This afternoon I had the stitches in my lip taken out. Hurrah! Not as painful as I anticipated, and the rest of my grazes and bruises are healing. The worse part was when the doctor didn't pull out a stitch, but tried to extricate a moustache hair by mistake - depiliating women, I empathise! I dare go to the shops now without freaking out the checkout folk. I will have a permanent reminder, with a scar, of my employment in Ashfield though. But then judging by the locals (sorry, I thank them for employing me but the area is rather rough), only a single scar is the marking of a pooftah. The area was mineworking country until Thatcher vented her venomous anti-NUM policies, and to get a gash working hundreds of feet underground, filled with coal dust and dirt, and not get it treated, was an occupational hazard. Scars? Even the women have them and they didn't have to work down the pit. One of the local Councillors I worked with died recently of septicemia through industrial injuries and ended his life in a wheelchair and oxygen mask, contrasted with his hacking out the coal that kept us going through WW2. Respect. And I'm a whimp twingeing when the very kind doctor pulls a few stitches out of my upper lip.
Anyway, we now have a new contract for the house in Basdorf sorted, a provisional meeting with the Notar in Berlin Friday next week, and a hopefully possible viewing of the building plans of the house from the Bauarchiv previous to signing.
Are we ready to go? Yes we are!