Oh yes, we got engaged.

Ha ha! After a pretty shocking week which included a burglary and the kind of all guns blazing rows that would put any Jeremy Kyle 'guest' to shame, Rob and I went out for a drink on Friday 11 September and, while distracting me with a discussion about velux windows, he pulled out the gorgeous (3 emerald cut diamonds in a platinum setting) ring and, of course, I said yes! The fact that we were sitting in the gutter drinking pints outside a slightly divey pub in Victoria only added to the romance. The picture was taken by a lovely, but random, older lawyer lady who happened to be sitting nearby. I'm about twenty minutes engaged. And a bit drunk.

Initially we thought about getting married in April, but ... well, weddings are SO political and we both have friends getting married from May to Septmeber so we've gone for October instead. Which isn't a bad thing because we've got SO much to do in the next year: move, change jobs, finish my MA, build an extension. Obviously, because I'm SUPER obsessed with organising events, the church and venue are now booked for 30 October 2010 aand my dress is already on the drawing board with my designer friend Lisa. Which means I'll basically be dressed and ready to go sometime around February - if you see a forlorn looking little shape sitting outside St Faith's Church at St Cross Hospital, Winchester around then, do pass me a blanket. And a cupasoup.

And of course we are also dieting, so hopefully I'll drift down the aisle all whispy like a ballerina rather than rumble past my guests like a contestant on Four Weddings - you know, I don't mean to be mean, but they've surely had notice that they're getting married? And that they'll be on telly? They have SEEN a tv show before?

So, in the past month I/we have:

1. Bought a house in Winchester - we should be getting the contracts this week which even our solicitor thinks is very fast. Means we could be in by end of October. WOOP WOOP.

2. Got engaged.

So now we have to:

1. Move

2. Get a new job

3. Plan a wedding

4. Try not to get pregnant

5. Or fat

I think that's enough to be getting on with for now.

XX

Next!

So, of course, we went to see the Canon Street property on Saturday and, of course, I completely fell in love with it and, of course, I cried when we went to see the Stockbridge Road house because it was smaller and darker than I remembered and I was terrified that Robbie would make us buy it.

So, of course, I won - and our offer was accepted this morning! Not only is it a better situated house - on one of the loveliest streets in Winchester - but it has better development potential and, get this, is £65k cheaper!

I am so much more excited that I was about Stockbridge Road - the house is in just such a lovely location and is exactly where I wanted to be when I thought about moving to Winchester. And, another plus, it's wider than the other 2-beds on the road because it's newer so even though it's not a period property, it's better value.

Rob's already drawing up the plans :).

Anyway - we're over the moon and hope that things go okay. Am so pleased to de-register from Rightmove.com and to think about the most amazing change in my life to date: moving out of London (woohoo!) and into a lovely little home with my beautiful, fun and gorgeous boyfriend.

Speaking of whom - after horrific rows on Saturday and a wierd non-day on Sunday when we didn't have anything to do for the first time in months and were all discombobulated by it, we went for a picnic at Hever Castle. It was a beautiful sunny day and I had images of green lawns and relaxing lounging - Hever, however, is a haven for chav families with screaming kids and fake Bugaboos, and the spectacle of topless, tattoed men wondering around the beautiful late Victorian Italian gardens have been seared onto my retinas forever. Honestly - those flapping moobs and sad little bellies were hardly fitting for the former home of Anne Boleyn. We left, aghast, after a few hours because Rob was hot and threatening to take his t-shirt off, and stopped in at Chartwell on the way home - although we simply drove through the car-park, the densely packed cars were far more of our ilk and the tottering white-haired folk, clutching tartan rug and flask, reminded us that we are this far from getting a National Trust Season Ticket.

Would that be such a bad thing?

Possessed by House Freak?

Last night we managed to spend quite a lot of the evening not talking about houses – which, let me tell you, is no mean feat.

