Sunday, 12 February 2012

Oh why can I not have EVERYTHING I want ALL AT ONCE?

It's a rhetorical question. Sort of. All I want, right, is that when I move to York my beloved flat here sort of ceases to exist so it isn't sullied by anyone else living in it who may not love it like I do. So if it could just vanish into the space time continuum, yet still exist on some kind of plane of reality so I can revisit it, but absolutely have no one living in it who isn't me at any time ever, then that would be great.

Today I had some people looking around my house. MY HOUSE. I mean, I know I've handed in my notice on the place and I'm moving out. And oooh, I actually have another house up in York. But this place is mine for a wee while longer.

And of course staying up till 4am listening to Radio 4 comedies because I couldn't sleep but thought it was OK because I could sleep in today was only slightly (massively) marred by suddenly remembering that people were coming to poke around my home at 11am.

I woke up at 7 in what appeared to be an actual giant ash tray. Smoking is bad kids. Very, very bad. Especially when you have to completely get rid of any traces of it in the next two hours. All windows were opened forthwith and everything (including my friend and Fatman) were liberally doused in Febreze. Which is horrible by the way. It smells bloody terrible. And, of course, all I achieved was making my house smell like fags and old ladies.

First person arrived and I have to say I didn't take to her. I thought, oh no, love, this house isn't for you. You're not going to appreciate its quirks and weirdnesses. You don't look the type, frankly, to make sure the shower curtain is wrapped fully around the taps so you don't soak the carpet and stop it dripping onto the stairs below. You won't look up the history of the house as soon as you move in because you're excited by its oldness and fireplaces (c.1810 if anyone's interested). You won't carry on the good fight against the accordian players. You'll probably think they sound sweet or something. You, dear, don't belong here.

She proceeded to take pictures with her phone. So that's pictures of MY stuff. I appreciate that she was taking pictures of the rooms but the fact is it's full of MY STUFF. And she didn't even ask. And then I heard her asking the (stereotypically awful bloke estate agent) if it was OK if 'Daddy' was on the lease as he's paying. She also referred to Fatman as 'the little dog'. I mean, what the fuck? Out, out, out, Fatman and I chanted.

She left.

Then a boy came in. As I followed the boy and the spivvy agent (he looked and sounded like he should be starring in The Only Way is Essex) up the stairs I heard said spiv say: "It's a very weird house cos it's old. Really weird layout, got a weird feel, yeah?"

I caught the boy's eye and screwed my face up in disgust at the agent's rude and ridiculous, well, what I can only assume he thought was sales patter. Not the classic pitch, it has to be said, trying to sell somewhere by basically saying you think it's shit. And the boy smiled at my silent message of disgust. I thought, yes, he may stay. I could tell that he liked the house a lot so I did some sales stuff. You know, told him there's a garden and shit. Spiv man evidently hadn't bothered to find out little things like that.

I smiled encouragingly at the boy and willed him to take it. Partly because he sounds nice and I think he and his girlfriend might appreciate the wondrousness of my house. And partly because I don't want anyone to look round my house ever again while I'm in it. Ever.

I'll leave it to Sarah to express exactly how it feels. No one does it better.

1 comment:

  1. Worst sales pitch I ever had was when we went to look at a house in Gloucester. The agent seemed to be doing everything in his power to put us off. It needed quite a lot of work doing to the roof but best of all, he related to us the fact that the current owner was in prison having done an heroic amount of acid and stabbed his mate. Oh yes, said the agent, according to the neighbours, said mate went staggering out into the street with a knife sticking out of him. Blood everywhere. There was, in fact, still a sizeable streak down the hall wall. We were suitably put off. Not just by the amount of work that needed doing but also by the thought of being woken up one night, years hence by some drugged-up psycho wanting his house back. I can only assume the agent fancied buying it himself as a 'fixer-upper' investment. Certainly when we passed by a year or so later, it was greatly regenerated.