Okay, brace yourselves. Deep breath…IgotanofferonthehouseandIacceptedit. Yay! Whoop! Finally! Oh dear Lord, the great move might actually be happening now. To be honest, I spent the first day post phone call feeling stunned and discombobulated (always wanted to use that word). All my musings about how I wish for my new life in France to start were just that, musings. Yet, in a few months time, the woofers and I may well be several hundred miles away from the home I’ve known for 24 years. Quite a lot to take in.

As anyone knows who has lived in a home for more than a year or two, lofts are put up high for a reason. It’s called the ‘out of sight, out of mind’ principle. You can keep putting stuff in this magical place in the sky and it never seems to fill up. And you don’t have to remember what you put up there because it’s out of sight, out of mind. Unfortunately, when you agree to sell your house, the new owners would like the loft experience for themselves so you have to bring it all back down the ladder again. Two decades of miscellaneous memories and antique electronics now fill the spare bedrooms, over flowing boxes of faded Christmas decorations and photographs of long gone dogs piled up in the corners. And I have to sort through the whole lot. With a lot of help from Callum and none from the dogs. Thankfully, their only issue is that lack of space to lounge.

In between the six or so duvets that had been hoarded up there (do duvets reproduce in lofts?), I found a box on which Tony had written ‘Sophi’s Scrap Box’. I suppose my O’ level results could constitute as scrap but the letters, postcards and photos from our early years together could never be. The first picture ever taken of us together, the letters he wrote from New Zealand when I was pregnant and the menu from the honeymoon hotel in Mauritius. And the Walkman that Tony gave me for our first Christmas together. Amazingly Callum managed to get it to work! That will help with the decision over whether to keep the two hundred or so cassette tapes taking up surface space.

And so, the next phase of the journey begins. Thankfully, apart from filling out endless forms, the solicitors and agent take care of the legal bits now so I have plenty of time to ruthlessly divide and conquer the loft innards. It’s time to box up the past and gear up for the future, how much can you fit in a removal van?

“Handle every stressful situation like a dog, If you can’t eat it or play with it, just pee on it and walk away” (Anon)

You know those American road trip movies where the camera pans out to an endless horizon of nothing but the occasional desert flower? Well, that’s how my weeks seem to drift by. Sort of blah. I do pretty much the same thing every day and this journey is getting boring. I know I have to be patient and let time do it’s thing but I don’t think I’m very good at waiting.

One of the ladies in the widow and widowers support group recently decided she was going to try something new every month to get her out of the doldrums. Brilliant idea I concurred except for that old adage of ‘easier said than done’. The problem is that despite the monotony of daily living, I am actually busy. No time to be spontaneous between the dog walks, the endless cleaning for house viewings and work. Well, I’ve got my yoga but that’s more to settle my mind and body. Yoga’s not really an impulsive thing. So I’m bored with the mundane but no time to do the extraordinary. And it’s February, the month of weird weather (have you looked out of your windows if they are still in place today?) and comfort clothes. I have memberships to Kew , the Tate and the V&A but no time or let’s face it, enthusiasm, to traipse up to town. I admire my dogs’ joy at the sight of yet another boot-sucking muddy field. Especially as I spend that precious spontaniety time, washing all the bloody stuff off.

And I’ve missed Tony this week, more than usual. The lack of sleep due to recurrent nightmares over the dogs’ safety (for another blog perhaps) and a late night party next door. I can’t operate on no sleep. It makes me stressed, cranky and emotional, all of which Tony would know how to make better. A Galaxy chocolate bar would magically appear with the best of hugs. God, I miss him.

Mind you, it hasn’t been all bad this week. We had a couple of nice viewings, by that I mean the people were nice. I don’t know if it was because both couples happened to be gay but I did feel they admired rather than criticised the ‘period’ features. As I said to our Irene after our David Copperfield cinematic experience (excellent film by the way), my house liked them. And there’s the highlight of the week, cinema and pub with my girl, Irene, who knows me I think sometimes more than I know myself. “Bored, are you?” she said. She’s quick this girl. “Well, moving is a logistical nightmare so perhaps you can start sorting out what’s staying and what’s going?”. Ummmm…..best not complain too much me thinks….

