‘Anyway, talking of errant husbands, I’d better be off and see what Nigel’s up to. And you’ve got all your stuff to sort. I can’t wait to hear where you decide to go on holiday with all the money when you sell everything. You could even do a Caribbean cruise with all this lot.’
‘Oh, I don’t know that I’ll be going on holiday anywhere. Depends on how much I make, I suppose.’
We hug goodbye and Debbie makes me promise that I will sort some kind of holiday plan out. Spurred on by Debbie’s enthusiasm for the clear-out, I start making a list of the items to go on auction sites. I may have lost quite a bit of money buying everything new but I’m sure they will still be worth a small fortune second-hand after everything has been put together.
I place things in piles and make a special stack of things I could never bear to part with; my mother’s beloved crocheted christening blanket for Hannah for one. Then I make a heap of items that must go, which sadly includes my grey ceramic Dusty Bin from the Eighties. I put it in the pile for the charity shop. I’m pretty sure this will bring back memories for someone, but it’s time for me to let go of mine, even though I have fond memories of picking it up at Neath Christmas Fayre with my mam.
By the end of the day, the spare room is crammed full of nearly-new stuff ready to sell. This one room alone looks like a hoarder’s paradise. Like it belongs on one of those programmes where a whole team of people have to come in and help someone who has lost all control. A feeling of self-loathing and shame washes over me in a wave once again. I try to remind myself that this is why I am doing this. I am going to stop. I know it is wrong.
With photos taken of stuff to sell, I decide to start listing a couple of items before bed so that I can judge how much interest there is before spending days listing everything else. Sorting out clutter is tiring work, and I am almost done for the day. I rub my eyes, which are aggravated by the dust mites that I have unearthed, along with the tiredness that is creeping in.
However, as I am about to log off the auction site something grabs my attention. I can only assume that I have been targeted for this advert since I have just listed an assortment of rubber ducks that I pointlessly bought on a trip to the Netherlands, along with the Delft clogs, many years ago.
As my mouse hovers over the button to shut my computer down, I read the words over and over: ‘Houseboat in Amsterdam for sale’. I love Amsterdam, and since I don’t live too far away from Brecon, I have always been obsessed with houseboats. What a combination!
Despite my exhaustion and my resolution to not allow myself to be enticed by anything remotely material, my heart skips a beat as I look at the photo of the houseboat situated on a canal in the middle of Amsterdam. There isn’t much detail in the small thumbnail advert, but it invites me to click for more information. My mind is telling me to ignore it, but my heart is beating fast. It is too late; the adrenaline is already pumping through me. It is as if I have a little devil on my shoulder shouting, ‘Open it. Take a quick look! What harm can it do?’
I wrestle with my conscience but, as usual, listen to the naughty devil on my shoulder and open the advert up. I feel the endorphins immediately. My pulse rate quickens further. I am almost breathless and the tiredness has quickly dissipated.
Hannah’s words ring in my head as I read over the advert. ‘A completely new start, Mam. That’s what you need.’ In the past, when she was younger, this time of year always brought exciting new beginnings. September came with a new term at school, new teachers, new uniform, new pencils: everything was shiny and fresh. As the leaves fell off the trees, the autumn season felt like a time for renewal. A time to start over. The advert makes me wish for that new start. However, as I told Hannah when she tried to give me her advice, and I tell myself now, ‘I’ll be fifty-six next month. What if I’m too old for a new start?’
Despite my fears, I can’t resist reading through the specifications of the houseboat. I mean, it is only window shopping. I am not actually buying it. I haven’t spent a euro. It is just curiosity. And what could be wrong with that?
I put my reading glasses on for a closer inspection and stare at the screen in front of me.
Environmentally friendly houseboat for sale. Constructed from sustainable materials, this stunning Nordic houseboat is available immediately.
My eyes skip past the bits about how it’s equipped for harsh winters with its 123 mm wall insulation and the solar panels on the roof. I am too mesmerised by the fact that it’s sustainable and I’d be doing my bit for the planet while also relishing my favourite words –available immediately!
