I came across this blog post which mysteriously was never published this past Christmas. It perfectly encapsulates how gutted and unhealthily possessed i have been in this mammoth housing nightmare for the past year. It is testament to how fixated one can become over something as basic as a home...losing sight of L.I.F.E. in the meantime and letting a loss derail your entire life...(sigh)
Okay fine, I'll admit it. This year, for the first time I can remember, I am finding it near impossible to muster up any sort of 'Christmas Spirit'. I've been meaning to blog about this for a few weeks now, but couldn't quite bring myself to wax prolific about such a 'first world problem' and out myself as the entitled brat that I clearly am.
For you see, the entirety of 2014 has been spent in the attempt to finally procure a bigger home for our ever increasing brood. (Relax - there are no future offspring on the agenda - I just mean that the three little boys we already have are increasing in mass in what feels like a daily basis, and we are desperate for more space...like yesterday.) I yearn for a kitchen where I can scramble around, possibly hungover, without being hip-checked by various members of the family whilst trying to assemble some sort of packed lunch which won't have Jamie Oliver reporting me to the authorities (Cheesy fish, fruit roll-ups and a blueberry muffin do NOT a lunchbox make. I know this. Truly I do.)
I yearn for a KitchenAid mixer. For me, "The Queen of Baked Goods" not owning one is like Katie Price not owning a bra, or Kim Kardashian not owning Spanx in every colour of the rainbow, to contain that famously bulging derri-scare of hers.
But I digress. I've put off begging the husband for one (bless him I know he'd get me one in a flash if I bartered with a series of killer back rubs for which I am semi-famous) because I've nowhere to put it! I've long ago run out of counter space, cupboard space, and let's face it - headspace.
So it should come as no surprise to find that having found the house of our dreams, one street over, earlier in the year, and having dedicated ourselves to procuring said PERFECT HOUSE for our family, with a desire and singleminded attentiveness we haven't even applied to parenting thus far in our lives, to have lost it - suddenly and permanently - in one fell swoop last month, has plunged us (and by us I mean primarily ME) into a severe, dark, deep depression which appears to have no escape.
I hate myself for it, I really do. I hate that I have become so bloody middle-class minded that the loss of this dream home has rendered me void of all joy and hope for the future - despite it being my favourite time of the year, having all my family around me - healthy and well no less - and having so much more to be grateful for than the majority of humans.
HOWEVER...it was a damn good house. The best. The biggest. The most beautiful. And I am a lesser person for having coveted it so badly that I lost sight of everything else important in my life for so long, that now I can't find my way back to 'normal'. You see, the house was magic. I've never in my twenty odd years living in London seen a home I loved as much as this. It was like someone read my mind and created a home encapsulating every last wish and whim I've ever had since I was a child.
This past year (fantasising in this covetous head of mine) I lived through 'Nigella-esque' Christmas parties, caught Egg making out with his first girlfriend downstairs in the basement, had candlelit baths by the dozen in the sumptuous en-suite bath, hosted brilliant outdoor cocktail parties in the twinkling garden, and had friends to stay in the glorious guest suite. In short, I found 'the house' that was going to transform our shambolic lives into something resembling a Hollywood movie.
Now I must backtrack from my year-long fantasy, shake off the deep, deep despair, and make a call to our estate agent this weekend, telling him that we are taking our home off the market until the Spring. The housing market has flatlined, we are NOT moving in the foreseeable future, there are no other properties that even come close to being 10% as perfect as the one we lost, and as we speak there is a Chelsea banker with his (probably) beautiful wife and (only) one bloody child, making plans to move into our dream house in the New Year.
In the meantime, I'm going to grudgingly attempt to bake my Christmas biscuits this afternoon, make myself promise to stop running past the dream house every morning like some sort of stalking freak, and try and get into the Christmas Spirit by purchasing more tree lights this afternoon and finish decorating the tree which has stood magnificent but essentially unloved and only half-decorated for a week now in our front room due to said bad attitude.
The other morning in bed the husband asked me what I wanted for Christmas.
"That house" I replied.
He groaned, rolled over and told me to grow up.
He's right. I officially (and now publicly) SUCK.
(But I still love that house and always will, and cannot promise not to turn this frown upside down in time for the 25th. A girl wants what a girl wants...what can I say? Maybe it's time to sell and/or give away all our possessions and move back to India and live like the happy beach bums we were. Either that, or pool all our money into Egg's further education at the best schools money can buy and hope that one day in the not too distant future our Maths genius will become horribly wealthy and buy that dream house from the Chelsea banker...in cash...one Christmas morning in 2034 with a "Here you go Mama - now will you finally stop sulking and get up and make me your famous Christmas shortbread biscuits already?")