“If it wasn’t for dogs, some people would never go for a walk” (Emily Dickinson)

I scared myself this week. I got sick. One minute I was making dinner for myself (Callum being in France for a few days) and the next I was overcome with the need to pay homage to the white bowl. Suddenly I went from someone who is rarely ill to a complete hypochondriac, my mind battered with possible doomsday predictions. I hate going to the GP as 1) I hate waiting for anything and 2) he wasn’t there when Tony needed him most but I did wonder whether I should have taken up that offer of a health check. Since this sudden life in limbo nausea had decided to manifest itself outside of GP working hours however, I did the next best thing. Ginger tea and bed. And a whole lot of hairy pillows. Sleep has the most amazing health properties especially when one is cosseted by woofers and I was well enough yesterday to polish off a packet of M&M’s, the ultimate medicine.

I suppose my sudden obsession about my lurgy stems from losing Macgyver, Tony and Pop to silent killers. Whilst Pop had been ill for some time, none of us thought he wasn’t going to recover and both Tony and Macgyver fell victim to the invisibility cloak so many cancers wear. And being on one’s own doesn’t help either, my thoughts varied from “who will know if I collapse into unconsciousness?” to “can one give oneself CPR?”. My positivity resolution had shot out the door. Thank God for little coloured chocolates.

It struck my mind a few days later that the possible cause of the queasiness was my decision to ‘fix’ the half-finished little bedroom upstairs . With most of the feedback from the viewings being about the rooms upstairs needing work (I mean who moves into a house that doesn’t need some personalising?), I decided to paint the walls, fill in the remaining cracks and sand the floors. Only Steven who had plastered the walls had seemingly jammed the window closed and me, being me, opted to do all the above anyway despite the obvious health and safety warning. Those who know me will say, of course you did because you’re impatient and when you decide to do something, a little thing like lack of ventilation isn’t going to stop you.

I suppose learning to cope on your own is part of a widow’s journey but that doesn’t make it any easier. And even though I’m nearly two years in, there are still times when I scream about the unfairness of it all. Actually I scream at Tony a lot, especially when I drip paint on the newly sanded floor or get bits of floor on the newly painted skirting board. Mind you I’m just a little bit pleased with myself for those magnolia accented walls although a friend of mine said you should always call the colour Sussex Cream, it sounds much classier…

“When an eighty-five pound mammal licks your tears away, then tries to sit on your lap, it’s hard to feel sad” ( Kristan Higgins. Author)

I’ve been in a funk most of the week. I know I know, all my ideas of starting 2020 with an open mind and verbal alliterations of exciting futures ya da ya but now I’m feeling cartoonish lady with black cloud overhead and wet anorak. One minute I was feeling the positive vibes of finally having the house on the market and a steady stream of viewings and the next, splat! Headfirst into the moody puddle. And it took a few friends to tell me why. I’m impatient apparently.

Here’s the thing about selling your house, you have no control over how long it will take. Not only that but your future is entirely in the hands of a stranger who runs a skeptical eye over your decor. And I’ve become quite an expert on reading human body language (dogs are my expertise and they rarely comment on wallpaper), the “I can’t really afford this but it’s nice to compare” to the “perhaps she’ll take a really stupid offer as she’s a widow” facial expressions. With family and friends telling me the house will be snapped up, I’m feeling a bit deflated. I know it’s only been on the market for two weeks and let’s face it, I’m making a seriously big move but I hate the standstill.

I know I have to be patient and keep to my resolution to take life as it comes but it’s not easy. And I know I’m an impulsive sort but flying solo for the last 18 months has made me yearn for calm and balance in my life. Not just in my life, the dogs and Callum need it too. Rollercoasters make you queasy after a while. And if the house did sell tomorrow, I’d be a full blown panic mode getting the pack et al ready to shift across the Channel. Thank God for yoga.

Having dismissed my 2020 horoscope warnings of not spending any money, I decided to go and look at a couple of flats to buy as an investment and also to get me out of the house. Apart from the shock at the price of a minuscule studio “can’t swing a cat but the rent is fabulous” abode, I did find a rather nice ex-council two bedroom flat in Battersea that had me feeling quite the investor. That was until an anti-terrorist van blew into the estate, dropping its commandos as it whizzed passed. I think I read the estate agent’s body language pretty well….