There is only one thing to do and so, before I head to bed, I complete the online enquiry form. Only then can I shut down my computer as my mind starts to become consumed with thoughts of what it must be like to live on a houseboat. I’m sure it would be amazing. After all, I watchedRosie and Jimenough times with Hannah when she was small to know that life on a houseboat is utterly idyllic. I realise that’s a kids’ show, but I’ve also seen lots of those lifestyle TV programmes about people living on houseboats. They all seem to live the dream. And those ones in Brecon always look lovely…
I might have promised myself that I would stop spending, but it was Debbie who suggested I needed a holiday. Why don’t I do better than that and heed the advice of both Hannah and Debbie? Being half Irish, I have an EU passport and don’t have to worry about the immigration side of things.
A new start in a new country would beat any two-week holiday. I mean, it is better than coming back to a cold and empty home with a few tacky souvenirs for the kitchen and a couple of extra kilos on my waist. Instead, I would be living the houseboat dream, and the holiday would never end! Besides, the thought of downsizing has been in the back of my mind for a while, and how much better could it get than downsizing to live on a barge? Surely this could be one purchase that is worth every single euro.
Chapter Three
For someone who has spontaneously sent a sales enquiry to a company advertising on the internet, my inbox is remarkably quiet. I thought companies were only too keen to get sales enquiries, and I am surprised I am not already on their database. I am on edge each time my email pings, which is frequently, since I have been automatically subscribed to newsletters every darn time I have bought anything online. At least I manage a productive morning when I unsubscribe from four clothing companies that I don’t remember subscribing to.
Another email pings into my inbox, clearly from some other database that I didn’t know I was on. Appalled, I press delete and shout at the computer that I really don’t need an over-fifties funeral plan! The cheek of these companies once you turn fifty. I am not quite ready to pop my clogs. Talking of clogs makes me think of Amsterdam again. I am starting to get impatient and decide to call the company selling the houseboat. Even as I dial the number, I tell myself this idea is absolutely ludicrous, but I still can’t help myself. The sensible part of me is almost fearful of what I will come out with on the phone. With this level of overexcitement, I am going to be handing over my credit card details to some random person. I curse myself for not having more self-restraint.
Anyway, I find myself disappointed when I am transferred to a recorded message. That is when I remember what day it is: Sunday. Of course! That’s why I haven’t heard anything. In my eagerness, it completely slipped my mind that it is the weekend.
Fortunately for me, the internet is available all day, every day, and so I start searching online to see what else is out there. Now that the idea is in my head, I want to learn everything I can about life on board a houseboat. I look at some of the sales listings but they are all way beyond my budget. I start to lose hope of fulfilling this dream, but when I find the blog of someone who sold up everything and moved to a houseboat in Brecon, I can’t stop reading about her experience. She’s a single woman, like me, although a bit younger. I read her words as she describes waking up on the canal with the sound of birds for company.
‘I should have done it years ago. Living on a houseboat in Brecon is pure heaven,’ she writes.
I have always liked Brecon, and it would be a lovely place to live, with a great theatre and all those lovely country pubs, but I am looking for a completely new start. I can easily drive there in half an hour. What sort of adventure would that be? I quite like the idea of going somewhere further away and now I am consumed with the idea of Amsterdam.
I look at the photos of the blogger’s bright green houseboat. She has a silver watering can on the front of the boat, filled with sunflowers. The houseboat windows are decorated with pretty little nets and there is an abundance of leafy green plants on the roof. She even has hanging baskets. It really is a home from home and I can see why her lifestyle feels so heavenly to her. I consider commenting on the blog and asking her lots of questions. I would love to know all the practical things, like whether it is safe to live on a barge, or if you could drown in the middle of the night while fast asleep.
However, before I can start racking up my questions, I am surprised to hear my phone ring. Hannah isn’t due to call today so I hope everything’s okay. I notice that the number calling is from overseas but it’s not an Australian dialling code.
‘Goedemorgen,’ says the voice.
‘Hi, sorry, English?’
‘Yes, of course. Good morning, you called the office? I’m Gerrit from themakelaar, umm, the agency.’
