The house hunt

Posted by Katy Regan at 08:25 on 11 Mar 2008

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In response to the person who replied to my last blog about Egg having a 40s crisis in Berlin, and said 'you know you sound married, don't you?' I know, everyone says that. Probably because we do, and might as well be.

This weekend we were more married than ever for reasons listed below:

We went house hunting together in Oxfordshire.
We stayed in a 'romantic' Cotswolds B&B.
We bickered, almost constantly, to the point we had to have an embargo on it. (It lasted about ten minutes.)
We have a child (gets me every time!)

However, the crucial detail in this whole scenario which will tell you we definitely are not married, is that we were looking for different houses. Separate houses. One for me, and one for Egg.

Yes, we are the weirdest pair in England, I make no excuses, but I can't really be bothered to go over again why we're not together, we're just not. And that's that. And I just count my lucky stars that a) we have a child together and have remained good friends (when not bickering over directions), b) we want to move out of London at the same time, c) we want to move to the same area. Chances of that happening, eh?! It's a miracle really.

And in case you are wondering, we stayed in separate beds, and the closest we got to romance was Egg driving a mile in the pitch black at 9pm to get chips from a nearby pub so that we could eat them using the top of two Tupperware boxes, whilst we watched Lewis on the television. (Aah, sounds quite sweet when I put it like that, doesn't it?)

We needed chips, and to drink our own weight in white wine at the end of Saturday, I tell you. It was an armpit of a day to say the least (although Egg said I was just being negative, a big reason for our bickering. Mine was that he rises to my hyperbole when that's just the way I talk, it's dark, northern humour, actually). The fact is, outside the city centre, in the parts people actually live, Oxford is quite grim, we found. Rows and rows of shell-like, uniform houses on bleak estates with dodgy pubs on the corners.

I know in one blog I spoke of wanting to keep it real, to find somewhere normal to live where there was a mix of people, but where were the actual people? Where was life? I don't think I can live in a place where the only sign of it is a sad plastic children's slide or two, and rows and rows of shabby gardens with student debris tossed inside.

Where were the kids playing? Where was the community? Where was some evidence that the people who lived here actually liked and cared about it? We didn't find much. By Saturday afternoon I was beginning to feel a bit depressed - the worse thing was, even the areas the estate agents said were 'desirable' looked exactly the same, except perhaps with nicer cars in the drives. It was lashing it down and howling a gale, which admittedly was not the best conditions in which to appreciate a new area and all the estate agents were really moody - probably finished with their boyfriend the night before or had their period, we decided.

Fergus, too was adding to the sense of anxiety. During the viewings, he kept disappearing into a room when I wasn't looking, and re-emerging holding a ceramic horse or some other breakable precariously in his hand, going, 'I like this mummy, can I have it?' (He's only three, not a thief.) My nerves were frayed.

So, that was Saturday. After an amazing Sunday we rambled in the Cotswolds countryside and ate very overpriced Sunday roast in ridiculously beautiful country pub, overlooking ridiculously beautiful brook with loads of horsey Londoners, cooing over how quaint it all was. God, this dinner was worth it though. And the £6 bread and butter pudding. Monday's viewings were a whole different kettle of fish.

We happened upon a jewel, you see, an Oxfordshire town I fell a little bit in love with. But because I'm mean and because I'm freelancing in town today and have to leave the house in half an hour and my hair needs straightening and currently looks like Gail Tilsley's, I shall have to tell you tomorrow.

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