In other words - ME.
Due to recent events I have been permitted (as if I wasn't already) to start looking for sofas, beds and all the other exciting and pretty things that come with planning the interior of a renovated house. Which we are doing from scratch. (Currently it is a hell-hole with mouldy wallpaper, scary floral tiling, gas pipes that are too dangerous to use and asbestos in the garage. GOOD TIMES.)
We've officially signed the 'compromis de vente' for the new house. Amusingly this ceremony of sorts involved sitting in the Basque countryside office of the vendor's notaire - a kind of solicitor acting on the vendor's behalf - where we were offered not a drop of water or coffee while he read the entire 45 page (double-sided) compromis OUT LOUD to the assembled party until we all wished we were dead. We were flanked on either side by not one, but two estate agents, there to claim their slice of the pie. It is to be noted that the elder agent (who we had never met before) rocked up in a vintage Alfa Romeo Spider, a pastel jumper thrown casually about his shoulders then walked off at the end of the meeting pocketing almost 10% of the house price. For doing nothing at all as far as we could tell, apart from being French and nonchalant. D'accord...