Sunday.

This morning was glorious. We spent the morning in bed, eating toast and drinking coffee and watching the snow fall outside our window. I wrestled with the Sunday Times sudoku, Mrs A trawled t'internet for a new house. After a while we played the 'No Maximum Budget' game on Rightmove.

We've learnt that we're not really aristocratic enough to suffer the stately home decor horror that is a £2m plus house. The £11m pile that we saw was beyond horrific.

Our happy hunting ground appears to be around the £1m to £1.5m properties. Mrs A leans towards the classy Victorian sympathetically restored property, I lean towards the Drug Dealer Chic end of the spectrum.

There was one property that piqued our interest, a large detached place that was on the market for around £500k, clearly worth significantly more, but 'priced to move'. We talked about making an offer based on our finances (which are somewhat adrift from this by a significant margin), briefly laughed like lunatics and had another coffee.

In the afternoon we painted the kitchen which now tone quite nicely in line with most of the rest of the downstairs, had a couple of glasses of wine and a bowl of pasta. 

All of which is a pretty good way to spend your day.

My fuckwit ex also had an input to our day, by way of making my son's life pretty miserable. Mrs A was, quite frankly, incredible but given the system's indifference to fathers being given equal billing, I am struggling to see how I can sort this out for him*

NDC

* - This'll probably be deleted soon. I think.