Bitter and twisted.

Part six (I’m running out of fractions).

I’ve waited and waited. I’ve phoned my solicitor’s answering machine three times a week. I’ve browsed the internet and drooled over or ridiculed the latest offerings. I’ve despatched the daughter to Kenya, not without incident… Two weeks or so before due departure date I discover that the malaria pills still have to be obtained. I inform said daughter, who goes off on a rant about how she’s too busy to deal with this  so I obtain malaria pills in my own name . When I try to arrange a time to drop these off I get a message…’do you have my passport?’… WHAT????? Many texts later I turn up at her work to get her keys to search her flat (‘what’s the f*****g point I’ve turned the f*****g place upside down, why the f**** do you think you will f*****g find it when I f*****g can’t). After an exhaustive and systematic search which took three hours and finished at 1AM I lifted the top end of the mattress (I hadn’t bothered as she’d already looked……) Guess what…?…’

She didn’t enjoy her time in Kenya and has not communicated since her return.

Luckily the same doesn’t apply to the solicitor, who, after a protracted absence (during which I left many messages about the whereabouts of a large sum of money I left in his client account with which to pay the death duties) has returned refreshed from his hols and has lots to say. Most of it relates to the track behind the house and the rights of way involved. As far as I can gather the track is owned by two or possibly three (or maybe four?) individuals, some of whom may or may not be related. Some have granted right of way, some haven’t, some may be the same person. My solicitor is a little concerned that there may be a traditional West of Ireland feud in progress. This could mean stony silences in the village shop. It could also mean rusting farm equipment dumped in the track, potholes the size of jeeps left unfilled (and unfillable), piles of slurry and assorted detritus strategically placed outside gates and shotguns poking through the gorse. It is just possible I am entering the Irish version of the Ozarks, with the Beverly Hillbillies for neighbours. We shall see. Apparently mineral rights on the land belong to the Earl of XXXXX…. I shall be sure to inform the appropriate parties if I hit black gold while digging spuds!

As far as completion dates go, I am awaiting a substantial package from my solicitor. He assured me during a phone call on Thursday that it should be with me on Friday, or Monday at the latest (as it was posted on Friday I would be more than impressed with same day delivery!), however today is Tuesday and my hall is innocent of post…

The predicted date is the one Hans had originally proposed. I have failed to shunt it forward, and I begin to suspect behind the scenes machinations between solicitors (well I have a holiday booked, so if you could hang onto the paperwork until I get back… Oh you’re off away yourself? Anywhere nice? The Maldives? Really?….). In the meantime I have amused myself by vandalising property descriptions found online… (it’s quite satisfying)

Ad for some farm buildings outside Ballybebolloxed....  the red bits are mine :-)

These ruined houses are ideal for some one that wants to put their own stamp on their home. But to be honest, it's far more likely it will stamp on you.  This is an ideal opportunity for someone looking for a lifetime change. And this indeed will be the change of a lifetime, bankruptcy, hypothermia and probably trench foot (not to mention divorce, though that could be part of the plan)  This property is sure to be of great interest to all types of buyers looking for quality grazing land. So long as you aren't planning to keep anything bigger than a pygmy goat on starvation rations. The site has road frontage and is south facing. It's an access road to a farm, so all the mud and cowshit you could wish for, not to mention the maniac in the tractor coming back from the pub at 4am.... Just as well it's south facing, though that end probably doesn't have any windows.... It is good quality land that could be easily developed Into a bog, or somewhere to dump wrecked cars, Ballybebolloxed is situated on the XXXXXX coast of Ireland, about 70 minutes from XXXX City (if you are lucky enough to own a helicopter).

There is a rich diversity of wildlife to be found in the area usually outside the pub or church, with many rare and unusual plants (unless the Gardai got there first) .

This is a small farm holding consists 0.5 acres of quality grazing land  For rabbits and other small animals who aren't fussy about a diet of bog grass and gorse It can easily qualify as an organic farm  as there are no sanitation facilities, so you will be self fertilising... and with the help of a poly tunnel and glass house self-sufficiently is very achievable  (providing you grow a high yield crop such as weed), after planting some fruit trees... etc  (that's what they mean by etc...).Private water and drainage.  Otherwise known as a stream and a bog.

There is a Daily West XXXX Rural Transport Scheme Serving Communities in West XXXX and this Community rural bus service has a door to door service at very reasonable rates and it is even free of charge to senior citizens, you just give them a ring and let them know that you are going to town today. They might get to you sometime next week....

South-West XXXX is commonly referred to as the Irish Riviera. But only by people who have never seen the Riviera. It's easy to see why when you see the fantastic beaches and colourful (mostly grey, except for the pub pavement on a Friday or Saturday night) villages that hug a stunning coastline warmed by the Gulf Stream all year round (locally it's experienced as a permanent dense, damp sea brume).

Electricity, telephone and broadband  are things that you will dream, and possibly hallucinate about on a stormy November night, as you come to realise that once the buildings have been made habitable, that is to say, including a roof and maybe windows, you will no longer be able to afford these luxuries). Oil fired central heating  is on the neighbouring farm.

Price offers in the region off €29,000

BECAUSE OF THE WORLD PROPERTY COLLAPSE IT MAY BE IN YOUR INTEREST AFTER LOOKING AT THESE PROPERTIES TO MAKE A SENSIBLE REALISTIC OFFER BASED ON THE SELLING PRICE OF SIMILAR CURRENT PROPERTIES. But it's unlikely the owner would actually pay you to take it off their hands.

On a happier note….. While browsing the property sites (as usual) I was looking a stately Georgian piles (no, not haemorrhoids), mainly to compare and contrast with Himself’s pile (ahem….). There are some very beautiful and even reasonably priced properties out there. Probably because the maintenance costs are so astronomical that the owners simply want something to pay the heating bill with when the bailiffs arrive and then move into the mobile home down the bottom of the garden. This brought me to the arse end of the listings, which I usually ignore as I’ve seen it all before. It seems Shorty has slipped a sneaky one in. Remember that dream cottage? The one I got gazumped on (much to the relief of Himself and my solicitor)? It’s back on the market! The sale has fallen through. I can only suppose that the absent septic tank, the gaping trapdoor/boobytrap and who knows what else has put the buyer off (most likely on the advice of her surveyor). Now I probably shouldn’t feel smug… but….. Himself was persuaded to send an email enquiry asking whether it was still for sale (not that I enjoy rubbing it in or anything). If I get bored I may amuse myself by firing off stupid and irrelevant questions about it (all that time on eBay hasn’t been wasted!).

While I’ve been waiting for not much to happen, I have been making a start on tidying up my own place. I’ve always disliked white UPVC windows…. Until I spent the last four days scraping, sanding and filling my quaint Edwardian paned bedroom window. Bring on the plastic! Four days and I’m only two thirds of the way through prepping, and that’s just the inside! For the outside I will be dangling from the dormer in my climbing harness, praying that the timber I’m suspended from is sound and that I’m not about to go arse first into the pyrocanthus. Maybe I should trim the pyrocanthus and buy a ladder?