Well, as one of my kind and empathetic blog buddies reminded me on Saturday, during a few stern pep talks, this is the “warts and all” blog so I will tell true.
I still feel like I have been punched in the gut.
I cannot watch the Brexit coverage without getting anxious and knotted. Everytime I see or hear anything French related I can feel myself on the verge of tears. Honestly.
I have ranted at my daughter (I have never before, in 39 years, ranted at this poor child)
I truly feel that at the last hurdle we have been dealt a sickening blow.
It’s not panic, it’s realism. I do not care a hoot whether this will devalue our French properties (we did not buy in France just because you get a lot for very little price wise) we did not buy as a property investment.
We invested in ourselves, in our wish to live in a particular place in a chosen country which we love and have huge empathy for. Where we are happy.
We are not indulging in a cheap second home with a bit of sunshine thrown in. This isn’t a fashionable accessory. This wasn’t a whim. This is our future. We can’t afford any more knockbacks.
OK I’m still ranting.
So, I dealt with it over the weekend by various distraction techniques;
I scrubbed the house, delivered furniture to the prettiest village in Buckinghamshire and followed Trev’s reliable base paint work by hand painting and waxing some pine shelves in a rather Swedish Country motif.
Started reading a fat art history book I bought ages ago . It all helped, but I am still profoundly unsettled. Literally.