It’s all we’ve talked about for the past six weeks. Sometimes, when we’re in bed ... you know ... I close my eyes and see shaker kitchen cabinets and disastrous carpets and floor plans. It’s disturbing to say the least – having just read Chocky*, I’m more than a little concerned that perhaps some house-mad alien has infiltrated my head and emptied it of all useful items, such as how to cook Bolognese so that it tastes of something other than pan and how to concentrate at work for longer than three seconds without compulsively refreshing Rightmove.com . Must. Look.At.Houses. Gah! Even now, mid-sentence, I’m thinking – perhaps we SHOULD go see the Canon Street property, and I just sent Robbie a rather bland looking townhouse in Shawford. My Chocky needs therapy.

Anyway.

We had a little row about the usual stuff which I felt bad about afterwards because I think it’s my uncertainty at buying the house. I’m worried that it’s too much work for us and we’ll end up completely broke. I found it hard to get to sleep last night thinking those thoughts. Who can when they’re looking at having no money for the foreseeable future and a desperate need for a top which is almost a dress but not quite and can be worn with the almost skinny jeans. Oh, and the £2.5k I need to pay for my MA this year.

So, I checked with my mortgage broker this morning and have completely terrified myself (and Rob) with potential repayment options. I won’t bore you with the details, but monthly repayments on a £280k mortgage are eye-opening. I remember my sister telling me how much her mortgage was and me saying solemnly to myself – I will never pay that much. I think it was about £400.

I wonder how much our children will end up paying ...

To lighter things:

Books I’ve read this week

Savage Grace by Natalie Robins and Steven M. L. Aronson – absolutely fascinating, impressively researched but incredibly depressing. The perfect of example of what happens when you’re very bright but you don’t have to work. It was a relief when it was all over, but I still want to shake Brooks Baekeland for being such a self-absorbed nob.

*Chocky by John Wyndham – short and, as such, after the 450 pages of Savage Grace, a good read, if only for the wonderfully dated language. Really beautiful relationship between father and son. And nothing like what I remember of the children’s tv series – no pulsating triangles anywhere. Or was that just me?

The Art of Compromise

Last night, Rob and I had a very subdued celebration about having our offer accepted on Stockbridge Road with two bottles of Bulmers Pear Cider and a half-hearted row (we were tired) about how he's negative about things which makes it difficult for me to get excited: he was looking at all the bad points of Stockwell Road and I wanted to be pleased that we'd had an offer (and a good one too) on a home in Winchester.

The big problem between us in this whole affair is that he sees a house as a financial investment to make as much money from as possible, whereas I see it as a home. It's Heart vs. Head.

We fight about this constantly: we see a house together and, even if I hate it because, for example, it has bedroom ceilings billowing towards the floor with age, if it has development potential, he'll never ever discount it. But if I see something that I like but he doesn't - usually because it's been finished really well and the most he could possibly do is put up a shower curtain or a mug hook - he won't discuss it. Not in the slightest: I loved this converted chapel. He hated it. End of. He loved this thatched cottage with the most disgusting carbuncle of a 70s extension sticklebricked onto its side; I said Absolutely Not, and yet he STILL brings it up - even though the old lady who lives there won't take less than our top, top budget which would mean living there in sour-milk hell until we either inherited a fortune or I went back on the game ... I caught him with the plans up on the laptop only the other day. Seriously? I said. But ... he said.

I complain (very well), but, in Rob's defence, he helps balance out the romantic in me who'll buy a house because it has nice wallpaper/lampshades/sofas/cat asleep on the bunkbeds. And we've come up with an excellent plan for opening up the downstairs of Stockbridge Road which we can do because he's a structural engineer and knows these things, so I guess his practicality isn't as bad as I make out - although it does make compromising and liking him at the same time rather tricky.

In other new, we've decided not to see Canon Street as Rob has stated: I hate it. And because I always like to make out I'm super nice and the best person in the relationship, I've said okay, we won't see it - but honestly, I didn't want to either: I think I'm slowly falling for Stockwell Road ...

I have a viewing at my flat today. Fingers crossed ...

XX

Is buying a house the third most stressful thing in the world?

About two months ago, Robbie and I decided to buy a house in Winchester.

This may seem like a smart move – buying a home together where we can raise our cats and indulge our desire for arguing over everything. And Winchester has recently been voted one of the best places to live in the whole of the UK. I know – far better than West Norwood where we’re currently trying to keep the cats from mixing with the wrong crowd.

