That Old Chestnut ,,,

Hello, 

Leaving work early today I was excited at the prospects of the next hour and as Mr. Warehouse and I trundled down the road in Vivienne I could barely contain my excitement. Indicating right, slowing down and pulling into the gravel lane that lead to the back of some very quaint Railway cottages we had arrived. Looking like the back end of a chocolate box with friendly locals and what appeared to be a communal car parking space where everyone I imagined looked forward to seeing their neighbours and having a chit-chat over the garden fence, maybe even sharing in some sugar or two. Getting out of the car Mr. Warehouse could already tell I was falling form the old-ye-worlde charm of the place. 

Wandering around the outhouses, sheds and barn or two we were called over by a rather warm looking estate agent who ushered us inside before explaining the details of the house. It was a two-bedroom cottage with a garden courtyard which I just knew would not please Mr. Warehouse as he wanted some grass that his dog could disintegrate with her piss but I thought that the walled courtyard would be perfect to enjoy BBQ's in the summer and a hot toddy and blanket to watch the stars when it got colder. As we entered the home through the back door, we came into a large kitchen enough to host dinner or a party with plenty of room for a dining room table and all the bits and bobs a kitchen would need (although we found out later that the white good were not included). Trying my might to get Mr. Warehouse's eye, I wanted to point him towards the kitsch little stable door to the back of the property that would lend itself to a form of proper country living and something I had in all honesty always dreamt of having. Snapping out of thoughts of me entertaining guests through the half-hatched door or having our pooch learn to lean up and beg for some treats after wandering out round the garden, the estate agent took us through to a large living room. Nicely decorated our large chaise-sofa would have fit several ways round and we were surprised to learn that the gorgeous book case would be staying so as to house all manner of DVD's, Books and Games as well as all the pictures and memento's Mr. Warehouse long to put on display. It was here I began to let myself truly think about living here, cosy nights in front of the TV cuddled up on the couch watching shite telly whilst the wind and the cold breezed outside. 

Opening a wooden door lead to the enclosed staircase whereby we ascended to reveal a huge bathroom with enough space for a massive bath tub set into the stone floor, a separate shower, toilet and sink with plenty of room for cabinets and storage for bathroom items. I was in love. The high ceilings and character of the property was something I had absolutely fallen head over heels for, but looking at Mr. Warehouse I could tell that something was not right. Looking through into the first room, what turned out to apparently be the smallest of the two still housed a large double bed, a desk and work station and even a double wardrobe big enough to be a triple for even more storage options. This was a room I would be proud to put guests in and even with a little tweaking could accommodate a half man-cave, half craft room. It was everything I wanted from a spare room and more with the potential of it being more that just a guest bedroom in the future. The master bedroom was similar in size although with the alcoves cut into the wall following the destruction of the original fire place and with added space over the stairs there would have been plenty of room in their for both our wardrobes and drawers including a comfy new bed maybe. It even had a secret little window to shout down for your morning coffee. 

With the fluff and prancing around over and done with we got talking on the landing and down to business. After asking all the relevant questions Mr. Warehouse and I were ready to talk money. £1,100 for the deposit of six-weeks up-front. £240 background agency and referencing fee. £120 tenancy drafting and inventory fee. £100 pet policy agreement fee. In total Mr. Warehouse would be talking over three-grand before we have even got the keys. Five minutes later the reality started to settle in with the conversation that had just been held and as the estate agent went off to make some phone-calls back to the office the reality started to settle in. We had a couple of hundred quid saved and a credit card or two, but no way did we have that sort of money. Who did? 

I could understand the pet deposit and I will be honest I am surprised it was not more given the fact that they charge nearly £300 per couple for copying and pasting an already existing tenancy agreement and handing you a pen. and then there is the inventory list that need to be done, again something that would have been done less that a year ago when the property was last on the market. The hundred-and-twenty quid for the referencing fee, just for little estate agent to sit at her desk of an afternoon and make a couple of phone calls in order to check we have no bad financial history of not paying or leaving the place in a state. It was an absolute joke. And all in order to pay someone else's mortgage. Walking out of the property I was siked about what the conversation would be in the car on the way to our "old home". 

