Clean house, can’t fail

We might not have a dog, but we’re more than ready chez nous. The landlord came round last night to talk about the possibility, and to do a walkthrough. Cue house cleaning so fierce it needs its own montage and soundtrack.

TMM has been in our delightful former railway cottage for almost five months now, successfully managing to unpack almost nothing during that time. My visits on the weekend were usually a combination of blowing off steam, coordinating wedding business with both families, and it always ended in tears and a sulk when I had to steel myself to get up at 5 am to go away for another working week. We successfully accomplishing nothing. So, a big clean had been coming, and a visit from the landlord to vet our suitability for owning a dog/not destroying our rental was a suitable kick into gear.

The result was incredibly satisfying. This is the first house I have actually finished moving into since I left home in 2008. And, if we had a nicer couch (more to the point, a TV), I would totally spend more time in our cute and spartan living room.

Would you guess all of the furniture is secondhand? Thought so.

Not shown: Our mountain of cardboard in the other corner.

The kitchen is super cute and gets two pictures. It’s been clean since I moved in, because it’s the room I spent almost all of my waking moments in, especially now that we have a kitchen table I can do my writing on. It also has tiles, which I love. Most of the houses I’ve been in since moving here have had linoleum or similar in the kitchen. Which is disgusting. There’s nothing worse than the sticky, plasticky feeling under your feet. I blame the synthetic flooring, and the constant cold, for my bad habit of socks and slippers indoors at all time, which requires hours of barefoot beach time back in California to get in any fit shape for flip-flops.

Tiny tiny fridge

We bought a real vase for the visit. Previously had been using empty wine bottles. Classy? No. Convenient and easy to dispose? Yes.

Extra coats fight for space with aprons.

My lovely £20 Salvation Army sideboard. Stores our shoes and house slippers and looks so much nicer than anything we would overpay for at Ikea.

The bedrooms went pretty quickly. The spare room has remained fairly clean, as it’s really only being used to store our clothes and various household necessities that don’t fit in the pantry. The last few boxes, which of course belong to TMM, are also in there. I’m refusing to unpack them, but I have offered several times to just throw the entirety into the trash. TMM has not taken me up on that so far, but there’s always hope. Our master bedroom is nothing to look at, but I’ve managed to clear one corner, next to the window, where either the dog bed or crate is going to go. TMM disagrees. He may not have a choice.

And, the million dollar question: was the landlord impressed? I think so. Turns out, he’s dog people too. He, and his wife, understood what it meant when I said a dog “talks” rather than “barks.” And they were just fine with us getting a dog.

So the hunt starts in earnest from Friday at noon. We’re tackling the local rescues first, in the early afternoon. Saturday we’ll do a big birthday breakfast and then my “golden triangle” route, from Cheshire, to NE Manchester, to Liverpool, if we’ve got the fortitude. If we strike out, we’ll just try it again next weekend, and the weekend after that. We may very well break 10,000 miles on the bike in the process.

Can’t think of a better way to do so myself.

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About tara

Often heard to refrain "I left San Francisco for this?" Formerly homeschooled. Living the dirt-poor post-student expat life in various non-urban areas of England's North. Sanity preserved by cooking yummy foods for a multiple allergy diet.
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