Fresh PAINT
Mind your back!’
I squeeze into the corner of the half-landing as two removal men manoeuvre a chest of drawers down the stairs. They’ve been flat out for a couple of hours now and there’s not much left to go.
From the top of the stairs, I can see into all the bedrooms, and each one now looking bare and slightly distressed. Or is that just me?
When we bought this place we named it the White House, and I was sure that we’d never move again.
Yet here I am, preparing to leave it behind. It’s almost 26 years to the day since we moved in, but it seems like yesterday.
Martin and I had been hunting round the area for weeks looking for somewhere suitable to buy. We’d viewed two places in the nearby village that afternoon and were calling it a day when I misread the map. We took a wrong turn and drove past a For Sale sign for a property we knew nothing about.
The house was set back along
