After M’s somewhat dubious inspection of the trailer, on Saturday I decided to go and check it out myself. (His excuse for not knowing whether there was a bath or built in cupboards was that he thought I would never countenance living in a trailer, so he didn’t bother to examine too closely. Little did he know that my secret name is Bobbie-Sue.) Inspecting places in the country was different. They didn’t demand a $50 deposit for the key to inspect the property. They were friendly. They even chatted. Bizarre.

First we looked at a house with all the mod-cons in Tooradin. However, despite the three bedrooms, heated towel rack, slate floors and big shed – it was impossible to ignore the fact that it was both dark and fronted on to the highway. BARP! I told M he’d have to pay me to live there. He told me I’d have to pay him to set foot it in it ever again. And thus it was politely scraped off our list of two available properties.

We headed for the trailer. In comparison to the highway house, the trailer was very, very light. It had a wood heater. It had built in wardrobes in both rooms (something I normally despise, but relish in relocatable homes – the theory being that I won’t be there forever, and can thus possibly cope. And there’s nowhere to put wardrobes, which helps the whole thing along…), taps for a washing machine and a bath. Not a very big bath, but not a tiny bath either.

From the kitchen window we could see the mast of the trimaran on the creek in the adjoining farm. Right near where we’ll be putting the shed up. Out another window I could see the freakishly cute little pit pony. The owner seemed nice – was unpeturbed by my admission of two cats, and said I could have as big a vegie garden as I wanted, but that the soil was sandy and his had died. He said we could use the tennis court and inground pool whenever we liked. I was getting happier.

On the down side? It’s a TRAILER for god’s sake! It. Actually. Has. A. Towbar. It’s true. The walls are entirely faux wood. Everything in the trailer is brown. Brown with a Capital B. But there’s a carport for the Humber and it’s a 48 minute drive for me to get to work – and I’ll be driving in, working a day, staying one night at my mothers, working another day and driving home. So it’s not too much of a drama (she types blithely). So we applied for it.

I am not even going to go into the drama that erupted when M didn’t take filling out his form seriously and I ripped it up into little pieces in a temper. Needless to say, it has all been dealt with, and now we wait. This is the first rental application I have ever filled out on which I didn’t lie. Miraculous – does this mean I’m an adult?