Goodbye Childhood Home

Desperate Dan the Estate Agent Man is back. He's showing people around my house. Here they are, pointing out the flaws, weighing up whether or not they'd deign to live here. I don't want them to want to live here, you understand, but equally I don't want them making snide comments about the place. We don't need your opinion thanks, it's not Escape to the Country.

I asked Dan if I could do anything to help with the viewings. I know a small amount about the house, after all. 

Aggie:
Looks good in an apron

'No dear,' he replied. 'Perhaps you could just drape yourself somewhere artistically and make the place look more attractive. And don't say anything about the house to the viewers, OK?' 

Presumably Aunt Aggie puts up with this kind of chat, but since I don't have a flowery apron stitched to the front of my dress, or spend my life in pursuit of cow pie perfection, it did grate rather. 

Anyway, to be balanced about this, not all potential house buyers are vile. However when they were terrible, I at least didn't feel guilty about hating them and the thought of their snotty little faces living in my childhood home. 

The worst lot flounced in early on a Monday morning. Not ideal.

'Hello,' I said, struggling to restrain Dogface from manic destructive prancing, 'nice to meet you! Sorry, we've got a new puppy - bit hard to control!' [This is Jovial Winning Kate by the way - she speaks with exclamation marks.] 

Vile-and-Bald's loose change

'I can see that,' responded Vile-and-Bald, looking out of the window. 'Don't let it get on my wife's coat.'

Tough crowd. Dan tried to warm them up a bit with some of his best lines, including 'so what brings you to Oundle' and 'where are you from then?'

Vile-and-Bald glanced about disdainfully. 'We're from London actually. We're looking to downsize, we've got several properties worth in the millions. And four acres near London. Not really sure about "Oundle" to be honest, you know….' He tails off, to ponder his fat piles of cash.

If only MD were here, I found myself thinking, she could wow him with the microclimate. Or kill him. One of the two.

'Er right yes, lovely,' Dan mumbled. 'Garden next?'

An acceptable view

'No,' said Vile-and-Bald, 'I've seen gardens before. And - as I say - we've already got four acres, not really looking for more green space. HAR.' (That last bit was his laugh - like one of those robotic text readers interpreting emotion.)

With an awkward glance at me, Dan shepherded them into the cellar. A wiser man than I'd thought. 

But some normal people are apparently buying our house. I'm not sure they know exactly how great the place is, as I wasn't allowed to tell them. But they're keen for it at the moment, or will be until I write and tell them fictitious tales about dead bodies in the attic.

In fact the normal people must be alright as they weren't even put off by Dogface crapping decisively in their path as they arrived. MD tried to distract them with observations about Oundle's numerous hairdressers, microclimates, that kind of thing, but they just stepped delicately past it and admired the garden. 

I've trained him well, dear old Dogface. Just a shame I controlled him so successfully when the Baldy Bunch were round.

Cow Pie Chronicles

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 Hawaii to find more sugar plantations to supply said tea and coffee; and estate agent liaison.

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.

Thanks.

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 Essex.

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.

Well, quite.

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.