house-hunting in the UQ

for those clamoring for another united queendom epistle: i dedicate my words to you.

for new readers: you can enjoy it too.

The new-ness of staying in a hotel wore off rather quickly. After staying in a hotel stateside for a good three weeks prior to shipping out, we now had to dine in the hotel dining room during specific hours accompanied by probably the worst examples of parenting I have ever met in person. We had no real place to relax, aside from lounging on the bed and watching tv. Everything there was to be seen in walking distance of the hotel was done in less than a week. And I was itching to prepare my own food that had actual taste.

The chef was completely boggled by my request for pancakes for breakfast; toast, baked beans, and broiled tomatoes just don't cut it for me. In France, pancakes are a fruit- or chocolate-filled dessert, not a breakfast food. Frustrated, I brought in a "just add water" Aunt Jemima pancake mix from the commissary and proceeded to teach the four-star chef how to make my breakfast. It was OK. He added too much water and they turned out like rubbery blintzes. Because that's how the French make pancakes. *sigh* So I really really wanted my own place again.

We hired an estate agent to show us some rental properties since there was a waiting list to live on post. Apartments, or flats, were really hard to come by, and in most cases were too far away from post to be worth the hassle. We wanted a house. Our estate agent had a nasal twang akin to Julie-Andrews-meets-Fran-Drescher that just set my teeth on edge, but she had several properties that might interest us. Based on the notes I took and their *ahem* distinct "charms," we gave them each their very own name.

the "red room" house. An older three-bedroom bungalow, one of three properties between two farms just outside of Welbourne. Newer carpeting throughout most of the house featuring an attached dining room, double-glazed windows, a spacious sitting room, and a newly-fitted power shower. A power shower sounded heavenly compared to the hotel tub baths torturing my long long long hair. (Power showers are electric-powered, gas- or electric-heated wall-mounted shower systems that do not rely on gravity to pull the water through the pipes.) No improvements to the property allowed. No shelves or pictures allowed on the walls. Nice house. BUT.... one of the three bedrooms, coincidentally the one big enough to hold the master bedroom furniture, was red. Red carpet. Red walls. Red ceiling. Red door. Red fixtures. Blood red. I was creeped out just peeking inside the room from the hall. I bravely walked inside, turned slowly in a circle and then ran out clutching my child to my breast and holding the rising scream in the back of my throat, fearing that blood would rain down on my head.

notes: the Red Room. NO.

the house of the locked door. This beautiful gem is nestled away in a field, about eight miles from the post. Mature poplars line the property, creating a beautiful backdrop and windbreak across the farmlands. There is a circular drive from the carriageway (highway), so no backing out into high-speed traffic required. The carpeting leaves a little to be desired, but with a toddler in arms and planning for a second baby in mind, old carpet is good carpet, so long as it can be steam cleaned. It is a two-bedroom bungalow and it looks like our California King bed set will not only fit through the door, but we might even be able to fit a wardrobe or two (because we found no closets in British bedrooms) alongside. BUT..... at the end of the hall was a locked, nay, BOLTED door. It had steel plates securing it closed from the inside of the house. Ummmm. Excuse me. Explanation please?

"Oh, right, that's the laboratory," (pronounced la-BOR-a-tree). Oh, right, the laBORatree. Of course. Ah-what? "There is a stipulation that this door stays locked because the owner lets this room to a scientist. He can't get in the house. You'll be perfectly safe. He just does his work here occasionally. He has his own door and his own drive, even; he'll never bother you. You won't even know he's here." Sure enough, outside there is a little dog-leg off the circular drive around back to this little room. A pair of wellies, a pile of used rubber gloves, a bucket, and a box of odd-shaped dirty glass bottles sits outside this door. We can't even peek in the window to see what kind of "work" is being worked upon.

notes: mad scientist next to m-bedroom, locked room. 2 big b-rooms, beautiful prop. TREES!! 8 miles. NEXT.

the dog house. A large, beautiful, stone two-story house with three bedrooms and a study, located a twenty minute drive from the post. No visible neighbors. Large garden in the front and an obvious dog run in the back. Bay window in the front sitting room. Large electric appliances in the kitchen, washer and dryer included. BUT....it was a former kennel. Dog hair was so ingrained into every carpet in the house, that after having been cleaned, it still looked like dogs had just rolled on every surface. The whole place smelled of dog ass. We were told that close to twenty dogs were kept in cages inside two of the four bedrooms. It was obvious that the cooker was seldom-used because there were puppy-sized hunks of fur inside the oven and burned to the cooker's burners. Every cabinet in the kitchen was furry, inside and out. We've had dog fur before. In fact, every year, we find another Dino-Dog hair on the Christmas tree since he left us in 1998. But that.....was disgusting.

notes: dogs. pretty, but smelly. maybe a prof. cleaner?

the skinny house. This bright white plaster three-story town house is located on the corner of High Street and Church Lane in South Kyme. The property consists of just enough space to park an Austin Mini on the pavement, without actually blocking traffic, and a clothesline from a second story window to the next-door neighbor's fence. Sits across the street from the chip shop (read: fried fish stink) and one must drive over a quaint, one-lane wooden bridge into town, visible from the third story. Front door opens one step down from street level into a sitting room barely large enough for a settee (loveseat). Eat-in kitchen boasts a traditional refrigerator under the counter (you read that correctly: three-feet high, including the freezer) and hot and cold running water. (Wow hot AND cold??) all that lovely detail... BUT...stairs to the upper floors were 18 inches high. You read that right too. There were 2 giant steps up, turn; two giant steps up, turn; two giant steps up, second story: one bedroom, one bathroom. Repeat to third story which housed only the master bedroom - and it even has a half-closet.

notes: no room to breathe. no.

the village house. Our sponsor got a lead on a three-bedroom duplex in the village just off-post. We met with the estate agent (not ours) and fell in like with the property immediately. It was on the very end of a friendly cul-de-sac with a fully fenced (odd-shaped) yard, bordering on a horse farm complete with chickens, ducks and a pond visible from the master bedroom. It was newly painted, came with most appliances and a hookup for a washer/dryer unit. It had a wall-length wardrobe in one of the bedrooms. It had an unattached garage at the end of the shared driveway. The grass in the large landscaped garden was over two feet high. We determined that we could wrangle our mattress up the stairs. Our tiny dining room table just might fit with the microwave cart in the dining room. And we could, in all actuality, make do with a refrigerator in a closet under the stairs on the other side of the dining room from the kitchen, if we wanted a bigger fridge. We took it. There ended up being only 29 giant black yard bags full of grass. We lived there for a whopping six months before the cold wind whistling through the cat door in the kitchen froze me out and we finally got to the top of the waiting list for base housing.

Now THAT was a house. It even had real closets.