So I came back from Marrakesh with “tummy troubles” (understatement of the century) that lasted over two weeks. NOT fun. After a really fantastic few days rummaging through the souks, we endured the plane-ride-from-hell to get us back to England. The plan had been to look for – and hopefully secure – a new flat in London before returning to Bath, but I felt so bad I decided to come home early.
However, what started as disappointment soon turned into understanding – when looking for a new home in Bath back in 2008 I was looking for confirmation that I was making the right move; the signs came, I found a home easily and the move happened. This time I was hoping for the same – I was so sure of the rightness of this move. And of course the signs came, and they said, in no uncertain terms: this isn’t the right time.
The first clue was the Moroccan detox. Then a few days after returning home I received two phone calls that confirmed I’d made the right decision: the first was from the only estate agent I’d been able to visit. He told me that the renting market is in a bad way right now and that I’d need at least a month and a half to find somewhere decent, maybe more. Oh, and rents had gone up 20% from last year.
The second call was from my current landlord offering to re-carpet my entire flat, something I’d been asking him to do since the day I moved in; 18 months later I got my wish. So it looks like I will be getting a new space after all, just not in the city I’d imagined….not yet, anyway. The move is on hold until all my book deadlines have been met in the new year (I’ve promised myself a few weekends in London to tide me over till then.)
It’s all good.