If there's one adage I have never paid attention to it's : "If you can't say something nice, then don't say it."
I mean, that's the whole point isn't it? Saying something not nice is ofter funnier, definitely bitchier, more therapeutic and infinitely more interesting (if unkind) than being all hippy dippy happy and 'Everything's great man'.
I've been warned numerous times by certain family members that my constant moaning about our seemingly never ending house woes are not unlike ones' dreams and holiday pics: no one but yourself is ever interested.
And then there is the fact that much of the world is in turmoil at present and being preoccupied with what is essentially a first world problem is, I understand, off-putting at best. But if we have to sit through ridiculously sappy Christmas commercials on telly in early November, then maybe there is a place for the odd self-obsessed rant here and there, non?
At any rate, I've been unable to blog for a week now because everything I have to say is 'house hell' related and going to be horrid and mean and denigrating to those in question (our evil and hirsute freeholder and useless and curmudgeonly solicitor for example).
But just now I was forced to drop everything and sit down and type out this 'totally going to regret it tomorrow' blog. You see if I don't, given what I've just learned, means I'm either going to suffer a massive heart attack (brought on by sheer rage and a rather unhealthy wine dependancy as of late) OR I'm going to send an unedited, completely emotional and ultimately destructive email to certain unsuspecting parties, bringing this whole hellish house on wheels nightmare to a grinding halt.
I almost don't care.
Next week is on course to be the most stressful week of the year. It is the culmination of two years of house viewings, two broken hearts over two dream homes lost, and two very at the end of their ropes people who are probably technically perfect candidates for divorce.
Next week we are juggling three transactions (two sales and one purchase) and I have just been informed by the husband (who has passed Upset, not collected any Good Humour, and is hovering around Old Kent Road ready to figuratively knife someone...or maybe that's me) that our utterly lackadaisical solicitor has booked a weeks holiday to Italy - get this - NEXT WEEK!!!
There are no words. Part of me wants to be all "What will be will be, Man" about it and just chill the heck out. That is 1% of me. The other 99% of me wants to scream, run naked through the streets, and get picked up by mental health services, before being pumped full of enough calming narcotics to knock out a horse.
As it sit here with scowling resting face (take that, bitchy resting face) swinging my leg in a manner not unlike a soon-to-go-on-the-rampage-mental-patient, I can take solace in the fact that we've this week finally exchanged on one property, and are thus therefore 1/6th of the way there.
On the other hand, tomorrow we have to haul three kids back to our old flat and spend the day packing up tons and tons (and tons) of crates of old belongings and furniture and nostalgic items from our 'yoof innit' (the whole reason I can't just chuck the whole lot out...nostalgic sucker that I am) then spend hours ferrying the whole mess back to our already heaving home, where it will sit until we move.
If we move.