After driving myself half mad for the past couple of months bouncing around the empty rooms, I've bowed to the inevitable and put my house on the market. The place was initially very much Mrs S's vision, but it's a home that I truly grew to love. Now though, it's an echoing shell - an ever-present reminder of all that I've lost. Coming back from work every evening to the silent darkness is particularly painful. It's a quirky property, there's no two ways about it - and therein lies the possible problem as regards finding a buyer. Whoever takes it on must have the same vision thing that Mrs S had eight years ago.
The bathroom only became attached to the main body of the property, by way of an extension, 50 years ago. For the previous 200 years it was the wash-house, separated by a couple of yards from the rear of the building. The wooden door-frame is original and the step shows a considerable dip from the weight of the countless feet that have crossed its threshold over the past two centuries, mine and Mrs S's included. I wonder whose will be next.
The Ex - Footfall