A house is not a home

This afternoon we eventually managed to see inside Stephen’s beloved green house, which was both better and worse than he’d hoped.

Our appointment was 4pm, and Maddalena insisted on coming with us to make sure we did not do something stupid like buy it. After a reconnoitre of the land surrounding the house, making a mess of our shoes in the still sodden sandy earth in the process, the estate agent arrived only ten minutes late, followed shortly after by the seller.

So what were the positive points? Lots of land (four hectares) including an allotment, a multitude of cherry trees, other arboreal features, lovely views of the countryside (when not hidden by the trees), great potential to make the outside look good, not too far from MSP and the upstairs is more than liveable as it is.

And negatively? The ground floor was divided into four areas rather than the two Stephen had imagined when peering through the windows, making it more difficult to transform into the open plan summer living he envisaged. The first floor was reasonably spacious but the layout, again, would have to be reworked somehow to make it flow to accommodate guests, paying or non, in a mutually conducive manner. The outside needs a lot of attention to make it useable for outside living (though it does have a ready made if somewhat unkempt bocce pitch) and the attic doesn’t have enough clearance to make it into an en suite bedroom.

Put into cold black and white, there seems little reason to seriously consider it, but there is something about the property that is very appealing. Besides, Stephen has bonded with the house over the past couple of months, renovating it in his imagination into a grand style statement. Currently we are debating between this and the white house from the other day, mulling over the pros and cons with no decision likely for some time. Let’s face it, we take ages choosing which deodorant to buy, so how can we be expected to settle on a house?

Anyway, to other matters.

After bobbing to the factory for an hour, Stephen came back to leave the car and we both headed for much-needed haircuts before he joined Take That, Chris and sundry others at the pub to eat. You may be surprised, as I was, to know that MSP has a remarkably stylish clothing shop called Monti Moda in one of the old village buildings whose outside has been scrubbed to honeyed splendour and the inside of which has been redesigned to house the shop, a bar underneath (for the flicked hair and sunglass wearing young things of the area) and the barbers. The barber, Rocco, is the son of the couple who own the shop and the whole mini-complex was designed by his sister, an architect. That is why, when you sit in the chair, you could be in a London salon, except no London salon has a large plate glass window with the most fabulous, uninterrupted view of the rippling hills and valleys of this part of Le Marche. And if that was not enough, ladies, Rocco himself looks like an Italian sized Aidan Turner – Poldark without the sea, or indeed the scything. Just as well I am a married man.