Jayney rambles...

The 'will we, won't we' saga is ongoing...much to our continued frustration...

It appears that something is stopping the ultra-proceedable oldies/self-professed local celebs from proceeding. We've had several excuses, so many in fact that if there was a guide in print entitled 'reasons to give to stall on your house purchase' then I'm sure the ones we've had would be in chapter 1, right at the top of the list.

So lets have a look at the top five excuses given by our ever-stalling, time-wasting buyers, shall we? In reverse order, they are:

5. 'We're too busy to pop into solicitors with our completed paperwork right now.'

4. 'Our solicitor is too busy to give us an appointment.'

3. 'We saw the solicitor last week, we thought we were going to be signing our contract then, it's his fault. And, by the way, what the hell is this talk of a exchange/completion date next week (fained shock horror)?!'

2. 'We have concerns about a proposed (small and of no consequence to the sale at all) development on some land somewhere else in the village (and we still haven't signed our contract, 3 days before the proposed exchange date), we now demand to know what you know about the development...and, just to pi** you off, we want to come and view the house again on the weekend, so that we can wander around and pick holes in your lovely home just one more time.'

1. 'We can't possibly exchange contracts today (on the agreed exchange day, when the people we have agreed to buy from have paid for removals, a new bathroom suite, furniture, cattery and a rented caravan so that they'll actually have somewhere to sleep while the building work starts on their forever home)...and, by the way, we're away for the week now, and we now want a survey.'

Can you believe it??

In looking back, over the last six weeks, we remember those immortal words 'you should accept our offer because we're cash buyers, we have a good reputation in the town, and we can complete within two weeks if you want to.' What we've actually been on the receiving end of is 'we'll find every reason to hold you back from moving into your forever home, just because we can, and by the way don't you know who we are?!'...

The countdown to the big move has been under way for some five weeks now. In that time we have dealt with Mr Twatagent and a town full of dodgy estate agents, wobbly emotional sellers and twitchy buyers (yes...us, two weeks ago). Our relationship with the lady whose house we are buying has turned decidedly frosty, (after we dared query some crumbling plaster on a damp wall), and our buyers have been utterly silent ever since their offer was accepted (which isn't doing much for the husband's tendency to act as doom monger). We've even managed to reach an understanding with our lovely builder, who will be knocking down some walls and gutting 60's fireplaces through the bank holiday weekend and beyond. We thought nothing else could go wrong...

Last week, all three of the solicitors involved in our (very tiny) chain agreed on working towards a completion date of 27th August. The theory was that, because our new house is empty, and our buyers are cash, that it should all be simple. Straightforward. No problem.

There we were, on Monday of this week, expecting to be exchanging contracts by the middle of this week. The superagents, bless em, assured us that everyone knew what was going on, all the parties were up and gunning for the 27th completion, and all of the contracts were tickety boo...

On Monday it transpired that there was a potential issue with some land registry paperwork from our seller. The surname on the deeds didn't match the surname on some other piece of documentation - in fact, there was a difference of one character in the names. This was addressed, and fixed, very quickly over the telephone between solicitors. So we were all ready to go ahead then...

Yesterday (Tuesday) our buyers solicitor decided to ask for a pile of paperwork that, not only is not vital to the purchase of our property, but could have been requested four weeks ago, at the start of this process. Our solicitor, again, was swift and sorted that little lot out promptly.

Today, on the day that we were told that we were going to exchange, we find out that our buyers have not even signed the contract. Their solicitor informed ours, this morning, that they intended to 'get their clients in to sign over the next couple of days' (oh, I see, stalling tactics eh??...and this is even more nectar for the doom mongering husband). We also discovered, to our horror, that for some reason our buyers believed that we were exchanging in September...September!!!

As it stands, we have: forked out deposits for removals and cattery, paid for wardrobes, booked builders, booked relatives for wallpaper stripping duty, bought a new bathroom suite and new lights. We've spent a bloomin small fortune, and let's not even talk about the survey and legal fees...

