I had a surprise in the mail yesterday. The solicitor who handled my divorce is retiring and she returned all the documents including the land title which I'd forgotten all about.
When he pissed off with his blonde I dug my heels in and refused to sell the house. My solicitor said I probably would get 85 per cent of the sale price which wasn't going to do me any good if I had no where to go. Of course Mother said I could come to live with her. I was even more determined not to sell after that.
I proposed that we keep an asset that would appreciate and change the title from joint owners to Tenants in Common. That meant he could leave his half to whom-ever, as could I, but both of us had to die before the heirs got it. I was being fair, I had my home and he had half an asset.
The Blonde got into my Mother-in-Law's ear, telling her how vicious I was and how I was stealing his house. Fortunately M-i-L was polite enough to hear my side after the initial nasty words I copped. I couldn't understand the reaction, I'd already told her what I was going to do. It was after my solicitor told me that he had given me the house, free and clear, that I was put in the picture.
He never told me why and I never bothered to ask. I did have to give up all claims to any money he would receive later and even there I had information he didn't. Any money from his mother was a gift to him and would not figure in a settlement which only left his super and I'd already had a chunk of that, what he wasn't giving to his girlfriends.
So I had my home and the jungle setting he'd left it in. When you visit, be polite and don't ask why I have paintings hanging in strange places because they're usually hiding a hole in the door or wall where Mr. Elegant fell over pissed as a newt.
It was a real pleasure to put that land title with the house title and my divorce papers.
And what's more, he never sent a card for my birthday.
14 comments:
"And what's more, he never sent a card for my birthday."
The bastard never sent me one either.
I'm glad you've got your home, you.
Your birthday isn't until Saturday. I read your comments section. How old are you? Can I cut off one of your legs and count the rings?
Nothing like the joy of a pink toilet and turquoise walls, eh Baron.
I'm one of those people who write down major purchases, cost and date and who paid so I was able to show how much I'd actually put in. Not to mention the painting, wallpapering, curtaining and part-time cleaning I put in. He'd have had to bulldoze me out of my home and I think he knew it.
Nuffing like 'em.
A bit of guilt and commonsense I should think.
If there's holes in the wall, you can turn them into some kind of art feature if you ever do seel (I've seen it done).
And he never sent me a car either, and I turned 30...
Turn the holes into built-in niches for nicknacks.
Cut off the Blonde's bank account and count the screams, that should reveal her real age...and be more entertaining :P
It's a week on Sunday Witchy...and I'd forgotten all about it until you reminded me.
Happy birthday .. for this, and every other forthcoming year.
Nice to own your own home, even if it does have turquoise walls. And a pink toilet.
Andrew, the man has no guilt or backbone.
Miles, only 30. I remember turning 30, almost. I wonder if I got a present? I will give you a tip, don't turn 31, it's a downhill slide.
Jayne, Patchwork, pictures and dainty plaques cover a multitude of sins, all his.
Thank you Fleetwood, one has to remind the rapidly ageing about important things.
Davo, I'm happy to announce that I will be turning 59 next year and for the next ten years.
Baron Von Harlot is very proud of her pink toilet and I have to say I've never seen another one anywhere.
Pissed newts sure can do a lot of damage, can't they!
We had a turquoise toilet....
Bella, he was the Nureyev of newts. I always knew he was pissed as he tippy-toed practically en-pointe through the house until he met a wall.
ell I never - think how shattered he'll be when you don't send him a birthday card in spite...whhhhh don't bear thinking about
Post a Comment