Surely you knew what you were buying?

The plumber scratches his head

 at the mystery of the disconnected hot and cold water pipes

in the 'rustic utility area' in the garage.

I need him to quote for fixing them so I can have

a washing machine that works and a loo and basin 

when I move in.

I leave him to it and wander round the emptied rooms 

of my new house.

New to me but not new.

Old and dated in fact.

My dear friend and the woman from the estate agency 

 accompany me

while I take in the harsh reality of

damp stains on the peeling wallpaper

cracked yellowing light fittings

dusty curtains and

old, unclean carpets

 that I wouldn't want to walk on in bare feet. 

'Surely you knew what you were buying?' I hear you ask.

Yes, I'm buying a house and a garden that

 I can make beautiful and  into my own.

In the future.

With a lot of work and building dust to get through first.

But now all I can see is 

shabby and grubby 

and from another era.

And I will need to live it for a long time

 while I plan

for beauty

in the future.

So I'm going to bed now in delayed shock,

 making plans about deep cleaning and

 white paint

 and sweet smells

before I can contemplate

 making up a bed in a strange room

on my fist night

away from home.