Lately I feel like one of those ladies in a Jane Austen novel. No, not the romping through the fields whilst reading poetry Lizzy Bennett types; I’m talking about the other ladies, the wilting flowers whose life is currently just really getting them down. Other ladies shake their heads sadly over the wilting flower, who is probably currently half-heartedly attempting some rather uninspiring needlework in an effort to interest herself in something, anything. “Her spirits are much depressed”, they sigh.

The waiting to start our life again is still going on with no end in sight. The house we saw on the weekend and put an offer on (with the agent assuring us that the owners would accept an offer prior to auction) is now going to auction. Apparently our offer was great, but they want to see how much more they can get at an auction *sigh*. I get the feeling our offer was just used as a way of seeing how much they can get. Naturally the auction is roughly 3 weeks ago. Three weeks of waiting with possible hope at the end, although the cynic in me is cackling insanely and telling me to abandon all hope. Sadly, I now see why there are so many crazy people at auctions just throwing money at the auctioneer in a desperate attempt to beat everybody else to it. These people who I thought were making huge financial mistakes weren’t simply crazy. They’d just been looking for a house for so long, stuck in this limbo for so long, that they’ll do anything and pay anything just to get that damn house. I understand it completely. I’m going crazy myself, you see.

I’m almost at the point where I’d do anything to get a house. Any house. Even the house that looks like a brick with sad window-eyes and described as “spacious” when the twists and turns required to navigate its poky little rooms result in having to explain to friends that yes, you actually did walk into a door. Anything to escape this ennui, this complete apathy towards doing anything except refreshing the real estate sites every 10 minutes. Nearly everything I do feels like it’s just another attempt to fill in time. Nearly all our conversations now consist of “when we have a house…” or “when we get our new computers…” etc etc. It’s very much like somebody’s pressed the “hold” button on my life and I can’t resume it until I’m in my own house again, surrounded by my own stuff, doing housework in my own home. Knowing that things could be worse and that there are starving people in the world etc etc really isn’t helping either. Then I just feel guilty and selfish on top of the listlessness and depressed spirits.

I think I’m only a short step away from hysterical laughter. Isn’t house hunting just lovely?

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