Let us consign to the trashpits of memory the adrenalin build-up of this morning as I fought my way out of the traffic I was trapped in within a mile of work (major crash on the ring road up ahead, judging from the amount of time I was sitting there and the ambulance that dashed past us), arrived late at work, and discovered that I’d had two extra appointments booked for the slot of time that was supposed to be left free so that I’d be on time for my appraisal even if I overran, and, oh, by the way, dear old Mrs Jones is here to see you again wanting an emergency appointment, so when the hell am I going to find time to make this phone call and get the money transferred?
Let us, instead, skip forwards and focus on the fact that it was indeed transferred. Or so the very nice man on the other end of the bank’s helpline assured me, before reading me some sort of Standard Disclaimer about their total lack of responsibility if ‘system failures’ then meant that the money mysteriously failed to show up in our solicitor’s account before close of day. If it does go through and everything else goes according to plan (believe me, I am vividly aware of the size of that ‘if’), then exchange of contracts will take place today. So I will get home tonight to find that either we’re once again homeowners, or my husband has been reduced to a gibbering wreck and collapsed in a heap sobbing “The contracts! The terrible contracts!” I can hardly wait.