Anyway, it seemed like a pretty straight forward thing: we’d sign up with estate agents, roll into town with all our London lolly and pick up something huge, Victorian and sprawling in which we get lost on a regular basis, before filling the whole thing with organic products and going to listen to a lunchtime recital at the Cathedral.

But, of course, God has a thing about pretentious wankers, and so we have been thwarted in our attempt to achieve middle-class hideousness and have realised that when we decided to buy a house in Winchester, so did half of London. Because, surprise surprise, calling somewhere the best place to live in the UK, makes it somewhat attractive to those, like us, seeking a break from the concrete grey days of London town. Even the fact that Robbie grew up there and his parents live in one of the nicest areas holds very little sway when a 3-bed Victorian terrace is going for £400k.

So we have searched and searched – 19 houses so far. And Oh! what joys we’ve seen – a house with barely a bedroom on at £360k, a terrace with an overgrown quarry face an inch from the back windows and a bedroom only accessible by going out the front door, down some stairs and then in again for £325k, a house that may as well have been in the middle of the A3 in terms of car noise for £399k, and one that came with the sense that something very bad happened in the back bedroom for £340k. We have wasted so much money and time careering over Hampshire only to find the delightful period cottage is actually a campervan on blocks. For £400k.

And Rob and I have nearly killed each other and ourselves – although, that’s usually me trying to hurl myself from the moving car mid-row as some kind of dramatic statement .

BUT – today we put an offer in on a nice little place on Stockbridge Road in Winchester. It’s not perfect – parking and a busy road may be an issue – but it will give Rob the opportunity to wield his hammer, or at least show someone where to wield theirs, it’s right by the station so we can get to London very easily and our London friends can get to us without complaining too much, and it ticks the big box marked: IN WINCHESTER. And it’s pretty. Or at least it could be. Our offer’s been accepted and so it could very soonly be ours ...

But there’s another BUT – Rob’s mum went to see a little 2 bed terrace on Canon Street which is in the old quarter and right by the cathedral this morning. She loved it and really wants us to see it before we make any final decisions - location is apparently perfect - so we’re going to go and see that one on Saturday, as well as a second viewing on Stockbridge Road.

I’m guessing the tale is not yet finished.

PS – if you want to buy a flat in Streatham/West Norwood/Tulse Hill borders ... it’s very, very nice house. http://www.rightmove.co.uk/property-for-sale/property-13090251.html?locationIdentifier=POSTCODE%5E834384&pageNumber=1&backToListURL=%2Fproperty-for-sale%2Ffind.html%3FsearchType%3DSALE%26locationIdentifier%3DPOSTCODE%255E834384%26radius%3D0.0%26displayPropertyType%3D%26minBedrooms%3D%26maxBedrooms%3D%26minPrice%3D%26maxPrice%3D%26maxDaysSinceAdded%3D%26retirement%3D%26partBuyPartRent%3D%26_includeSSTC%3Don%26sortByPriceDescending%3D%26primaryDisplayPropertyType%3D%26secondaryDisplayPropertyType%3D%26oldDisplayPropertyType%3D%26oldPrimaryDisplayPropertyType%3D%26oldSecondaryDisplayPropertyType%3D%26newHome%3D%26auction%3Dfalse%26x%3D77%26y%3D5

Stupid Adverts

LOVE KINGSMILL

Alright, it's not new, but the more I see of these adverts, the more I want to enter the Land of TV and kick their sets over shouting: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Why?

Because, it's like this: all jolly family scenes, set to faux-Damien Rice type, Lucky Jim's 'Your Lovely To Me' .  In this little medley, which includes toothless grandpas and babies, we find Little Tyke who hands his dad some toast that he's just wiped around some grass with his wellington boot, and enter Middle Class Kitchen where dad and 2.4 kids sit round the table awaiting the arrival of mum's sandwiches.  

This is when I begin to hate Kingsmill and all it stands for.  Seriously.  It's as bad as chuffing Mum's Gone To Iceland, which is unforgiveable, but this one's just that little bit more sinister, because it cloaks itself in humour.  Like painting a clown face on a missile.

