A house has come up that looks as if it might be just I want (OK, just what I want and have a halfway realistic chance of getting in Oxford, as opposed to, say, being on the crescent on Tadcaster Road in York), and that I can afford at the asking price. Except that it is Easter Sunday. When I am 180 miles away and can’t be there to see it for a week. Chances of it still being there a week tomorrow – I wouldn’t bet on it. Oh well, Venice is quite a consolation.
I went leafleting yesterday round the street where I lived until I was 12. I had forgotten quite how steep some of the drives are, and how long a couple of the routes that we used to run. Goodness, I must have been a fit nine year old.