the final remnants of 18 years at my home were cleared out forever.
Farewell 207
I know it’s just a house, but it was such a cruelly rushed goodbye. I suppose I entered the house a boy at 25 and came out a man at 43. Did I have my best years here? I met my wife, got married and had 3 children. 207 is where it all started. Friends, family all still alive in my time at this house, now sadly gone.
But as the empty shell revealed itself once again along with the mould and decay, we all knew it was time to move on, we’d outgrown the place.
Martin, the new owner reminded me of myself when I first bought the place 18 years ago. Full of hope, excited to be getting on with fixing it up. I handed over the keys with a pride in knowing we’d brought it up-to-date as best we could. As he entered his new home for the first time I beat a hasty retreat around the corner across the road. Who knew what nasty surprises he had waiting in store. The boiler? , the mould? the wrecked floorboards?
Home Sweet Home
Back at our new place, the removal lads were sat in their van, chilling out with a smoke waiting for their payment after their herculean shift. Of course, we’d almost doubled the removal fee by now, but I didn’t mind. I thought I’d do something nice, give them a tip, an excuse to walk around to my new closest cashpoint. “Get yourself a drink tonight lads”.
We had moved. But my good-nature had backfired again. I’d given Martin my mobile number, in case of an emergency. He was using it.
Ten minutes later I was back at 207. That back door really did require a bit of a knack to close it. Panic over, but more importantly no complaints about the boiler etc. What a relief. I picked up our table carousel leg from the backyard, stealing a final look around a place we had such big plans for, but never got round to implementing.
The hardest, most stressful time of our lives was now over. We looked from our bedroom window over the picture perfect quiet cul-de-sac out front, and then through another bedroom window onto gardens as far as the eye could see. Winter was coming, and the place looked even more beautiful with a covering of snow.
All the doubt’s had vanished. The toilet leak was fixed, the roof was quoted as a £200 fix. We had an (almost) brand new boiler, new electrics and acres of space. We’d been wishing, hoping, praying to be in the situation we were now in. The simple things, walking around the corner to our new local Chinese, it was now real. We’d made it.
Dads can do anything
It just goes to show, even if every single conceivable hurdle is placed in our way. Even when that little voice in your head is saying don’t do it! Even if it seems illogical or financial suicide, Even if luck has turned against you and you haven’t got the physical or mental energy to carry on. When you’re a dad, it doesn’t matter, you can’t be beaten. Dads can do anything.
The best days of my life aren’t behind me at 207, they’re right here, now. As Queen said, “These Are The Days of our Lives”.
There was still the 60ft Eucalyptus tree in the back garden, but that’s another story.
More from Dad Diaries:
Dad Diaries : The daily struggle
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