See: mum makes the sandwiches and places them on the table for her hungry family.  They may as well be banging their cutlery on the table and shouting UG UG UG.

My other most hated scene: mum (sitting away from family on sensible picnic chair) pulls out the tupperwear full of homemade sandwiches for the family and hands them around (because they're incapable of putting their pampered little paws into a sandwich box and removing the bread triangles themselves) at which, Little Tyke thinks its hilarious - HI-LARIOUS - to pop his tomato bits into his sister's hood.

Now, let's look at it another way.  Would we ever see Sister do that?  No, because Sister is one pubic hair away from handing out sandwiches themselves.  Sister's too busy using the lid of the tupperwear as a plate to be up to tomfoolery.

So let's have a look at what Kingsmill thinks equals a Real Family:

Mum is the food machine who waits on her family.

All little brothers are naughty.

All sisters are good little girls.

Dads do nothing - their role is behind the scenes where they earn the money that bought the food that mother uses to feed her family.

Those advertising geniuses at Kingsmill must've been flying the day they came up with THAT innovative approach.

The Results Bit

Ready? Minus 5lbs!

I know.

Luckily, Kylie left her hot pants here or goodness knows what I'd've been able to wear from my selection of kaftans.

Am feeling rather surprised and not a little - are these scales broken? But they're the ones that treated me so cruelly last week, so either they've developed a conscience or it's true. And I've managed to do it with my tipples so all is not lost. Yay!

It's a good start, though, eh? I was as 'good' as possible this weekend. I tried to eat as much within the diet as possible but I did have some pizza with William on Saturday night. But even then, I only ate the smaller slices and didn't end up feeling like I was about to give birth through my ears. I guess it's the cutting out of all the sugary shit - there's been no junk-type stuff (apart from the pizza) and most of the time I've been adhering strictly to my green day philosophy.

Things I've not done:
No lager/beer type thing, apart from a bottle of Sol at the pub with Sar.
No bucket of Minstrels at the Cinema.
Not eaten pizza til it came out of my ears.

Things I have done:
Stuck to my Green Day philosophies
Eaten more fresh veg.
Eaten bananas in yoghurt to fill me up.
Made my own breakfasts.
Allowed myself some booze.
Had one croissant on Friday morning.

That said, I was feeling pretty low and grouchy yesterday, which I think is through lack of protein - I realised that, for a pretty meaty person, I hadn't had anything closely resembling carnival for a week (apart from the four prawns in my Wagamamas rice on Thursday night). So I'm having a red day today and tomorrow - a big old chilli with no rice for tea tonight and then smoked salmon and more chili tomorrow.

It's strange how introverted you become on one of these diets, though. There's a real focus on where and how you can eat so meals out and snacking on the run become tougher to face. Yesterday I went to the V&A after a breakfast of mushrooms and tomatoes and was absolutely desperate for something sweet. Then, rather fantastically, I stumbled across this gorgeous little place called Snog which does fat-free frozen yoghurts so I had one of those with fresh strawberries and felt quite sated. Which was brilliant.

Ordinarily, I would've succombed without thinking to an on-the-run snack kind of thing which would've had cheese somewhere in it. Like when I was in Greece, I was forever eating the Cheese Pie - a kind of cheese turnover thing that was born in the Land of Lard. I had a feeling they may not be a Friend of Thin, but because everyone seemed to be eating them, they felt all continental and healthy. Not to mention the fact that the Mediterranean diet is supposed to be the best in the world. I'm guessing, though, that, in hindsight, the general Mediterranean doesn't spend all day face down in Cheese Pies. It would be kind of like me living in Greggs the Bakers which is the highway to Morbidly Obese and frequented by those who smell of fried food and make up the audience of Jeremy Kyle. If Gregg's Cheese & Onion Square is anything to go by, despite my naieve reckoning, the Cheese Pie perhaps isn't actually the food of the Gods ...

Anyway. Five pounds down, nine to go until target for October. Maybe I CAN do this.

High Five Smallwood!

XX