And we might be moving next week...or we might not. Needless to say, copious amounts of alcohol are being consumed. If you happen to run into the doom monger over the next week then please be gentle with him, he's ever so slightly stressed.

At long last, we had finally sold the house, and secured the potential 'forever' home, (otherwise known as a 3 bed semi with room to improve).

We agreed it was the right place for us. Plus, it was £20k cheaper than all the others we'd looked at. And okay, so there was some work to do, (knocking down walls and de-oap'ing it mainly), but a few flowery carpets and a house full of dodgy wallpaper wasn't putting us off.

The husband drew up the first of his many spreadsheets, (did I mention that he has a spreadsheet for absolutely everything?), and we allocated a budget for the work to be done.

The current owner of the new house was kind enough to let us go to the house a couple of times, (taking the builder in, measuring up, plotting on just how soon that horrible flowery wallpaper could be pulled off, you get the drift). Then, three weeks into the buying process, the first twitch came. From me.

'I can't put the cats at risk on that road!' I wailed, hankie in hand. The husband looked at me with that 'aye up, here we go' expression. He knows the drill; hear me out, give me the option to change my mind then let me realise what a silly girl I've been for having the twitch in the first place. But this was different - I couldn't tell him the real reason why I was getting cold feet...

Before we sold the house, I'd been in touch with a Medium (yes, one of those people who professes to talk to dead people...have I mentioned my fixation with the afterlife? No? Remind me to tell you some other time). I had been feeling a little like I'd lost my way, and thought if I could just get some insight into how things were going to pan out, then that might help. I didn't actually go and see him, oh no, my 'reading' was conducted over the phone (after I'd given the all-important credit card details).

He spent 40 minutes going over my 'situation' (career, bereavements, health, etc). But then, when I asked him about the likelihood of selling our current house he told me it would be 'at least after September, by the time you sell.' That was in July, a week before we sold the house. Ok, I should have dismissed this charlatan the moment that offer came in, but I'm all for giving people the benefit of the doubt, fool that I am...

I had also asked the medium to confirm if the house that we wanted was right for us. He paused,(I assume to check with his property experts in the spritworld, or whatever), "Don't touch it!" he warned. "It's got trouble written all over it...neighbours, security issues, plumbing..." And this was the house that we had secured for a month while we tried to sell ours. At the end of the reading I replaced the receiver, made myself a coffee and pondered on just how I was going to get us out of the deal concerning the alleged property from hell, without letting on that I had consulted a medium about it - hubbie doesn't go in for all that 'is there anybody there' stuff, so I couldn't let on that I'd spent thirty quid on it while he was out. I decided that the cats on the road excuse was the best one to try...

Meanwhile, the husband arrived home from work, and I had made my sweeping statement about the cats and the road. "There's a gorgeous cottage for sale in Newton village" I said, grasping for a lifeline, "I've made an appointment for us to see it at 6.30, let's just make sure that we're buying the right house before we go ploughing in." He let me ramble, like he does, then we got into the car to see the 'gorgeous cottage'.

Of course, the cottage needed a ton of money spending on it. It was never, ever going to be ours, but still the husband went through the viewing with me, and then let me see sense...that we had already found our forever home, and I just needed to get over my twitch. After the viewing, we got into the car, where I came clean about my dabblings with the spirit world. I expected a lecture, a rant about 'spending thirty bloody quid on a crook' and a lot of head shaking from the husband. Instead, he put his arm around me, muttered 'you silly daft bugger' with a smile on his face, and we got on with the business of finding a solicitor to organise the paperwork for our new home.

So, we made the decision to move, (or rather hubbie made the decision and I agreed with it). The house went on the market in January, and we waited...

and waited...
and waited...

People came trudging through our house who hadn't even put theirs on the market yet. After some stern words with Mr Twatagent about only allowing serious buyers to view, it went very, very quiet. Then, two months later, a couple came back for a second viewing who 'didn't have anything to put on the market to allow them to buy' - the perfect buyers, or so we thought.

