yet another call from the lady selling the pub. No tears this time. Jubilation. The landlord has caved in - apparently we've six months to paint the pub after the transfer of lease. My happiness was short lived - she followed this with the statement (not request) that we'd take possession this Friday. Never mind the fact the license transfer hasn't been approved, no inspections done and no contracts signed. And not a cent has changed hands. I was literally speechless. After a suitable pause I stammered that I'd look into it and we'll have a chat on Monday. I hang up and realise I'm dealing with someone who has lost the fucking plot. A theory confirmed when a mate texts me a few hours later saying he can't wait to have a beer with me when I take over my new pub on Friday.
I'm dreading our little chat on Monday.