Number 8 - In Which We Decide To Move House.

We live in one of those houses that is about two years old, was thrown up in a week and was then sold for more than the GDP. One of those houses that has top of the range light fittings and switches, but shoddy wiring. Three toilets costing £1000 each (yep) but plumbing that could have been done by a toddler. And very possibly was.

So when it rained indoors last year (a result of the fancy bath being attached to the outflow pipe by fairy tears and nothing else and subsequently dumping an entire bath full of water through the floor), we decided we needed to move to a house that was built properly. I would rather pay an extortionate amount per calendar month for a house that won't fall down round my ears when it's windy, as I suspect this one will very soon.

I won't miss the view of the park. I am a bit tired of seeing FiFi the Pitbull being walked by its owner who thinks it's OK to leave FiFi's shit for someone else to stand in. Our parochial little backwater may be frightfully middle class, but as it turns out, it's these middle classers that are the laziest at picking up after their pooches but are the first to write to the local paper complaining about other dogs' messes. 

Small town dramas. I shouldn't complain really. The biggest drama we've had round here recently is that someone's bike was stolen from their front garden. Headline news that. For two weeks.