They spent over an hour wandering around, sitting on our sofa's, lingering in our bathroom. Then they went away, with a promise that a decision would be made within 24 hours...

'The lounge is too dark' said the woman, the following morning, (I should add here that our conservatory positively drags the sunlight into the lounge, kicking and screaming, it is the second best room in the place). This was clearly a lame excuse. We pushed Mr Twatagent to fully investigate the 'financials' of these super-proceedable buyers, to find out just what the hell was really going on.

Two hours later, the phone call came. 'They have a house, but were thinking of selling it to someone in the family, so technically they didn't have to put a property on the market before offering on yours.' Oh, so no chain then, just a long wait for someone in the family to agree to buy the house, raise the funds, get the survey done, organise the lawyers - excuse me Mr Twatagent, but that looks awfully like an unproceedable buyer to me...

After three months, (and more than one occasion where unproceedable buyers turned up for viewings that hadn't even been mentioned to us), we decided that the lack of interest was purely down to the delightful Mr Twatagent, who had overvalued our house by around £20,000, and in a deepending recession!

We brought in a more agressively-salesy agent. The Superagents valued our home at £20k less, gave us lots of postive schmuck about how they 'get houses sold because we're the best at what we do, that's why we don't negotiate our fees'and so on. We signed the contract.

We waited. The viewings started a week later. They came. They viewed,whether they had wanted a bungalow or not,(one young man was dragged here, bewildered,in Mr Superagent's car on the tail end of viewing some buy-to-lets, 'just in case'). A middle-aged couple came wandering down the drive, unannounced, only to do a complete u-turn before they even reached our front door, they 'didn't like the area' apparently. At the end of the second month there was still no offer. We decided that we had to take matters into our own hands. We called a meeting with The Superagents to discuss our progress...

We were in mid-summer. Houses had come on to the market, much later than ours, and sold. All around us, people seemed to be grappling over taps, lights and toilet seats before exchanging contracts. In a fit of rising agitation, we sat down with Chief Superagent and had a heart to heart. Meanwhile, The Superagents had taken us to a house that we loved, and we secured it under a conditional offer, for one month, while the gloves came off and The Superagents made a concerted effort to sell our house, at a further reduction of £10,000...

One week went by, then two, then three. Nothing. Not a sniff of interest. We resigned ourselves to losing the new home, staying where we were, decorating, staying put and getting on with life. On the final weekend, three days before D.Day, we were getting ready to go to a family wedding and the call came. 'A couple in their mid 60's, cash buyers, in rented, needing to move fast'...

We cleaned, very quickly. Cats were ushered off beds and into the garden. Mascara was applied, outfits put on and away we went to the wedding, watching the happy couple make their vows, while all the while our very souls were back in our bungalow, following the ultra-proceedable oldies around each room.

At the reception, some two hours later, the longed-for call arrived. They loved it. It had everything they wanted. They didn't particularly want to buy in our area, but they couldn't afford the area they did want. Here's their offer...

I watched the husband's face crack into a smile, then a frown, as he took the call outside, on the golf club's patio. 'Well, thank them very much for their offer, but no thank you.' It was five thousand pounds under our newly-reduced price. Ten minutes later the second offer came in. Hubbie gave the same response. Still two and a half thousand under our asking price. No more phone calls, the office closed at 5pm, the buyers went away to think about it. Outside, on the green, the scorching sun was replaced by drizzle. It reflected our mood perfectly. I was convinced we'd lost the oldies. It was a lovely wedding, but a fracious weekend followed.

On Monday morning, at 9.15am, I flew through The Superagents doors, like a human whirlwind (with a walking stick). 'Whatever you do, don't lose those buyers!' I ranted. I was assured that we would have closure by the end of the day. And sure enough, we did. The oldies scrounged a further two and a half thousand pounds from their children, and agreed to pay the asking price. We had sold and secured our new home, one day before the new place was to be released back on to the market.

But the fun had only just started...

