Merging one boat, one house, one studio, and sundry storage units scattered across two continents into a single second floor (translation for stateside readers: third story) inner city residence? Not recommended… or at least, not as a leisure activity.
I’ve spent the last few weeks rushing about frantically packing, unpacking, purging, arranging, harassing, and otherwise falling to bits while keeping the rest of the crew in good working order.
I’m good at this kind of thing – obviously, since I do it so often.
Though everything you might imagine to have gone wrong has in fact happened. Is it difficult to locate a suitable home in central London? Why yes. Harrowing to raise the down payment and secure a mortgage when banks are not in a mood to lend? Yep. Chastening to convince the local council that relevant zoning decisions are absurd and should be amended? Uh huh.
Annoying to keep the whole thing a secret for six months because the outcome was unknown? You betcha.
It was all quite tedious, rather boring, and possibly offensive to those not in a position to purchase a property in central London. Worse yet, not interesting to write about, unless you like economy porn. And I’m not that kind of girl.