“I have found that when you are deeply troubled, there are things you get from the silent devoted companionship of a dog that you can get from no other source.”  (Doris Day)

I have had more than a few moments of panic, the “what the hell am I doing?” kind, this week. The house viewings have started. The dream and chit chat about moving to France might soon be a reality and I’ll actually have to do something with all the books, records, loft litter and furniture. And the dogs travel arrangements. For all my blog writing about how exciting the future is going to be, the reality is frankly more than a little scary. 23 years of memories and clutter are here within chez Knollys’ walls and whilst I really really am excited about moving, I’ve never done it on my own. For the first time in my 53 years, every decision is mine and so is the responsibility.

Yesterday 2 families with young toddler aged children viewed the house. It was oddly emotional seeing a new generation move from room to room. Flashbacks of bringing a tiny baby home from the hospital to a newly painted nursery, all the dogs that have wandered the garden, the crazy summer parties, the “how’s your day been” hugs. They are all here at chez Knollys. And now, for another family, it will be their turn to make this house their home for the next twenty years or so. It would be nice if they had a dog too.

Speaking of dogs, I really need to pull my finger out and get their travel requirements sorted. I rang the vets and left a message asking for the total cost of vaccinations in case I need to sell all the loft litter to afford such a task. Thankfully the pack are blissfully unaware of the impending relocation, can you imagine how impossible Arry and co. would be if they knew what an amazing life was ahead of them? I mean, they go crazy every morning when we get to the park! I wonder whether the idea that acres will be outside the back door will confuse them? And how does one extradite 10 dogs 750 plus miles? Someone suggested a camper van until I told them it wouldn’t be big enough. Luckily a friend said he’d love to help so that’s one tick in the box.

This journey of ‘going it alone’ is daunting, I can’t lie. Tony was always the organised one, I tend to bury my head in the sand until I can’t breathe. Yet it’s strangely liberating at the same time. Yes, I need to look for a flat for Callum to dump himself but that’s something we can do together, the rest is up to me. And 10 very ill-informed woofers…

“My husband and I are either going to buy a dog or have a child. We can’t decide whether to ruin our carpet or ruin our lives” (Rita Rudner)

We had a visitor this week. Having been contacted by the estate agent to say said visitor was coming by to view Chez Knollys on Thursday evening, I scrubbed, aired and polished the ol’ homestead to sparkling perfection. Okay, maybe having 10 dogs makes that somewhat futile but at least there weren’t any paw marks on the walls or hair in the fridge (how does dog hair get in there?). I even built a sort of avant garde rockery in the front garden where Steven had piled up all the old driveway concrete and bits. That’s where little plant is by the way. I added some illegitimate pot bound greenery (lost their tags so parentage unknown) plus a couple of bags of compost and voila! Mind you I’m not sure Monty Don will be oohing over it any time soon.

I can only hope it was ‘first viewing’ nerves that had my stress levels hitting the red zone. As much as I tried to reason with myself that whoever wanted the house would expect to put their own stamp on it, I started to see flaws everywhere. The new extension (have I got too much furniture in there?), those scrapes on the bathroom counter (let’s face it, one quick paint job), the gardens (why did I get replace the artificial grass with the real muddy stuff?) and so on. By 6pm I deposited Callum and the woofers in the annexe (that’s what the former garage come gym is listed as) and cleared up the last minute deposit Mo left on said gym floor. And there they were on my newly washed porch step.

Well I think the viewing went okay. At least he didn’t comment on my decor or laugh at my landscaping, it turned out he even owns a dog. Just the one, odd people. And he did say “I like it” several times but as yet, no feedback. Am I upset? No actually. After all, it’s only the first one. Every one including the postie tell me the house will sell quickly and I’ve got it on the market too cheaply and how much they don’t want me to go so I’m telling myself to relax and go with the flow. Yup, try moving 10 dogs up the side of the house and through the back door whilst agent and potential homeowner are leaving through the front door. Think counting school kids back onto a bus post outing, at least one is always unaccounted for. In this case, Neo, who let’s face it is the only one to avoid and had decided to make a dash for the front door just as they opened it. In a former life, I must have been a rugby legend. I really need outside lighting….

