The Brit has found, quite by accident almost, the most perfect little house.
We've looked at a few places over the last couple of weeks, some nice, some ridiculous, but nothing that makes you want to high five God.
This one is above a bistro, in a village.
Hello, am I living in Fwonce or am I living in London? By village, it's a cluster of roads and houses in a designated area, around a cobbled high street. The 'village' is called The Tonsleys.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph please may no one put in a better offer or get to it first.
It has huge sash windows. Newly done wooden floors. A chrome kitchen. (He cooks, so he should at the very least be excited about this), a dressing room. Which could also be turned into a Man Cave.
It has a period fireplace. Shut the fuck up. I may have a romanticised view, but who the fuck wouldn't?
We're going to view it again tonight.
All I can envisage and daydream endlessly about is the waft of freshly brewed coffee rise from the bistro below, eggs and bakey breakfasts on Saturday morning, a Top Shop close enough to roll to from my bedroom in my pyjamas, the crunch of the The
Sigh. Oh Mortgage Man, dost thy upon ye thou mosteth favourable luck!