Day spent waiting for the exchange to happen, phoning solicitors and estate agents and so on.  We're all ready to go, and this afternoon the estate agent told us the vendor is also ready to go. The last lines of Waiting for Godot are apposite. Vladimir: Well? Shall we go? Estragon: Yes, let's go. They do not move. I made my final futile call at 5:30 to the solicitor. No exchange made. They do not move. 

When I wasn't wandering in this hall of mirrors, I searched for pieces of paper that have the information Andrew needed for my tax return. When I wasn't doing this I was failing to write. All this inbetweenness is rubbish for writing in. So I finished The Fall by Camus which I enjoyed a good deal, in an existentialist kind of way: a bloke in a dark cafe harping on about how terrible life is and what a terrible man he is. In the end it turns out his endless but fascinating monologue has all been addressed to himself, or at least to his double.

When Lorraine returned home, we drove off to nearby Cuckfield, which has a centre and a cheery pub and a few restaurants and cafes. One quick drink followed by a nice curry in the place we went to last time. Jess and Andrew on good form, and in love with their new little dog. I like Andrew and feel very happy that he is my accountant. Lorraine and I yawning our heads off however by around ten, and so made our excuses, and sped home.