So we toiled through a flurry of visits to estate agents who proffered a smörgåsbord of affordably repugnant, over-priced or awkwardly configured houses and flats. Sweeping their hands and ushering us forward as they hissed and spat agent-speak like Gollom in sight of the ring.
When a three bed detached house with a garden and parking popped up on the radar, I could hardly wait the twelve hours until our viewing, feeling all Christmas eve-ish and unable to sleep.
Fin and I cycled to the place with high hopes. Nestled in a quiet little cul-de-sac, was a bijou little house and we knew almost before we were in, that this was where we wanted to spend the last bit of our journey.
As if to cement this feeling, a completely black cat padded downstairs and wound himself about our ankles, purring, 'yes', as he blinked his green eyes.
So we completed the forms and met the landlords, who were just lovely. And I remembered to breathe again and trust that this was all going to be fine.
And why wouldn't it be?
So thank you universe. Thank you damselflies. Thank you, fairies of house rental. You told me it would be ok, and I almost believed you. I guess you'll just have to keep reminding me to trust.