“All his life he tried to be a good person. Many times, however, he failed. For after all, he was only human. He wasn’t a dog.” (Charles M Schulz)

Whilst many of us have made New Year assurances and resolutions, there are some daily routines that you just can’t change. For me, it’s the first dog rush over the local park (they don’t do walkies well, just zoomies). Every day apart from Sundays, I take the 5 minute drive to the local park for the first four hoodlums and the same route home afterwards. Predictable I know but at that time in the morning, it helps not to stretch the brain cells. It was because of this familiar long and winding road (okay so not that long) that I saved a life the other day. What a way to start the new decade!

ok, let’s back up here. I was about to turn left onto a street when I noticed it on the pavement. It struck me as odd since it was still in a pot, generally speaking ‘street plants’ just grow out of the cracks and gaps the city gives them. I drove past but I did feel a bit guilty for not stopping, my excuse was that whoever had dropped the little plant might return for it. Next morning, same route, same plant but someone had moved onto the top of a bin. The pot had disappeared but the little tree thing was there. I did think about stopping but said to myself if it was still there in the morning, I would take it. And I did. Little plant was desperate for water but is now happily ensconced in my newly prepared rockery.

Why was I so drawn to rescuing a 10 inch plant? Those who know me would say I’m a sucker for a rescue. Anything. Or maybe it was a sign from Tony who adored his garden but perhaps that’s pushing it. Either way, I felt a really good feeling for having saved little plant. And to be honest, I think I know why. It’s a living thing and deserved a chance at life as anyone of us does. I’m not one for telling anyone how to live their lives, perhaps making a difference for another whether it be a contribution to the Australian Fire Service or to a local animal charity will give you a really good feeling too. Or maybe just save a little plant.

I’m sure 5 days into the New Year, one shouldn’t say those words any more but Bonne Annee instead. And it’s been a year since the Widow plus Woofers started so thank you all for reading. Don’t worry, I’m not stopping the writing but do keep in touch for the next new venture ahem ahem…..

“A bone to the dog is not charity. Charity is the bone shared with the dog, when you are just as hungry as the dog.” (Jack London author, The Call of the Wild)

I suppose it’s inevitable that as the decade draws to a close, we look to the future with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Whether it be a small promise to oneself to eat cleaner, give up the booze or in my case sell up and move to a different country, a New Year gives us the impetus to leap into the proverbial fire. It’s no secret that the last half of the 20teens was frankly horrendous for me so I’m definitely looking forward to seeing the backside of 2019. And if you remember reading one of my first blogs recanting a friend’s advice on not making any radical changes in the first year of widowhood, I’m certainly ready to throw everything at 2020 now.

Having blasted the last few years as hideous, the last week spent with my family at L’horte was the ultimate Christmas present. And like all Christmases should be, it was a time filled with reminiscence of times past and way too much food ( I think my tum has booked an all-inclusive at a macrobiotic spa for the next month). And as much as I want to rid my karma of all the bad stuff, the 24 years of life at L’horte which was essentially built by Pop gave us so much in the memory bank. Lives were nurtured there. Nine grandchildren learnt how to manoeuvre a canoe and tip it on a regular basis, some even learnt to swim in the process. Bodies were thrown in gay abandon (can one still say that?) off a zip wire hopefully hitting the correct deep water spot and dogs ran amok on the endless acres of playground until their time was done. Oh and aperitifs on the verandah ahhhhh…

It was only fitting that we should scatter Pop’s ashes on the land he made for his family to come together on. Of course, even this act involved some hilarity on the part of the dogs, namely mine as usual. My younger brother had given a brilliant Christmas present to all with a number of trees, climbers and bulbs to be planted across the property and up the houses in Pop’s memory. I have done the same at chez Knollys by the way with roses for Tony. Off we went en masse to dig up holes and plant various greenery in semi-organised fashion. I would like to point out that such acts of love should really be carried out without an over-excited Border terrier, a somewhat confused Norfolk and three ‘let’s play fetch right now’ German Shepherds. Led by Arry. Naturally. And his pet rock(s). The aim was to drop his pet rock in whatever hole had been dug then lead a musical bark session until the rock was lobbed somewhere. And repeat. I would apologise to Moth for my chaos-inducing canine except for the less than calming comment about using a pick axe with Alice’s presence nearby.

” Careful of Alice, I’m seeing Ring of Bright Water here”

“Oh you mean that book that guy wrote who was responsible for the demise of X whale population”

“Probably but right now I’m seeing the ending of the book in graphic detail”

“Best move your dog then”

I love my family…….

So let’s raise a glass to 2020. I hope for all that it is the start of something big and shiny. Love the Widow plus her Woofers.

