It's that time of the year again, when that peculiarly American plant, the ornamental cabbage, surfaces. There have been an overpriced cluster of them on the kitchen table this last week - part of the Staging. Only today, I noticed that they were wilting, and starting to smell decidedly Cabbagey. So it was off to Roberts Florals, and back with another slender armful of gerberas and carnations and other things that might possibly last the week.
In my fantasy world, the phone would have rung around 10.10 this morning, with yesterday's repeat viewers anxious to make an offer. By around 9.59, I'd already planned, in my head, that they would want to be in by Christmas, and I'd make a celebratory car trip westwards with the cats the moment I finished teaching. By 10.30, I'd decided that this couple must be living, still, in the age of Mad Men, and I was waiting for the Husband to make the crucial phone call to the realtor during his lunch hour. By mid-afternoon, I'd convinced myself that they were talking to their bank this afternoon, to make sure that getting a mortgage was going to be a breeze. By this evening ... oh, the narratives one weaves oneself in this whole house-selling business. You'd have thought that I'd have garnered enough experience over the years. At least this house isn't known to my friends - with warped affection - as The Crumbler.
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