So Europe’s in recession and will likely take the global economy with it. Here in the UK, unemployment is trundling towards 10 per cent. On the plus side, lots of shops are holding pre-Christmas sales. Every cloud and all that.
I thought I’d heroically do my bit for the nation’s prospects and buy a proper, grown-up handbag. It’s a leather Raoul number from Matches and cost £129 (with a 30 per cent discount). Which isn’t bad, no? Not for Matches. Topshop has bags the same price.
Or, as modelled by a model:
The Matches sale runs until (I think) December 8. You can also find 20 per cent off at Whistles and All Saints, while Debenhams is doing 30 per cent off coats, hats, scarves and gloves (that’s Grandma’s present sorted.) And before you hit the high street, check out My Voucher Codes for discounts at Gap, the White Company, Radley, Boden, Sweaty Betty and many more.
There. Don’t say I never tell you anything useful.
So we made a lowball offer on the Sussex place, which has been accepted. You’d think this would be cause for celebration, but I’m now fretting about whether or not this is a terrible idea and I’m going to spend my life weeping into the laundry with only a two-year-old and the Archers for company.
The advantages are: it’s a proper, grown-up house, double-fronted and everything, with a massive garden and enough bedrooms that Misha and I can have an office, and we can invite friends (plural!) to come and stay for the weekend. Having spent about six months studying Rightmove, I know we’d never get anything like that in London for the price.
Emilio would have masses of room to play and do all the baking/art-type activities I currently pretend don’t exist because they’re too messy. And if we did stay down there, I could send him to the local school and know he’d get an education. No 13-grand-a-year fees, no renting an overpriced shoebox next door to the school, no pretending to find Jesus. Just sending him to the nearest school, like normal people.
BUT with the exception of my Mum, who is admittedly a draw, I don’t really know anyone in Sussex. And I don’t know if I can face hauling my arse around playgroups trying to latch onto other mothers. It all sounds a bit bleak, like the rural landscape in winter. And although the countryside boasts lots to do with kids on sunny days (petting zoos, steam railways, that kind of thing), I’m not sure what you do with them when it rains, when you don’t know anybody.
I don’t know *sigh*. I should probably mention that we’d be renting this place, not buying, and only for six months at that (the short lease is the reason it’s so cheap). Which makes it not so much moving to the country as taking a sabbatical there. An extended holiday, really. But just thinking about it makes me miss the Tube and Topshop and Ottolenghi and other people and…