Alas the journey was quiet as we had not even turned the engineer on in our dear Vivienne before and argument broke out. Everything had been so positive before and now working out the figures I was sure that we were not to live happily ever after in our little cottage of joy. I would never serve drinks from my stable hatch or get to bathe in my floor-set bath tub. Never would I be able to refer to the two outhouses as the cow and coal sheds, nor will I shout down to the cozy sitting room for a cup of char of a Sunday morning before a nice brisk walk along the country roads. Indeed it was a very quiet journey home that I just became more and more agitated with the fact that Mr. Warehouse agreed to see the property with me, so why wasn't he open to putting down roots. I questioned his commitment for the first time tonight. 

For the value that we would be paying I thought it was a steal and with the fact we could potentially live there way past marriage and our first child it was something I was ready to say yes to right there and then. Having said that though, I couldn't help think that the boyfriend was waiting on something else. Something that might never come along and that even if it did it would still not satisfy him fully and tick every one of his boxes. Would it have the grassy garden for the dog? Would the rent be affordable and something we can manage? Would it be somewhere for a while and not for a moment? Would the bathroom please his every need and would there be room for this and room for that? There is always something that just isn't right enough for my dear, dear Mr Warehouse and unfortunately his lack of imagination and creativity cannot be applied in order to see what it could be like and not what it is at face value within a property. And I thought I was hard to please!?

Now I know we were and are still both luck to have the good jobs we do and food in our bellies and a roof over our heads especially more-so as it came into the harshness of winter and in a bid not to sound ungrateful I just with that there was a way out of this somewhat hopeless situation. A couple, mid-twenties that are stuck suffocating between an affordable rented property that they are hotly growing out of, although not in a position to rent somewhere bigger and better but neither in a position to buy. How do people do it? Well I know how, it usually a helping hand or a big win, usually the former. Government schemes such as help to buy mortgages, shared ownership and lifetime ISA's only help the fortunate to save. What about those like Mr. Warehouse and I who can fully afford a mortgage on a good home but can barely scrape together the deposit and fees and all because we are paying our own way in life already. The fact is that buying for Mr. Warehouse and I will take years, and probably close to a decade to save for, even where we are now with the rent and bills we pay. Renting for Mr. Warehouse and myself, yes, is an option, however this would lend itself to a higher cost of living with bigger rents and bills and no where for spare cash to go towards a house. So what do we do? 

After arriving home and cleaning the small flat in separate areas for nearly an hour, we met in the Fritzl (our aptly named corridor after Joseph and Elizabeth Fritzl due to how small, narrow and long it is). Bellies rumbling and sadness from either party I knew I couldn't stay angry at him for being a realist, although I hated him for it. I soon realised I have been very selfish and my constant talk of holidays or luxurious travelling or buy a house or renting somewhere new is neglectful of my responsibilities as a girlfriend and to be supportive in an emotional way to someone else other than me. Whilst my urge for moving is getting greater I need to acknowledge that Mr. Warehouse earns less than I do, only by a fraction, but still enough to make him feel even less hopeful than me at ever getting out of our pokey one-bed. I love our little flat, but don't get me wrong, if someone offered me tomorrow a property that ticked all the boxes and I had the money to move immediately, I would. I just hope that Mr. Warehouse waiting on something better to come along pays off ... 

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx 

Flipping Me Off!

Hiya, 

Outfits ready and bodies primped and preened, Mr. Warehouse and I were ready for our close-up. Today was the day of Mr. Warehouse's Valentines present ... A couples photo-shoot. Arriving slightly early, we drove up the long and winding private road to the big country home and adjacent log cabin studio. Its was obvious that Mommy and Daddy bought the place and that she still lived at home and had probably rarely left home, only for wonderful long distance holidays and maybe Uni all paid for by the fat that she possibly paid little or no rent. Nevertheless with the fields and countryside surrounding the home, a tree house, swing and an area for campfires I was more than looking forward to the shots and what the possibilities could be for the final viewing. 

