There's a very old little house in the second city. The solid walls contain fragments of someone else's past memories, and house rooms in complete disrepair.
For an open house viewing I wasn't quite sure what to wear, or even if it mattered to anyone else but me. During the Oxfordshire house hunt of 2012, I met agents after work and felt comfortable in shift dresses or chinos. For this little redbrick though, I paced nervously the night before. It was as though I wanted myself to be good enough for the house, not the inverse.
The quiet location, on the doorstep of the city but so rurally placed appealed to my hunger to prove my labouring and contracting abilities. The willowy trees and space to share with wonderful people echo my gradual evolution.
The full property details highlighted in bold "in need of general improvement" and from online research heels seemed out of the question. Anyway, I found comfort in layered cashmere and flats. The house, still brimming full with the late owners possessions, welcomed me. Momma and Daddy P examined the structural integrigity. Andrew tapped at walls while the drama of the situation engulfed me. Two sisters looking for a renovation project and I braved the attic together "oh lord little one, you be careful up there" one bellowed from behind as I shimmied around piles of old possessions hidden under inches of thick dust. Cici had joined us too, in anticipation of potential freeloading. From the master bedroom she snapchatted selfies, we left her pouting and continued to the garden. The agent jumped as a blood curdling scream echoed through the house "SOMETHING TOUCHED MY LEG!" Cici projected herself through the thick cobwebs to a crowd of viewers gathering their conclusions to support a potential bid. Andrew of course pointed at her shoulder and gasped "Cici what's that!?" Only to revived further screaming and mad slapping at invisible terrors #megalolz she wasn't impressed.