Last time out my husband was in the burning grip of a viral infection. Not to be out done, on our current trip I have wilted from the lingering effects of bronchitis. "Mother's weak chest" as it is so dismissively referred to by the rest of the family, is the legacy of a childhood spent in a charming but chronically damp 17th century English farmhouse. Thus a hint of damp in any structure can send me into a tailspin. Alas, such was the case regarding house B, as featured in my last post. We had our offer accepted, proceeded with an inspection, received the damning report, and through a paroxysm of coughing I indicated the need to call the thing off. Homeless again, and fading fast, I've begun to look longingly at the small cemetery we pass each time we drive into town. "Oh look at everyone having a nice nap," I think to myself, "Perhaps if I could just have a little lie down..."
We have decided to rent over the winter and see what comes onto the market in the Spring. Meanwhile I can't help wondering if the universe is trying to tell us something.