The Daily Novel

This afternoon I took a break from buying and selling houses and writing blogs and did what I like to do in sunny July, watch Wimbledon on the telly. When I switched on the television they were just taking the covers off after yet another heavy shower. Venus Williams, one of the two American power hitting sisters, who have delighted me for several years now with their skill and guts, was resuming her interrupted match against the Russian grunter, Maria Sharapova, currently the number two seed.

Venus had won the first set 6-1o;  it was one-all in the second set. Maria was serving and there followed a nail biting half hour, with the game stuck at deuce. First Maria took the first vantage point, then Venus fought back. She had about seventeen break serve options, before she ffinally muffed it and Maria won her serve. She finally broke Maria’s serve to take the lead at 4-3. From then on it was downhill the way. She went on to break the Russian’s serve again at the next opportunity and won the set, 6-3. And the match.

It was then ten minutes to five. I heard a noise in the front garden and when I went out I found a man affixing an estate agent’s sign to my front gate;  Sold by Winkworth and Co. I insisted that I had never dealt with Winkworth. He consulted his clipboard. And there was my address and the correct post code written on it. He rang the office. After some tooing and froing they came back and said it was Roderick Road NW11. I told him that did not exist, but that there was a Rotherwick Road in NW11, so he drove off north to try that.

By co-incidence I was selling my house today, or to be more precise, expecting to exchange contracts. But now the work day is nearly over and no-one has yet telephoned to tell me the deal has been done.

The episode in the front garden reminded me of the bumbledon theory of history, which asserts that our destinies are more often decided by human mistakes, than by evil conspirators or all-powerful Gods. So I thought I better get my lawyer to check out the latest state of play in the house stakes. Is it possible that the Bank of Scotland  dispatched the contracts at midday as promised but to the wrong address?

My lawyer was on the phone and still has not called me back.

So I don’t know what has happened. And readers of this blog will have to wait with baited breath. Because the Daily Novelist is knocking off for the day, taking a tea break and a stroll on the heath before the rains return.