So, the mortgage offer is in, the survey's come back and the searches are under way.
I'm pleased to report that despite my house being 269 feet above sea level and miles away from any water, not to mention being a first floor maisonette, there is I'm told, 'minimal' risk of flooding. That's a relief.
I thought that this part of the process - the back and forth of documents, the read-this-sign-that-return-whatever, would be stressful. It's actually turning out to be weirdly empowering - and thanks to some highly organised solicitors, very straightforward.
What I still don't have though, is an idea of a completion date. It's now the number one question I get asked. We've moved on from the where and on to the when.
"Here he is, the homeowner!" my Dad has taken to saying whenever I get home. Few people are more excited about me moving than he is. The Intrepids have already found me a stack of heavy duty crates and some empty cardboard boxes.
"I don't think I've got this much stuff," I said, as my Mum passed another green crate up the loft ladder. I carefully stacked them by the tub of boardgames and my sister's old rocking horse.
It's strange how the emotional bit of home hunting - finding a place without feeling like a failure, doing battle with thoughts of being old and lonely and all of that - have sort of given way to the hard-headed, practical side of actually getting it done. Just as the where has moved onto the when, the why has moved on quite beautifully to the how... and for now, I couldn't be happier to get on with it.
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