One of the most stressful things about moving (aside from a traumatic van incident) is that once we’d moved our stuff into our new house and made it fairly homely, we were left with two rented houses which needed to be cleaned before the keys were handed back to the landlord.
Fortunately (or not) I have a big overlap, due to my wonderful landlord insisting that I either sign up to a two month notice period or find somewhere else to live (aren’t all landlords total BASTARDS). I also have an inventory proving that no one had actually cleaned the house before I got there, so no way am I spending £300 on top of the pointless £1000 in rent getting it sparkling when I could just pop in every now and then, hoover, mow, wipe down surfaces etc etc. No doubt they’ll find a reason to keep my deposit either way.
Did I mention that landlords are bastards?
Anyway, my boyfriend didn’t have this ‘luxury’, and had one month’s notice to vacate. Sensibly, he got a cleaner in to do an end of tenancy clean. She was pleasant and very chatty – and she told us that by pure coincidence she’d actually viewed our new house several times about 20 years ago, but that in the end, she and her partner at the time were put off by the very large garden.
On the other hand, we fell in love with the place partly because of the garden. It goes back 200-odd feet to the park, and is packed full of really well established shrubs and trees including a magnolia which was just about to burst into bloom (and is of course now pissing mushy petals all over the lawn, but that’s the price you pay I guess). It’s never going to be a tidy, orderly garden, but I’d rather a messy, thriving nature garden than the hell that is a plastic lawn.
It will of course need a lot of love and time, but we’re excited to get stuck in. I’m always happy to spend an hour hacking back foliage while listening to a podcast. The kids love it, and the view from our bedroom over the garden is wonderful.
I set up a corner of our bedroom with some binoculars, and my camera, so I can watch and take pictures of the birds (and squirrels) at the feeders I set up in the garden. I could spend hours just watching them come and go.
(No, I can’t see any neighbours. Honest).
Peak middle age right there, no fucks given.
Other signs I am definitely middle aged include:
Turning forty this year. I mean this is quite literal; I am at the mid point in the average life span. There is no arguing against that.
Going to Lidl and Aldi to browse the middle aisle. Sometimes I do both in one trip. I don’t even read the newsletters so it’s a fun surprise.
Only going out in the evening if I don’t have plans the next day. If I drink, I’ll probably have a three day hangover, and if I don’t, I’ll probably be too tired to do anything useful.
Never leaving the house after 8pm. Don’t get me wrong, I can still stay out and party til 2am if sufficiently lubricated, but If I’m not already out at that point then I’ve probably got my dressing gown on and I’m not going anywhere. On that note, lunch or brunch invites are so much better because they allow a day of socialising and/or drinking without the late night. Check out Manuka Kitchen which is one of the top brunch restaurants in Fulham, their eggs Benedict with smoked bacon is a real treat and there’s a lovely atmosphere – and of course you can have a prosecco or two with your brunch.
Prioritising sitting down. I’m not going to bars or gigs where I have to stand up, nor perch on an uncomfortable stool. Just fuck off with that nonsense.
Being slightly relieved when plans get cancelled. Going out is a lot of effort after all.
Having ‘bin day’ in my calendar. Missing the recycling is not an option. Running down the road in one’s slippers, dragging the bin after you at 7am is not a good look.
Owning decent slippers. I have indoor slippers and outdoor slippers and you will never catch me with slipperless feet.
And a pair of gardening shoes. Obviously.
Making a noise every time I sit down or stand up. I’m also a fan of long sighing breaths. Nothing I do comes without a soundtrack now.
Knees. My fucking knees.
Appreciating a good box. We all hesitate to throw away a Really Good Box, right? You know the kind. Thick walled. Maybe a separate lid or a magnetic closure. No obvious branding. Absolute filth.
Feeling an intense satisfaction when I’ve cleaned. And not wanting anyone to spoil it on pain of death.
Loving a nice open fire. I don’t remember being excited by this in my youth, but now it’s the highlight of my day. Using logs from our own garden for the fire = middle aged heaven.
Having Gaviscon handy at all times. I shit you not, on the second night we stayed in the house I had to get my boyfriend to drive back and collect me some Gaviscon from the old house as I’d forgotten to pack it.
Having a list of no-go foods. Ones that the effects of which even Gaviscon can’t fix. I’m looking at you, pizza.
Afternoon napping. It is one of the horrible ironies of aging that although my children are past the no-sleep stage, I will often wake up in the night for bouts of aforementioned indigestion/crushing anxiety. An afternoon nap, when possible, is a thing of absolute beauty. The holy grail.
Having a favourite pillow. I have a beautiful Tempur pillow and I sleep like shit when I don’t have it with me. (I didn’t pay for it, but I absolutely would if something happened to it. Worth every damn penny).
Loving a yellow label. I unashamedly enjoy popping into Tesco on the way back from the gym just to see what I can get for half price.
No longer finding new technology exciting. Getting a new phone is a total pain in the arse and not something to look forward to.
Paying through the nose for life insurance. Even though if I ever need it, I’ll be dead and won’t care. Responsibilities are expensive.
Owning an air fryer. And discussing its life changing properties with anyone I happen to meet.
Getting excited about home décor. I’ve genuinely just spent the best part of an hour browsing for tiles. I couldn’t even tell you what the tiles were like in the last house I owned. Big and white maybe; I just didn’t care that much. Don’t get me started on parquet flooring.
Having random hairs appear. I touched on this before but it’s absurd that it’s taken me over a year to grow out my fringe to a point that I can tie it back, yet I can somehow sprout a wiry two inch chin hair overnight.
Not really giving a toss. I would refute that with age comes wisdom but it does come with the knowledge that people are generally awful, and caring too deeply what strangers think is a waste of energy.
Read more about the house move in this post!
If you enjoyed this and you’re feeling generous, you can buy me a cup of tea or a glass of wine – or donate to my houseplant addiction fund – here.
You can also see my Amazon wish list here.