Clutching at (cheese) straws...

Something happened yesterday that made me take stock of myself. I have been trying to sell a house since January. (See pic of garden and conservatory and make me an offer, please! It's in sought-after East Finchley, just up the road from Highgate.) This poor house has been empty for most of the 18 months I have owned it. This is because I snapped it up quickly as it was cheap, and realised – too late – what its problems where. That it’s a fifteen minute slog back from Budgens with the grocery bags (I don’t drive - if you do, you can whizz to a Tesco in no time at all); that it’s on a very small council estate which, though very quiet with a resident caretaker, still carries that blight, the emblem of potential dodginess and trouble even though the caretaker informes me it's the safest estate in North London; and finally, most important of all for me, that is has no storage bar one cupboard and a loft which is crawling room only. Nowhere for all my boxes of books, stuff from my late parents’ place, still to be gone through if only I can find the time. Nowhere for the paintings and pottery I have collected over the years. Nowhere for a piano and my guitars. And above all, nowhere for an office, which is why I am still working at The Boyfriend's.

It has its virtues – lovely garden, big kitchen, nice neighbours but, as a full-time freelance writer and editor, office space is all-important. I need room for four two-drawer filing cabinets, desktop and laptop computers, two printers, one old but fast, for all the books I have to print out, and one slower, good for photos, and skype phone, headphones, various usb attachments, the multitude of stuff that makes the 'paperless office' require even more room than its paper-filled forerunner. And I like to overlook something pleasant while a work, a tree perhaps, something on which to rest the eye and calm the mind while trying to give some hapless beginner writer essential tips on grammar, punctuation and plot construction.

This house has two bedrooms, both of which are full of bed. The view is of a block of council flats. There is no fireplace with niches either side in which to fit shelves to house my books. In vain do my friends say, "Give them to a charity shop.” What? You must be joking. These books have been with me for years. They have comforted me in times of misery, made me laugh, sympathised with me, provided answers. They have been counsellors, therapists and gurus; their paper has blotted my tears; they have helped me travel the world (in my head), helped me time-travel back to days of Ancient Rome; made my erogenous zones throb in times when my sex life has resembled an oasis-less desert. They have probably saved my life. They are good old friends. Would you sell your best friend at a car boot sale, or give him or her away to charity? No way!

So – I have found out the hard way that modern boxes are not for me. I need spidery cupboards, groaning library shelves, mysterious but useful nooks and crannies. But first, I must sell my house and yesterday I thought I’d done it. Having dined on nothing but red wine and cheese straws the previous night, I was just on my way out to a morning coffee date when two pleasant middle-aged Irishmen appeared, one hippy-looking, with long hair tied back, the other with short grey hair and smart-casual, yet slightly old-fashioned looking clothes, the clothes of a man who kept a spartan wardrobe and prized cleanliness and comfort over trendiness.

They looked as if they’d just stepped off the set of Father Ted; the eponymous priest and his guitar-twanging brother. I liked their vibe. They seemed enthusiastic. I had high hopes that before the day was out, I would get an offer. And when I got back from an ammo-buying trip, moth murdering and ant assassination in mind, what should be waiting to greet me by the step but a lovely, friendly, purring black cat that obligingly crossed the path, then came back and rolled over to be stroked. “Are you my lucky black cat? Yes, you are, aren’t you?” I crooned, immediately deciding that if he were to adopt me, I would call him Omen.

But in the cold light of today I realise how easily I was led up the path of superstition, like so many millions of other poor mortals. What a stupid bimbo I was to believe that seeing a black cat meant I’d sold the house. Someone sneezed and coughed on me on the bus and now I have a cold. That wasn’t an omen, that was a virus reproducing itself, the dirty, filthy, amoral bastard.

But hang on… tonight there is a lottery draw. Now, about that black cat….