Let’s do the time warp again…

On the west of the South Wales coast, nestled between Bridgend and Swansea like a snail desperately clinging to a rock, lies the small seaside town of Porthcawl. The beautiful, rugged coastline swells its way around the resort – making it a haven for surfers all year round. However, if when you visualise surfers, you imagine a hip and happening town, full of bustling wine bars, cafes and trendy shops, then prepare yourself for a little bit of a shock – because this is a place that is stuck in the past. It simply refuses to join the rest of us in the twenty first century.
But there is a kooky quirkiness to this town that draws thousands of visitors year after year, and ensures that property prices here have seen one of the steepest rises in the UK over recent years. Something must be right, but what is it exactly that draws people to Porthcawl and why do people want to live there?
Porthcawl is home to some 18,000 residents. The average age of the Porthcawl resident 10 years ago was probably around fifty (we shall call these the old money, because a lot, but not all, of them are comfortably retired local business people, determined to prevent change – any change). However, in recent years, among the odd OAP, younger residents have started to move in. Huge plans for regeneration constantly hit the planning department, only to be bounced back for ‘suitable alteration’ to be made; ‘It’s not in keeping with the tradition of the surrounding buildings’ (i.e. rundown, paint - cracked Victorian relics) is a favourite objection. And so it goes on. The locals are splitting into two camps – and the war for development, and ultimately the survival of Porthcawl, is well and truly on.
Spring is a time of rude awakening in the town. The first inkling you get that things are about to perk up – after the howling winter – is the emergence of the dreaded ‘road-train’. This is a road vehicle, with an engine about the size of your average lawn mower, which miraculously manages to pull around five carriages full of what the locals affectionately call ‘trogs’ (otherwise known as holiday makers) around on a ‘unique thirty minute excursion’.
Much loved by the trogs and universally hated by the locals, this yellow and green painted being crawls its way from the Eastern Promenade up to Rest Bay and back again. It is a journey that would take three minutes in the average car, but takes this vehicle some thirty minutes! It has a crew of two; one to drive, and one to give the guided tour talk (although what on earth the commentator can find to talk about over half an hour defies belief!). The first part of the journey takes in various sights: Coney Beach on the Eastern Prom, the ancient harbour where fishing boats in varying stages of decay compete with brand-spanking new schooners, Pietro’s – the home of the industrial strength cappuccino (which you will need if you are yet to face the excitement of the twenty or so existing shops in the town centre) and the excellent relatively new bar, the Waterfront.
The highlight of the first part of this tour, and on a scheduled stop so that the punters can get their cameras out, is Esplanade House – known locally as ‘The Bottle Bank’. This aqua and grey building (complete with porthole windows) stands, like a shining beacon in a sea of crap, bang centre on the main promenade. So named because it provides hours of fun for local teenagers, who try to see which of them can successfully land their bottle of cheap scrumpy cider on the highest balcony. This building caused the old money to practically riot (complete with walking frames) when it was built to replace the rapidly crumbling Esplanade Hotel, which had stood for hundreds of years.
The road train then heaves itself up from the blue-and-gold-painted promenade to Rest Bay: one of the best beaches in the UK (usually with a further trail of at least thirty local vehicles crawling behind it). Overlooked from the hill by a huge nursing home for OAPs (my rebellious late Father, then aged 71, got himself banned from here in 1998, for stealing the gardener’s quad bike and driving it across the huge lawn singing ‘Rawhide’ at top volume) this stretch of prized beach is much loved by young and old alike. It hosts many a surfing competition, and is probably the jewel in Porthcawl’s crown. The road-train does a U-turn here, and takes the (much quicker) downhill journey back to where it started at the Eastern Promenade, where it splutters and takes a deep breath before leaving on its quest to piss the locals off for a second time.
Travel half a mile towards the west of town and you will stumble across Coney Beach – land of candy floss, toffee apples and fish and chip stalls. These stalls surround the fair-ground and face the huge sandy beach, the rickety engines of the park whirring, whizzing and creaking their way through the spring season into high summer and beyond. It has been rumoured (for at least ten years now) that this piece of Porthcawl history has just seen its final season, and will be replaced by yuppie flats (the plans have gone in to the council - I won’t hold my breath).
The six weeks of school summer holidays see a huge increase in the number of visitors to Porthcawl; the 400 metre stretch of eastern promenade (known locally as ‘Camper Alley’) fills to capacity with tourists trying to avoid paying extortionate parking fees by parking their recreational vehicles on this road. This is another source of great despair for the locals, and is the subject of many a letter to the Glamorgan Gazette from ‘not happy of Nottage’ and co.
Autumn brings cooler weather to Porthcawl, and with it comes the famous Elvis festival. Elvis mania grips the town like glandular fever, and hundreds of fans from around the world flock here for just three days. There are endless hours of Elvis tribute artists, Elvis surfing, Elvis face painting, Elvis speed dating, Elvis karaoke – and the chance to meet one of Elvis’s sacked backing artists plus Elvis fourth cousin twice removed. The Brentwood Hotel becomes the Heartbreak Hotel, and normally completely rational people walk around Somerfield supermarket wearing white rhinestone lycra and jet black sideburns!
In winter the locals reclaim Porthcawl. At Christmas it is not unusual to go to a bar and bump into someone you haven’t seen since last Christmas! I don’t know why that is, but that is how this place is. People who have managed to escape the town for civilisation and careers always come back for Christmas. It is a time to brave the howling seafront winds and socialise.
New Year is a bit of a letdown, but the phenomenon known as ‘Twelfth Night’ more than makes up for it. Whereas the Elvis festival is a great opportunity to laugh at the trogs, this is a chance for the locals to embrace costume – whether it be Lara Croft, Snow White, or the Rocky Horror Picture Show stylie – do the pub crawl (round all five of them),get extremely drunk and dance like you ain’t never danced before! Ah ha, so this is why people hibernate for the rest of the year … to escape the repercussions of the last Twelfth Night!
I spent the happiest years of my childhood living in this town. I escaped in my teens, but I always knew that some day I would be back, and it took me over twenty years to do it. I am 39 now, still a ‘nipper’ by Porthcawl standards. This town has an effect on you – it draws people back year after year. It has fantastic beaches, great people, a few good cafes, pubs and restaurants and huge potential – despite the old money!

