Inadvertently get off to a very unprofessional start because I get sidetracked by Tracey who is being quite rude, and she rather brings out the worst in me, so our talk becomes absolutely filthy, with hideous bursts of maniacal female laughter shrieking out in the office, at which point Andy appears in the doorway looking a bit tense and says he will get the keys for me for my 10 o’ clock appointment. I am abashed. I apologize and say I lost track of time, to which he replies, tensely I feel, 'Well, you have to have a laugh at work.' Yes, I say, but not so that I forget why I am there. Awful. The poor man’s paying me to behave like a fishwife. I must make sure I don’t sit next to Tracey at the Christmas dinner because I will certainly disgrace myself again.
I have only three appointments; the first is at a neglected 1930s house which, strangely, for all its stink of damp and its pitiable state of repair, I absolutely love. The ceilings are high, the rooms spacious, and it is the perfect set for a Noel Coward farce. The man who has bought it is there with his builder. Heaven knows where he found this builder but, when I hear the way they are discussing the renovation, it is clear that the new owner has never done any work on a house before, and the builder doesn’t have any idea about anything. There is bizarre talk of moving a wall etc, trying to create an en suite, in a very odd manner. I suggest making a wet room and ask if he is intending to do B and B if he needs to squeeze it in like that, all odd angles, and he says no, and looks more puzzled. Lord. What a pair. He doesn’t even know that reclamation yards will buy the iron guttering if he chooses to take it off, or that they will have any fittings he doesn’t require. Nor does he know that someone will buy the original AGA which his wife doesn’t want. I wanted to chase the pair out of there with a broom and do the job properly. The builder clearly has no sensitivity towards houses whatsoever, and I wouldn’t trust him to put up a loo roll holder.
The second place I go to is a novelty, a converted Sunday school, one big rectangular building made into a two bedroomed house. Quite interesting but why, I wonder, did the converters position a Victorian bath diagonally across a large room, devoid of any other bathroom fittings, not even a towel rail, and then put the loo, sink and shower in what seemed to be a hallway – leading to the washing machine and back door – in which there is no room to even get your trousers down. I look at the bath sited in splendid isolation in the otherwise empty bathroom, and felt that to have a bath in there would leave one feeling terribly exposed and vulnerable. The couple that look round manage to do so entirely without speaking to me, very peculiar. I try to speak to them but they merely pass on, with expressions of we-know-what-we-think-but-we’re-not saying.
And finally, back to the dear small man, the 80 year-old widower, in his tiny terraced house which he says is now too large for him, because he’s alone, and lonely, and hey, a very nice, unassuming doctor and his wife buy it, just like that, asking price, absolutely delighted, just what they want, thank you very much, and shake hands on the deal. Everyone treats this dear man gently, and we emphasize to him that we would not be hurrying him in any way, but to start things after Christmas. However, in the ten minutes it takes me to get back to the office to tell them the good news, he has already phoned another estate agents and made an offer on a property for himself. It could all be a ruse; he may have murdered his wife, and be keen to get out of the house, yet we all smile sweetly and are careful around him. He’s hot-to-trot, and I have redeemed the disgusting rowdy behaviour of the early morning by coming back with a done deal. I learn that the nice doctor and wife who are buying the tiny terraced house, to accommodate residential care workers for their Residential Home, have also just bought themselves a new home for 850K. A nice morning out shopping then? To look at them you’d never believe it; they are quiet, almost scruffily dressed, and very gentle people. Not another Shipman I hope. Andy sends us all home at 1 o’clock, so a free afternoon. Good day all round.
I have only three appointments; the first is at a neglected 1930s house which, strangely, for all its stink of damp and its pitiable state of repair, I absolutely love. The ceilings are high, the rooms spacious, and it is the perfect set for a Noel Coward farce. The man who has bought it is there with his builder. Heaven knows where he found this builder but, when I hear the way they are discussing the renovation, it is clear that the new owner has never done any work on a house before, and the builder doesn’t have any idea about anything. There is bizarre talk of moving a wall etc, trying to create an en suite, in a very odd manner. I suggest making a wet room and ask if he is intending to do B and B if he needs to squeeze it in like that, all odd angles, and he says no, and looks more puzzled. Lord. What a pair. He doesn’t even know that reclamation yards will buy the iron guttering if he chooses to take it off, or that they will have any fittings he doesn’t require. Nor does he know that someone will buy the original AGA which his wife doesn’t want. I wanted to chase the pair out of there with a broom and do the job properly. The builder clearly has no sensitivity towards houses whatsoever, and I wouldn’t trust him to put up a loo roll holder.
The second place I go to is a novelty, a converted Sunday school, one big rectangular building made into a two bedroomed house. Quite interesting but why, I wonder, did the converters position a Victorian bath diagonally across a large room, devoid of any other bathroom fittings, not even a towel rail, and then put the loo, sink and shower in what seemed to be a hallway – leading to the washing machine and back door – in which there is no room to even get your trousers down. I look at the bath sited in splendid isolation in the otherwise empty bathroom, and felt that to have a bath in there would leave one feeling terribly exposed and vulnerable. The couple that look round manage to do so entirely without speaking to me, very peculiar. I try to speak to them but they merely pass on, with expressions of we-know-what-we-think-but-we’re-not saying.
And finally, back to the dear small man, the 80 year-old widower, in his tiny terraced house which he says is now too large for him, because he’s alone, and lonely, and hey, a very nice, unassuming doctor and his wife buy it, just like that, asking price, absolutely delighted, just what they want, thank you very much, and shake hands on the deal. Everyone treats this dear man gently, and we emphasize to him that we would not be hurrying him in any way, but to start things after Christmas. However, in the ten minutes it takes me to get back to the office to tell them the good news, he has already phoned another estate agents and made an offer on a property for himself. It could all be a ruse; he may have murdered his wife, and be keen to get out of the house, yet we all smile sweetly and are careful around him. He’s hot-to-trot, and I have redeemed the disgusting rowdy behaviour of the early morning by coming back with a done deal. I learn that the nice doctor and wife who are buying the tiny terraced house, to accommodate residential care workers for their Residential Home, have also just bought themselves a new home for 850K. A nice morning out shopping then? To look at them you’d never believe it; they are quiet, almost scruffily dressed, and very gentle people. Not another Shipman I hope. Andy sends us all home at 1 o’clock, so a free afternoon. Good day all round.
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