Just For Lookin' Thru

En garde I’ve been worrying about our newest member of staff. She’s fresh out of school, an absolute stunner, with a sweet nature, and she’s being sent out on viewings. I don’t like it. It has never occurred to me before to worry about being in an empty house with a stranger but I’m not happy about her being in that position. She may be fine. She may never have to deal with some old creep’s unwanted attentions. I mention my concerns several times but my colleagues, and this little cutie-pie, all look blankly at me as if I’m being neurotic. I let it go. Today, for the first time, I’m sitting in my car and I know I’ve got an odd one. I see a man shuffling about near the house where I’m to meet my next client. I know he’s my man because he is walking strangely; he looks shifty and disturbing, and I wouldn’t go near him if I had a choice. Well, at least it’s me not the youngster who’s out here. I stride up to him and act like I’m taller and wider than I really am. I’m very physical w

Hot Bodies The heat is intense today. My car is blue with a black interior and the sun on the metal is fierce and punishing. Even with the window open there is no relief. The sunroof has to stay closed because the ferocity of the burning sun is beyond bearing. I’m showing a friendly, chatty elderly couple round a bungalow in suburban bungalow-land where there is no sound but the churning of some piece of workman’s equipment nearby. I stay with the plot all round the house, answering questions, being helpful, making suggestions, until we come to the front bedroom and I turn to admire the view. Across the road are two workmen on the flat roof of a garage. One of them is facing us, wearing a baseball cap and bent slightly forward. All I can see is his perfect flat stomach; so flat that, as he bends, there are neat creases in the brown skin, as neat as pencil lines. He has not an ounce of fat covering his slim, naked upper body and trickles of sweat make tracks through the dirt on th

I was pondering the unfairness of having to pay a man £340 to tile my bathroom which is the size of a telephone box. This chap is on £150 a day and a friend tells me this is an entirely reasonable wage for a man to expect, even though he left school early and went straight to work on a building site. He has not done my tiling particularly well, and he has left me with a huge amount of cleaning up to do. I was thinking over my long-standing and deeply felt dislike of feminism; deeply felt because I feel that the initial ideals of equality have all gone horribly wrong and turned women into men instead of making us all people of honour, dignity and fairness. However, I was having to question my position on the basis of the equal pay argument because I don't know any women earning £150 a day. Whilst mulling over this, I get a call from my mother. During a period when she was homeless, she took a job as a nanny to a 7 month old baby boy who lived on a small moorland estate, and raised h

Overcoming Nature Rose is in bed again. Each time I go out to visit the old cottage lately she has been in bed. Her asthma is so bad this time that she is taking steroids simply to breathe; to stay alive. There is an oxygen cylinder beside her bed. Out in the country, beyond calling distance of any neighbours, she has this for company, and to help her breathe at night until a doctor or an ambulance comes if she manages to phone. She is all smiles, as always. Her eyes are large and direct, and shine her welcome. Her face is as open and fresh as a child’s. She does not look ill at all, but as sunny and as bright as this late spring day. She asks many questions about what I’m doing, and who I’m seeing, and how I’m getting along, but she is stoic and philosophical about herself. She is accustomed to being barely able to breathe and has adapted to the limitation after so many years of labouring for air. My viewing party arrive and we crawl all over the 400 year old cottage, poking int

Put It To Julian … “You’re a very spiritual person aren’t you?” Clary is astonished: “Me?!” “In your own way I think you are” “Okaaay,” he says warily, “everyone likes to think they’re spiritual” It’s a surreal moment. Known for his wit, and waspishness, Clary looks somewhat fazed during his question and answer session when a woman in the audience commandeers the roving microphone to “give him some advice.” He listens to the animal healer, then pulls a face and grins hugely, “Oh, this is a scream. Are you going to tell me she’s going to get something wrong?” She tells him repeatedly that in two years time he can expect his little dog, Valerie, to have a problem with her back left leg. She further expounds that she never charges a fee; that all genuine healers don’t charge. Clary promises that he’s taking her seriously. At the end of all this she wriggles in her seat and demonstrates that she has only one leg. I wonder if this is some kind of bizarre form of psychological projection ont

Before the dust has settled There is a boiled egg left on the draining board, amongst a pile of washed dishes that have been left to dry. A bottle of medicine stands by the sink. More medicines are in the bathroom. The mirrored door of the bathroom cabinet is open, exposing a selection of ointments and tablets. These most personal items embarrass me and I slide the door closed before my first client arrives. Waiting outside I feel very subdued. There is something extremely dispiriting about standing amongst the abandoned relics of a woman’s life. The flat has been vacated very suddenly, with signs of her interrupted life everywhere; on every surface, bits and pieces, clutter, normality. Maybe it’s that sense of my presence being a kind of violation of her home, but I feel a bit irritable as the viewing party approach; a young man accompanied by his parents. I can’t tell if it’s me or them that makes the atmosphere uncomfortable. I go through the motions of smiling, hand shaking e

I don’t think I managed to sell anything at work today but I did manage to get lipstick on my skirt. It’s easy when you know how. I think I’ll just call into this shop I’m passing and see if there is anything pretty that I simply have to buy, as it’s on my way home and all. What am I thinking? I hate shopping. I’d rather stick pins in my eyes. Maybe I’m having one of those moments, when your mind has gone blank after a long day, and is not functioning on any level whatsoever. I wander aimlessly round the store. I even pick up things I would never wear. Somehow, I manage to get a grip and propel myself to the automatic doors. See, it’s all so effortless you don’t even have to push anything; you can just drift around in a browsing haze of inattention, and drift right back out again, like shopping plankton. It’s a huge relief to be back in the car park and I am congratulating myself on my self control when I see a small boy running ahead of me. He isn’t running like little boys usually do

When I was small I played snap, or pairs, with a favourite pack of cards. The pictures that had to be matched were children in their national costumes and I loved just looking at them and wondering what their lives were like. Nationalism has been a dirty word since the 1940s, with our post fascism and post-colonialism sensibilities, and homogeneity is making so much of the world seem bland but tonight, the wide range of difference is delightful in its variety. On the day the SNP are celebrating in Scotland, the Hall for Cornwall is filled with choirs from all over the world; a celebration of nationalism and diversity. The farthest travelled are the Birralee Blokes from Australia, who open this evening's concert with three perfectly arranged and performed pieces. These guys all look under twenty years old and it’s great to see young men taking to choral singing, and great to hear that choirs are so keen to come to this annual series of concerts that some are having to wait a couple

Give me a break I have everything covered. In my car are two bottles of water, a packed lunch, a flask of tea and the essential chocolate, 70% cocoa because nothing less will do. I’m off to a racing start to meet thirteen sets of viewers and it’s house to house without a minute in between. Now, here’s the snag. I had two cups of tea this morning before I picked up all the keys, property details and the viewing list and, by 10.00 am I need the loo. Every house I get to, the people are waiting for me, or the second set arrives right after the first so I can’t sneak into the bathroom. By 12.00 noon I am thankful for pelvic floor exercises. If I’d known this was going to happen I wouldn’t have drunk one of the bottles of water in the car. I have to resort to lies in the end, saying to one couple that I have to go back inside to check the locks on the doors and windows before I go with them to the next place. They wait outside while I tear through to the bathroom knowing that, if the