
Hi, my name is Nina and I’m a houseaholic.
Instead of writing, I procrastinate my time away surfing property sites dreaming of a life I can not afford. Not by a long shot. Oh, yes, I occasionally scroll around my price range but the choice is so pathetic I much prefer to double the maximum price and drool.
My children are used to my obsession. The first thing I do on any of our travels is pick up the local paper and pour over the property listings. My husband ignores me.
My poor children used to jump up and down with anticipation at the thought of living in a chateau in France. Or a cottage in Dorset. Or a winery in Australia. Or a ranch in Montana…
But years have gone by and I haven’t quite managed to make enough money to buy a porcelain toilet in said chateau, cottage, winery or ranch.
So they’ve started to ignore me as well.
But I love my property sites. So I thought I’d share with you an incredible house I saw on Findaproperty.com. I can’t decide whether it’s fabulous or awful. You tell me. It’s in Hampshire and is on the market for £2,250,000.
I know. Too hilarious.
I’m also an avid fan of housepricecrash.co.uk which as far as I can tell consists of a coffee klatch of male doomsayers waiting for the UK housing market to crash or for the world to end (whichever comes first). They are alternatingly vicious and supportive. I feel quite bonded with these men (with their funny monikers: cynicalsoothsayer, paranoia blue, crunchy, flashman, growler) even though I have never posted. What would I write besides ‘Oh, no, what shall we do?’ ‘What is to become of us????’
Is there an emoticon for wringing your hands?
The other day they all broke into French and I laughed so hard I abandoned all hope of getting any work done.
photo by Climate Patrol (flickr)

I have been searching for my character. And I think I finally found her.
I have been busy turning my novel,
We American Londoners celebrated the Fourth of July this Saturday. And were a little noisier than usual. For the previous eight years, we’ve been gathering quietly, almost apologetically, to celebrate our common nationality.
I have a friend who lives in Kentish Town across the street from a blue plaque for George Orwell. Every time she looks out her living room window she’s reminded of literary history.
Airplanes are amazing things. A long narrow room full of people from all parts of the world, strapped in with nothing to do but talk to you.