I should have known better. Really, I should of, but I didn't. I had faith that everything would be A-OK.

We found a house, we put reservation money on it, we could afford it, we got the mortgage, we chose our options, they built my house (and my kitchen) just the way I wanted it.

And then the fuck-up happened.

Here I am, sitting in a land of boxes, with two plates and one saucepan in my stripped out kitchen, and instead of surviving like this for another day, we have to manage for another eight. Eight days. Fuck.

I rang the solicitors Monday and prepped them for an early move in date, the 25th.

The BCR (build complete record, something all new build houses in this country have to have before the bank deems them worthy of the agreed mortgage) was signed off ans sent Tuesday.

I got a call Tuesday at the farm from the solicitors to confirm we wanted to complete on Friday. So far, so good, right?

Wrong.

Confirmation email today: completion date 1st May. NEXT Friday. We can't move into the house, because it's not legally ours.

It does turn out that you can re-sort your entire move and all your friends in an hour and a half, but I did a lot of grovelling on the phone in that time. Damn I'm lucky to have some good friends.