Speaking up for the innocent victims of the credit crunch…

It was quite a quest – even to a woman who had gone in search of the truth. Here we are, in the midst of (if we are to believe the doom-mongers) a bad recession. Fed up with hearing lots about retailers going into administration, banking fat-cats taking early retirement on huge pensions and the like, I wanted to find out exactly how this economic slump is affecting Britain’s animal charities. I was expecting to hear more doom and gloom, of course, but even I was shocked at some of the facts that I uncovered. It was during this quest for the truth that I stumbled across Sally Hymen; a softly- spoken former teacher who is, quite literally, fighting a daily battle on behalf of abandoned and abused animals in South West Wales.

But, before I tell you more about Sally, here’s a quick rundown of some of the frightening statistics that the UK’s animal charities supplied, after many polite but determined telephone conversations with various media relations departments:

• RSPCA told me that they don’t have statistics on the number of animals specifically abandoned due to the credit crunch; however they have seen a 51% increase in calls from concerned pet owners who are worried that they may have to give up their animals. They advise pet owners to contact them for advice on the assistance that is available.
• Cats Protection has seen a decline in the number of cats being adopted in the last 12 months. Some regions are seeing up to a 30% decline in cats being adopted, in particular regions such as Wrexham, parts of Norfolk and Merseyside. Peter Hepburn, Chief Executive, said “We completely rely on people coming forward to offer the cats in our care new homes and my fear is this could be the start of a steeper decline that sees more cats without homes as we go into 2009.” All the cats at the adoption centres are micro chipped and neutered, and that the charity offers a free neutering service to people who cannot afford to get their cats neutered themselves. Again, people are advised to contact their local Cats Protection adoption centre for further information on the assistance available to them.
• PDSA reports a 7% rise in the number of pets receiving treatment at its PetAid hospitals between 2007 and 2008. The charity estimates that, in 2009, the delivery of PDSA PetAid services will cost more than £50 million.
• Dog’s Trust, however, came up with the most alarming fact of all the charities I spoke to. The Bridgend, South Wales, centre has been approached by many people needing to rehome their dogs because of moving into rented accommodation, or downsizing. The centre has experienced people who have been so desperate to keep their dogs that they had tried to live in their cars, after landlords refused to accept tenants with pets. Unfortunately, in all of the cases the dogs had to be handed over to Dogs Trust. The trust told me that all of the owners were too distraught to talk to me about their situation.

