During my sojourn as a lady of leisure, my chief role appears to be assistant to my mother. Reworded CV-wise, that’ll be ‘partner in property development projects’ in future years. My tasks have included key sorting (‘Here are three hundred keys in a bag. Find out what they’re for’); making vats of builders’ tea and coffee; flying to
to find more sugar plantations to supply said tea and coffee; and estate agent liaison. Hawaii
You see, we’re selling our house. No, ‘house’ is wrong. In fact, my mother is selling … my Childhood Home. The paragraph break below is for you to ponder on my suffering before we move on.
But readying ourselves for the estate agent’s clutches is taking some time. You see, before you can prostitute your shiny picture of my Childhood Home (CH) in your shiny estate agent’s window, you need a brochure with which to pimp out the place.
Ah Mr Estate-Agent, you little knew what you were letting yourself in for when you presented your ineptly phrased blandisms to my English teacher mother. She’s so eagle-eyed she makes eagles feel a bit redundant.
|Offers over a Crunchie please|
Added to this, the brochure has come to represent quite a lot of what MD feels about our lovely home. We don’t want it going for two quid and a Crunchie thanks. [Father Dearest – relegated to just ‘father’ (F) after a recent turn of events – has scurried off somewhere sunnier, so seems less concerned.] Each intensely argued change of lighting, picture-moving, flower-planting has been conducted to a scheme known only to MD herself. So don’t you dare call our garden ‘fabulous’. We don’t live in
E-A arrives for some brochure amendment larks. I open the door to a man closely resembling Desperate Dan, who dwarfs all around him. The chair on which he sits struggles to contain even one of his monstrous thighs. Why, mother, why hire a giant to show people round our home? Potential buyers will surely feel they’ve stumbled into an episode of Location Location Location devoted inexplicably to dollshouses. Our ‘spacious and well-appointed rooms’ aren’t going to look so damn spacious now, are they?
Thankfully he turns down tea: our reserves are sadly diminished from builder-need and it’s too late to send to Mordor for steel-reinforced cups. And then MD takes him through spelling and punctuation errors. It is a rout. He can’t be much younger than fifty, but he becomes a nervous fifteen, mangling his words and fiddling with his pencil.
MD: And could we please remove that extra adjective on this page?
E-A: Which one please?
MD: The one I’ve told you about on the last two occasions.
E-A: Er gosh yes, ah well you see, ah well it’s just I’ve told the brochure people, I’ve told them and they just don’t, they just don’t er….
MD (perplexed): Sorry?
E-A (cowering): Yes I’ll do that, yes. Sorry.
E-A doodles illegibly on the print-out’s dark green background.
MD: You’re not going to be able to see that later you know.
E-A: I will! I can: look it says ‘omit…’ er.
As he lolls back to the office and his cow pie we find the brochure with MD’s notes on left behind on a chair. Detention next I fear.