” The dog was created specifically for children. He is the god of Frolic” (Henry Ward Beecher)

Last Wednesday I found myself bombing down the A3 to meet my mother-in-law muttering curses at the other drivers as I attempted to beat time. As the Black Rose (my beloved Land Rover) accelerated towards Guildford, I heard a popping noise and looking through the passenger side mirror, saw the rear wheel trim fly off into the traffic behind us. Before I carry on this moral tale, I will admit to the fact that I knew the trim wasn’t secure as someone had damaged it a few days before and I hadn’t got round to getting it fixed. Anyway, as I saw the black bit of plastic tumble into the distance I had a fleeting thought to pull onto the hard shoulder and attempt to retrieve it. Idiocy I know but nevertheless the notion momentarily entered my stressed out brain. Of course I didn’t although I did send a prayer up that no headlines would appear the next day for pile-ups caused by irresponsible Land Rover drivers.

It wasn’t until a few days later as I allowed my mind to wander slightly as the Black Rose took to the autoroute that I realised that the above could so easily be an analogy for my life lately. I’ve spent far too long rushing forward, ignoring the little things that need fixing then wishing I could go back and rectify the problem so it would never have happened. I’m sure this ‘ I shoulda, woulda, coulda’ thinking happens to all of us widows and widowers. We are either looking in the rear view mirror at the parts we’ve left behind or constantly whizzing forward trying to find a settling point. Or maybe that’s just me. It’s very easy to say you only live once so enjoy the moment but as yet I haven’t reached the tranquility zone. Actually that’s not entirely true. Having driven the 10+ hour journey from London to L’Horte, most of it through driving through torrential rain alongside little French voitures doing a hundred miles an hour, the Black Rose carefully offloaded her precious cargo (Callum, myself, three dogs and all the Christmas presents) at the place I call home. And although my back had seized mid-journey and I was beyond exhausted, there was no better sight than the old homestead.

Yesterday I woke up stiff and sore and having had virtually no sleep due the aforementioned plus a very over-excited Arry and Alice ( Yogi I feel, was more empathetic to his Mum’s pain), I opened the shutters to be greeted by a cerulean sky welcoming me back. It has taken a whole day to calm the frazzled mind , mainly due to the dynamic duo seeing the property as some sort of Winter Wonderland that could disappear at any moment but now I can feel the hectic brain cells slow to a lazy crawl. It’s good to be home. So Merry Christmas one and all and I hope everyone gets a chance to sit back and switch off. From the Widow plus Woofers.

“The dog lives for the day, the hour, even the moment.” (Robert Falcon Scott)

I’ve had to bite my tongue a lot this week. And that’s difficult for me, a Scorpio who more often than not, stings first and thinks later. My gripe? Other people’s opinions on my future. From putting my house on the market (apparently not a good time to do so but my retort, when is?) to moving myself plus the woofers to France (apparently never been done before and therefore impossible for a 53 year old). Whilst I am open to advice, why do so many have to be negative about it? Or worse, see me as incapable of doing it? I doubt the same would have been voiced if I was a man by the way. It seems that being a widow and wanting to start again means you need to be advised against your own decisions by some. Thank God for my cheerleading ‘amies’ who let me vent my frustrations at the above and keep me on the path forward.

I’m not going to lie, there are times when I doubt myself and my decisions. “What the hell am I doing?” is a regular earworm but then little reminders pop up and I’m getting the rollerblades on. Last Thursday, Election Day of course, I sat in the London evening traffic for 3 hours on a less than 10 mile journey. And whilst I sat twiddling my thumbs looking at a sea of red lights, I could hear Pop complaining about the number of idling engines going nowhere. When once I would call Tony and he would make me laugh until the traffic eased, there was just Arry and I. And he was asleep. I realised that this was what staying in London was, a boring, static life with nothing but red lights ahead. Why should I settle for that?

So Callum and I plus 3 woofers (Arry, Alice and Yogi Bear) will drive down to the old homestead for the last Christmas at L’horte and I can’t wait. Ok so the drive is a long one and Callum is averse to any form of kitsch Christmas songs but the destination is worth it. And I’ve done all my Christmas shopping, made the cake, bought the pud (does anyone still make these?) and checked the dogs’ passports. A week in the place I love the best with those I love the most is how us widows plus woofers silence the bah humbugs…..

” The reason why dogs have so many friends is because they wag their tails instead of their tongues” (Anon)