It was after uncovering this latest depressing fact that I met with Sally Hymen, Chairwoman at Llys Nini animal centre in Swansea, South Wales. A petite, unassuming woman in a blue overall, Sally has spent over 25 years helping to rescue abandoned and abused animals. The centre itself is huge – a well-maintained, brick-built building surrounded by acres of woodland, you could be forgiven for thinking that you are in the countryside if it weren’t for the view of the M4 motorway from the car park. I spent some time talking to this remarkable woman during a rare break in the staff tea-room…

You say that the shelter is running to capacity, 100% percent of the time. So what happens when yet another animal needs help?
“We turn away more than we take in. We have to run a risk assessment, (the animal at most risk is the one that gets in). As an RSPCA affiliated shelter, the abuse cases tend to get in first.”
And the ones who don’t get in, what about them?
“Someone who simply doesn’t like their pet anymore goes on a waiting list. We can’t guarantee anything (that we will be able to accept the animal) for up to six months. In some cases we end up giving the owner details of other centres that they can try.”
Do you feel the credit crunch is forcing people to give up their pets?
“Well, the economic situation isn’t helping any, but there are a lot of people out there that take on animals for the wrong reasons. Then, when it goes wrong (as it inevitably does), the owners think that it’s someone else’s problem. For example, I’ve had phone calls from people saying that they’re emigrating the following week and that we’ve got to take the cat.” Sally rolls her eyes; from the look on her face I can see that this is a particularly frustrating, regular problem for the shelter.
So, education is key, then?
“Definitely. We try and work with the community, try to educate people about the responsibility of owning a pet. So far this year we’ve had 1100 school children up here at LLys Nini – we talk to them, take them around and show them the animals. If we can provide education to children, hopefully they will become more responsible in their decisions to adopt a pet when they’re older.”
What’s your history with Llys Nini, Sally?
“I’ve been involved with this place for over 25 years, 7 years as chairwoman. I officially retired in October 2005.”
But you’re still here. The pay must be good?
“You’re joking.” She sips her tea. “I don’t get paid.”
You must see some awful cases of abuse. As an animal lover, what makes you get up and come here every morning?
“It’s the happy endings. Because we are independent, we can make our own mission statement. We are so much more than an animal charity.”
How so?
“We know that, if we are going to survive, we have to provide a service to the community as well as to animals. We employ local people to work here, and in our shops. This centre provides valuable work experience for people with mental health problems, teenagers and children with behavioural issues. They become different people when they’re with the animals. It’s quite incredible to see.”
The kids volunteer then?
“They volunteer, yes, but some have ended up staying on as paid employees. Take Michael, our laundry manager, for example. He has downs syndrome and he came here as a volunteer 4 years ago. Now he runs that department, comes in, chats up the girls and works really hard. The centre also employs Michael as a cleaner. One boy at the centre here is on a one-year alternative curriculum – his school didn’t want him any more, but he’s really thriving here – I think he’ll end up staying on. We also take people in to our charity shops that are carrying out community service, and quite often they decide to stay on, too. We also have a number of cottage industries that run in the community, for example, when people donate old duvets we have one woman who takes them apart and makes perfectly good, new dog beds out of them. We are able to sell those to owners at a reasonable price. We also donate a lot of things that we can’t sell out to Africa.”
On the subject of charity shops, how is the credit crunch affecting those?
“Well, we have seen a dramatic downturn in the number of good-quality items that are being donated to our shops. People are being encouraged to be a little more frugal, and that means that they are less likely to donate good things to a charity shop such as ours. It’s a vicious circle, really, because if people don’t donate items then we have less stock to sell. We’ve got 3 men going around collecting, with plastic bags and vans, but the quality of the donations are not as good as it was. We’ve got plenty of customers coming in to buy because they know they can get a bargain here. As a charity, our animals rely on monetary donations and by the funds raised by our shops. We don’t get any government assistance, or lottery help.”
Why don’t the lottery fund help you?
“Apparently, they don’t give money to animal charities..full stop.” (I made a mental note here to contact the lottery commission and ask the question, but when I did unfortunately nobody was available for comment.)
What’s the future for Llys Nini?
“I will be sticking around until our plans see fruition. We’ve got 78 acres here, there’s a heck of a lot of wildlife around. Our plan is to utilise all of this, help to re-establish some breeds that have diminished or disappeared. We are opening the woodlands and hopefully that will mean that we will be able to build a visitors centre, complete with café. Governments aren’t interested in giving money to animals, but they are a lot keener to give to environmental projects. So that’s the plan…if we can find an architect who’s willing to help us…without being paid!”

