The next seven days at Karen and Bob’s holiday flat were pretty much a long, arduous endurance test of single parenting whilst simultaneously having to secure and furnish a house.
Simone was there at first. We met with Melissa from Bend Relocation Services who was filled with the appropriate apologies and explanations as to why she had promised something which was clearly not fully hers to give, but as I explained to her that despite my disappointment at not being able to stay in Rivendell, being angry with her seemed futile as she was helping us, and helping us for free.
We then began the laborious task of driving round and viewing properties, which due to the piss-poor exchange rate produced by Brexit Britain, all seemed inordinately expensive. We jumped on the first shithole we saw and began the process of discussion of what we planned to do to it to make it less shit. It all turned out to be academic, as after spending an entire afternoon in some soulless letting agents filling out form after form, they told us that because we were English and had no recognised credit rating, our deposit was going to have to be $7000.
Grrrr.
They could clearly fuck right off with that. I didn’t have that sort of money to tie up with nothing but the promise of a massive, transatlantic argument to get it back off them after we return to Blighty. Furthermore the principle? Did we present that big a risk to some two-bit landlord that he has to ensure we don’t default on our rent or presumably wreck the place to the tune of $7000. We explained to the letting agents that to do that much damage to the property we’d have to burn it down which would be counter productive to our interests, although at this point I kept quiet as my very first house burned down on the day I bought it: but that’s another story. We refused to pay the deposit and off they fucked. With their house.
I started to feel a bit sorry for Melissa, as she’d spent the entire time by our sides, even in the letting agents, with the passive aggressive smiles and the form filling and the broken dreams and we looked to be almost out of her hair: and then suddenly we were back to square one. So we did it all again, several times and as is usual in these scenarios, each option presented us with a different but considerable compromise. The last property’s compromise was its price, in that it was too expensive, but then again I suppose they all were. Seeing as everything else fit the bill, we began the whole tedious process again.
Then followed another, perhaps predictable clusterfuck of stressful admin, and money not being transferred in time, or in enough volume. Suffice it to say we had not got the keys by the time Simone flew off to New York. That’s right, she flew off to New York.
Simone had planned an early excursion to go to Drag Con in New York which seemed, for some inexplicable reason to be some kind of dream come true for her. She’d booked the flights long before our woes began, imagining us to be now in a relaxed and comfortable state within our relaxing, comfortable rental. The flights were too expensive to ditch, and she was meeting Frankie, our elder daughter there. Full commitment.
She left me to complete negotiations and secure the keys to the property, which I did. I got into the house and noted how very bare it was, and that even my snowboard and mountain bike would not bring this anywhere near habitable. The next day however, Melissa revealed the master-stroke. She’d spoken to the ‘Habitats for Humanity’ Restore, a Christian homebuilding charity which operate a donation based furniture shop. They had agreed to pity our plight and furnish our house for free, on the understanding that it was re-donated on our inevitable exit from the country. Back of the net.
This meant I had to go the Restore, and choose whatever I wanted from the shop floor. Now I can imagine a few people that would froth at the mouth at such a prospect: furnishing a place from Scratch? A second hand furniture store? Hell some people would prefer it to be second hand. Carte Blanche? I however approached this with a heavy heart, knowing that the many decisions I was about to make, would in their majority be wrong. Would you let your husband furnish your house from scratch?
I did consider a facetious approach, picking either things I knew only I would like, or things that weren’t obviously distasteful, but would annoy different members of my family in subtle ways. This was fleeting however, as the tone dictated a more efficient tactic. Unfortunately (meant Melissa, with kindness) Melissa was there, and like any rational female or gay man, was dizzy with the idea of a free furniture shop and an empty living room. Even if it was someone elses.
I made a few inappropriate purchases, including a massive, round kitchen table and chairs which I knew were far to big for the space but that she really liked, a toasting machine which I didn’t know I needed and a green leather chair which I agreed to yet had absolutely no intention of taking home. I also snuck a few purchases which she had vetoed in the minutes after she left, including a horrible red leather sofa which was a double recliner. A double recliner for Gods sake.
Does me being an RE Teacher in anyway make ammends for me excepting charity from a Christian founded organisation? Probably not.
I was all the while massively uncomfortable with the whole set up. I’ve never really received charity at this sort of level and it was weird: no lies had been spun in our plight, and we were genuinely in a bit of trouble having lost a lot of money, and truth be told I was really struggling with the kids and their appalling behaviour, but that was mainly because Simone had swanned off to New York. But I wasn’t desperate. Desperation is not having enough to eat, or not having somewhere free and really comfortable to stay. At any time we could have called quits and changed our return flights to the UK, and returned with our tails between our legs to our comfortable life and comfortable jobs. A bit of excitement was what I was after anyway, and the choice to come out here was one of leisure, not necessity.
It didn’t stop me buying most of the shop however, and the next hurdle was a noodle scratcher. How was I to get all of this booty back to the house, and install it on my own without my wife, who I’ve already explained is amazing at lifting heavy things? There was not time to consider that though, as I had to pick the kids up from school.
The kids were now in school yes. The reason I’ve not written anything about that, is because I had virtually nothing to do with it. If Simone ever writes her memoirs that story may be told, but until then this is my blog, and the kids were going to school, and I don’t really know how that happened.
Nevertheless I had to pick them up, and due to someone’s genius idea, their times were staggered by an hour. That meant one started an hour before the other, and also finished an hour before the other. 4 journeys were therefore required to satisfy the school run, and in the meantime all I had to deal with was Stan.
He’d been acting typically satanically: hiding under the cushions of sofas in the Restore, jumping out at people he wrongly believed to be me, whilst I fiddled with the electrical goods, prioritising the stereo system as the most important item of furniture, in some distant isle of the shop.
All together now, we met Melissa and her family in another thrift store, and whilst the kids all ran wild in the maze of remote-less TV’s and moth balled hoodies I asked what the deal was, and Melissa informed me none had been struck with this shop, but that it had some really useful items in it. On realising payment would be expected, I quickly lost interest in those items, regardless of how useful they were, and decided to call it a day.
That night was torrid. I was knackered and the kids would neither behave, nor go to sleep. I fed them and then slugged at a beer and stared into the middle distance as they bickered and screamed. We were living on top of each other. I needed to get the house up and running.