At last things seem to be moving on the…erm, move to Oxford. Finding somewhere to live has been far more effort than it should have been, and it has reconfirmed my hatred for all property agents. If it wasn’t for the fact she’d end up being around estate agents the whole time, I’d honestly nudge the wife towards doing that for a living (being the organised and possessed of social-skills one out of us two) – what a bunch of morons. I shall also have myself a tiny room within which I shall spend a worryingly large amount of my life – also known as my office.
That’ll be a step down unfortunately – no large room with glorious views over Clapham Common but something literally half the size overlooking a tree in a car park, not exactly what I’d hope for but I’ve been spoiled these past few years so I’ll just have to suck it up! It will be nice to have a dedicated office however, with the spare room being ostensibly for the hordes of guest taking advantage of an open invitation (but if I get my way it’ll just have a sofa bed and bookcases along every wall so I can call it the library). No colliding with the clothes drier when I get up from my desk however, that’s something to be cheered. Seriously, happens more than it should… Mind you, I was trying to squeeze a glass bottle of deoderant into my hand yesterday, thinking I’d picked up after shave cream, so maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.
The additional piece of good news is the office has bought me a laptop and several hundred quids worth of extras to make my working life easier, as anyone having to deal with the shitmonkey that is Outlook Online can probably understand. What I hadn’t realised is that it’s possible to haggle over the phone with a Dell call centre! Not something I’d have considered but the accountant (as ferocious a woman over money that’s not even hers as you’ll ever find) talked her way to 300 quid off a thousand pound order. Which was nice.
And now we’re off to Eastercon, on Saturday anyway. Still a bit of an outsider at the the whole ‘con experience’ since clearly they were designed for pot-bellied men over 50 who’ve run small presses for 30 years – but it does allow me to engage in one of my favourite activities, namely talking crap over a drink with interesting people – not just authors, but considering Adrian Tchaikovsky’s comments about Stormcaller, I think that man is owed the first beer!