And with that, this unpaid, officially-retired powerhouse of a woman was off - to talk to yet another group of schoolchildren. I left the building a lot more cheerful, and with a lot more hope for the neglected pets of South West Wales than I had before I stepped into the canteen an hour before.

For more information on Llys Nini, go to http://www.llysnini-rspca.org.uk or contact 01792 229435.

This is the project that has swallowed up a huge portion (way too much, really) of my academic life over the last few months...it's finally coming to a close, and I am looking forward to getting some serious amounts of writing done once Friday has come and gone.

Here's the link: http://www.thesprout.co.uk/news/687/daps-2009.html

Read or choose to not read - the choice is yours (I'm past caring, now!)

Jayney

But worse was to come...
Deciding that my best friend needed some joy in her life, I contacted her favourite actor and requested him as a friend. When he accepted me, I forwarded him on to her - it was like handing over Pandora's box as a gift. Only when she emailed me to confirm her delight did I realise exactly what I had done - not content with being an uncontrollable Facebook addict, I had done the unthinkable...I had become a Facebook pimp!

It started off innocently enough; finding friends, family,university contacts,former work colleagues, etc. I bobbed along quite nicely, logging in every few days to check how everyone was doing. Then came reading week - a whole week away from classes, not much in the way of actual reading to be done, time on my hands...a recipe for disaster if ever there was one...
On Monday morning I sat at the computer, drinking my habitual two coffees (I can't speak to anyone before the second one has hit my system). I logged in; one of my university tutors had gained a 'celebrity' friend - a newspaper television critic whose work regularly has me in stitches. I wonder if she'd accept me as a friend??, I thought, tapping my friend request into the system, and firing it off. Terry Wogan whittered on in the background, as I left the facebook page and progressed to checking my emails instead, never actually believing that my submitted friend request would get accepted.

Twenty minutes later the email arrived confirming that my request had been granted; I had gained my first celebrity friend. I was delighted. Little did I know that my troubles had just begun... I decided to have a scroll through my newly-gained friend's list of friends. It was a virtual Aladin's cave of celeb contacts. I could barely contain myself (it warranted another coffee, and it wasn't even 10 o'clock yet). There were television presenters, print journalists, TV journalists, actors, rock star wives (and infamous ex-wives), writers and faded 80's pop stars (I was an 80's girl, complete with huge hair and black panda-eyes). They were all British, except for one - an American actor. I lost all control...I went for it, big time...I requested so many friends that I lost track of who I'd requested and who I hadn't. By the time I'd finished it was 3 in the afternoon, and I still hadn't started the first draft of an essay that was due in the following week. Reluctantly, I stepped away from the laptop - I had the shakes (a combination of no food, nerves and caffiene overload had set in). I ate breakfast (at 3.30pm), came back to the computer, abandoned all hope of essay-writing and watched with awe as, one by one, the British celebs accepted my friend requests.

