BREXILE: Red, white and ... blue

I’ve sold the house that was in my family for 61 years. The decorators are champing at the bit to get in there and tear down wallpaper, rip 70s and 80s fitted carpets from the stairs, the sitting room, the bathroom (yuk!). 

I wanted a long, lesiurely sale. Perhaps to be there still over Christmas, into 2026. But it wasn’t to be, and maybe that’s for the best. No more heating bills, no more worry on ski holidays about burst pipes. 

10 weeks from going on the market to completion. A sprint, even if you’re living in the country. I have shut myself off - from work, from friends, even family - to get Brexile done. And done it is. 

Last time I sold a property was in 2004, pre-mobile internet and apps and codes and excessive identity proofs. I was younger - and completely blase about it all. I had zero interest in who was buying my Wimbledon flat, just wanted a high price and for the thing to be done swiftly, without complications.

This time, I was a nervous wreck. The logistics of it all gave me the heebie-jeebies. I had recurring nightmares - even the night before last - about floods, fires, lost keys, other disasters. I didn’t help myself by the desire to do as much as possible single-handed. Because it wasn’t just about selling a property. It was about uprooting and my identity.

The timing ended up feeling portentous, if that’s the right word. In the last week, there's been the assassination of Charlie Kirk, the “Unite the Kingdom” march of 150,00/3 million flag-shaggers/patriots in London (alternatives depend on your perspective - the truth, as ever, lies somewhere in between). And yesterday US President Trump arrived - he’s currently in Windsor, just a few miles away from me. 

But one thing the whole disorientating experience has taught me is this. Trust in your faith in human nature, not in random media and opinions on the internet. I feel as if I’ve been brainwashed to believe that everything is going to go pear-shaped, that people are useless, that no-one can be trusted to do their job.

That’s bollocks. Over the last few weeks, I’ve met so many different characters, from the estate agent, the solicitors, the removals man, the guys at the local tip, the tea shop lady who gratefully accepted my china, the auction and house clearance guy, my lovely neighbours, my first cousin-twice-removed and her boyfriend, the staff at the hospice charity depot, my friendly local plumber ...

... and everything got done - even the returns bag for the router arrived just in time.

In the end, we muddle through. We always do.