Having cautioned Noah and Petal repeatedly against getting too fixated on the house, it seems Mr Manley and I both neglected to take our own advice. The phone call from the estate agent yesterday that began with "I'm afraid I've got some bad news..." was devastating.
I understand that since the seller took four days to agree to our offer of the asking price then blew us off for a few thousand more (less than £5K, according to the agent) then it was unlikely that the rest of the process would go smoothly.
I can come up with a couple of negative points about the house, to try and mitigate the distress of losing it, but they fade into insignificance when up against the much much longer list of positive attributes - otherwise we wouldn't have made an offer in the first place.
What it comes down to is that we'd spent so much time looking at the photos on the website; so many conversations about the process - all new to us and a little intimidating; so much pondering how we'd arrange the downstairs to work for us - so much emotion invested in this house - this house that we thought was going to be our home.
But it's not.
So now we're back to the beginning, feeling all the more raw and empty because we scraped up against a place that seemed so perfect. Back to scouring the Rightmove website, comparing every property against this idealised vision, knowing it took five months for that place to appear amongst the listings, and wondering if it will be another five months before there is another that ticks all our boxes.
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