Tuesday was spent at the hospital with my best friend, so I simply had no opportunity to get anywhere near the laptop. I had a huge injection of reality that day, and any thoughts of my facebook quest were quickly put in perspective "stupid, stupid girl where the hell are your priorities?" I scorned myself, as I sat with my friend in the hospital consultation room, talking with a doctor. I'm used to hospitals now (I'm on first names terms with all the staff in my local rheumatology unit now, we exchange Christmas cards), but this was very different - I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I went home, had dinner with my hubbie (who hadn't yet noticed my growing addiction), then settled in front of the TV - sharing a bottle of wine, and tried to digest the day's events. 10 o'clock came, hubbie went to bed, and I was alone. I fetched the laptop - the infamous rock star ex-wife's American friends had started to accept my requests. It was 2am before I got to bed.

Wednesday and Thursday were spent sending more and more friend requests...they were just piling in, now. My friend count had shot up from 15 to over 100 in a couple of days. But, by Thursday, the hubbie had spotted what was going on. I was spending my waking hours on the computer, and he wanted to know what I was up to. I came clean; told him exactly what had happened, and waited for the response. He said nothing, shrugged his shoulders, shook his head and mumbled "You do know that these people are not who they say they are, don't you?" That was all it took - one comment from my beloved, and suddenly I felt like a prize plonker. I took a second, closer, look at my American celebrity friends. Sure enough, there were at least three that were 'in a relationship' with people that the real celebrities weren't in a relationship with. I waded through my friends, looking for the tell-tale signs of deception. I deleted over ten of them instantly. I thought I had reached the peak of my facebook addiction. I was wrong.

I had forgotten, in my friend-requesting frenzy, that I had sent a congratulatory email to an actor who I particularly admire. He has been in a dark place for a long time, and he's finally beginning to get the respect that he deserves. He survived my friend deception-detection exercise because I just had a good feeling about him, (stupid? maybe). I had stayed away from the evils of facebook for three days. While the friends totted up I got on with normal life. Then, on Monday morning, my actor friend responded to my congratulatory email. I won't divulge what was was said, but suffice to say that this man is exactly who he says he is. I was chuffed to bits! But now I was firmly back into addiction mode...

Well, the big day has come and gone. Turkey, pudding, crap telly (Gavin and Stacey excluded) and way too much chocolate. And there I was, expecting a quiet run up to the New Year and a return to normality...

"Let's move house." said the husband, returning from the latest drive-cleaning exercise.
"You what?!" My head spinning around, exorcist-like, to face him.
"Let's just put the place on the market, test the water and see if we can get somewhere bigger."

Let me give you some background.
Firstly, we have lived here for four years, this is a long stay for the husband (he gets itchy feet at the three year mark generally, just like his mother). The increasingly twitchy hubbie has had our fab bungalow valued no less than five times in the last twelve months.
I agreed to move twelve months ago (after Christmas, again) on the proviso that we were closer to the sea, closer to my friends and further away from what I call 'oyksville' (the estate that backs on to our road, full to groaning with addicts of all kinds). Then the hubbie went cold on the idea, we agreed that as long as we can close our large gates at night and shut everything out that we would stay put, for now.
Then the credit crunch happened, and our plans seemed sealed...

"What's brought this on, then?" (I know the drill now; hear him out, get the place valued, decide it's better to stay put and don't freak out when he changes his mind.)
"I think we should bite the bullet, take the hit on the valuation and make a move now, we would make up the price difference on the new place."
"Why?"
"You said you wanted to move closer to town. Let's see if we can get somewhere close to the beach, you'd love that." The sales pitch was in full flow, but he was definately more determined than during last year's twitch.
"Hmmm, but why now?"
"I've just found a condom on the end of the drive."

So, we're moving.