I should be moving house soon. Nothing is signed yet but I really do want this place. It’s less rent than this flat, it’s way out of town and it’s the house that Jack built.
Or rather, the house a hundred Mad Jacks built.
It looks like it was once a two room cottage with farm buildings behind. It’s been gradually knocked through and added to. The kitchen is immense, I could live in that alone. There are cupboards on the way to the bathroom and in one of them is a staircase that leads to another two rooms.
There is also a sweeping curved staircase to two attic bedrooms.
Rooms within rooms. Doors that go nowhere. A hidden staircase. A random toilet. This, I thought when I first saw it, is my home. It’s made out of bits that don’t really fit. Like my life.
It has a flagstone floor in the old part. I’ve always wanted that. The stones don’t have names carved into them which is always good. It needs re-pointing but that’s an hour’s work.
I’ll have a greenhouse and a garden. A dirt track driveway under a creepy tree canopy. Might need a better car than my current rusty blue Ford but it’s due for the knacker’s yard anyway.
I can be a writer and publisher in that place for sure. It’s probably haunted too.
I hope so.