Tonight I got home to find a note saying there’s a registered letter waiting for me at the post office. Which, unless something completely and utterly unexpected has arrived for me by registered mail, means I have sixty days to move out. No surprise really – they’ve already started ripping the guts out of the vacant flat downstairs and replacing it with shiny new kitchen and bathroom stuff, waking my gently sleeping houseguest Danielle in the process.
Things are progressing slightly less speedily than I hoped on the buy-a-house-to-avoid-moving-ever-again front. Sure, the bank may claim to give you an answer to anonline home loan application within 24 hours… but in practice, it goes off to their people, gets kicked around a bit, and you end up ringing them up on the good ol’ analogue telephone a week later to chase it down. They ring you back, you ring them back, and eventually you end up scheduling a face to face appointment anyway. Not very 21st century, is it.
Ah well. So the appointment is tomorrow morning. Fingers crossed that they want to earn heaps of interest payments off me. If not, I’ll have to startshopping around.
And I’m thinking about moving this site to an Australian (faster, and hopefully cheaper) web host. I reckon that move should be a little less painful.