Now I must say that I never really gelled with our photographer on this occasion as much as I had with the Guy who did the photo shoot for the Dog which we won back in November following a chance entry whilst in our local Pets At Home. He was funny and made us feel so welcome and happy to share our lives and open up to him and his lens. He got on brilliantly with our pooch and really seemed to understand us, which was something I hoped had and would come from our valentines shoot. 

In a way I kind of wished that I had booked it before we went on holiday or for a day that wasn't so overcast or cold, for maybe they would look better (This is me speculating of course, they may already be beautiful) and at least I would look thinner from all the classes and swimming I ave been doing now Pooch doesn't have to go to the Vets every other day. 

Alas as half way through and after many an outfit change, Mr. Warehouse and I were told it was "time to show some more affection" which, as if the situation wasn't cringe enough, just made the whole thing just that little bit worse. Posing together felt awkward and at times painful, both metaphorically and physically with odd positions and strange moves. Now I am not saying by any stretch of the imagination that Mr. Warehouse and I have the perfect relationship, however I know for a fact that we are affectionate towards one another. I cuddle him and he cuddles me and we comfort each other when we have had a bad day. Like Pancake (Shrove) Tuesday!

Coming home from work I was exhausted, it had been a long day and one where I was glad it was over. Feeling slightly on the edge as it goes I refused to let life get the better of me and took to making the healthy banana pancake batter I had been researching all day and spending my lunch-break watching videos of how to make them. Batter made and pan hot with oil, I started the melt-down process that would ensue. First two went OK. then the third just flopped like a dead battery at an Ann Summers party. As I went to flip it the pancake, batter still wet and not fully cooked yet, split. Hoping to try and rectify it I counter-acted the manoeuvre by approaching it from the other side, not helping the situation in the slightest. After several more attempts I threw the frying pan down, tipped away the by now char-grilled and mushy mess and proceeded to the front room for reflection. 

It was at this point that Mr. Warehouse makes the point that I have not followed the recipe exactly to the letter and the reason for my inability to make healthy pancakes is because I did not weigh everything and follow the instructions given. So, refusing to be beaten by a mixture that calls itself not only Yorkshire pudding mix but also for making Pancakes, I returned to the kitchen. This time I was encouraged by Mr. Warehouse, following every gram and millilitre by the book. And yet again the same thing happened. Tormented by the smoking frying pan I went into full blown Kitchen-Floor-Reset Mode. For those of you that don't know what Kitchen-Floor-Reset Mode is, its where you have so much of a break-down in yourself as a human being you slowly cry yourself onto the floor of the kitchen, snot and tears coagulating mess in your airways making you sound like a toddler who has just been told Peppa Pig time is over. 

In true teenager fashion I huffed back to the front room and with everything finally coming to a head, I began to cry. And yes it was all because of some Instrgram, Protein-shake-fucked, clean-eating healthy bollocking banana pancakes. Felling silly I felt the familiar cuddle of Mr. Warehouse's arms encapsulate me. Soft words of non-wisdom came next like "Its OK not everyone can make pancakes" and other one liners such as "It was the frying pan, its not a good one". Whilst sobbing subsided I could see through blurred, teary vision that my beautiful, wonderful Mr. Ware was desperately trying to look for any restaurants within a ten-mile radius that would sell pancakes. I needed IHOP but all England has is, well, nothing. With all other options exhausted Mr. Warehouse and I headed to Tesco in order to find some battery goodness. None was to be found though as everyone else obviously had the same idea and just bought there is instead of trying to be Pintrest-Pricks. So I settled for Waffles instead. 

But that is what affection and love is. Supporting someone through a shitty time, even if it is over a few bananas mashed in with rolled oats and an egg. Its about searching the whole fucking county for pancake-houses and dessert places that will deliver since Bedford has yet to hop on the whole Deliveroo band-wagon. Caring is saying 'I'm sure It'll look OK in the photos' when in reality you know we will both end up just skipping through them all like the last time, hating the way we looked.

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx