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 water’s turned off, there should be one flush left in the cistern. One of my colleagues mistakenly flushed a loo once to check if the water was on; she had a pee, then tried to flush it again. A ha. Water not on. She had to fish out the incriminating tissue and fling it in the garden. I wonder how she washed her hands.
Getting hungry now; trying to drive and rummage around in my bag to find something to eat, but it’s useless; I can't reach. I meet the next folk, do the viewing and so on. I’m getting really cranky now, and I’m late for the next place. So I phone and whine to my colleague in the office that I need time to drink, to have something to eat and to go to the loo. She suggests that I should go and wee behind a bush next time – then adds that it was a joke because I’m not laughing. Maybe my sense of humour is located in my stomach and it needs to be full up in order to function properly. Instead it is gurgling, growling and irascible.
I try to fool it by drinking my second bottle of water – it’s pretty hot in the car – but a fluids only day is not such a good idea. I wonder if I could get a reverse Platypus like hikers and runners use.
It’s 3.15. My last two viewings are with the same family. We are sensitively exploring the small Victorian terraced property where an old lady has recently died. It feels awkward wandering round amongst her things, squeezing upstairs past her stairlift and seeing her walking stick left hanging on the banister. We are respectful, and quiet, standing amongst her possessions, aware of her grieving family because we can see their photographs on the mantelpiece and it is clear that somebody is part way through bagging up and boxing items to be taken away.
But, humans are self-serving after all, and more affecting than the sad, vacated little house, is my bladder. I think I will have my chance, when the family head off to the next place but, to my astonishment, the woman asks if they can all come in my car. My car! She does not know what she is asking. My car is my mobile sitting room, mobile office, mobile cafeteria. I change clothes in it; I often sleep in it; and anyway I need some privacy to use the facilities right here where I am. Why won’t she just go away?
I agree, despite having no company car, and no public liability insurance, which is foolhardy, and heave all the junk out of the back seat into the boot. I realize too late that I’m operating my usual double standards. I didn’t object to having the nice looking young man and his father in my car last week. I lie for the second time today about needing to check the locks on the back door etc and, apologizing to the air as I run back indoors through to the bathroom, am relieved. The water is on.
Be warned, estate agents wee in your houses.
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 water’s turned off, there should be one flush left in the cistern. One of my colleagues mistakenly flushed a loo once to check if the water was on; she had a pee, then tried to flush it again. A ha. Water not on. She had to fish out the incriminating tissue and fling it in the garden. I wonder how she washed her hands.
Getting hungry now; trying to drive and rummage around in my bag to find something to eat, but it’s useless; I can't reach. I meet the next folk, do the viewing and so on. I’m getting really cranky now, and I’m late for the next place. So I phone and whine to my colleague in the office that I need time to drink, to have something to eat and to go to the loo. She suggests that I should go and wee behind a bush next time – then adds that it was a joke because I’m not laughing. Maybe my sense of humour is located in my stomach and it needs to be full up in order to function properly. Instead it is gurgling, growling and irascible.
I try to fool it by drinking my second bottle of water – it’s pretty hot in the car – but a fluids only day is not such a good idea. I wonder if I could get a reverse Platypus like hikers and runners use.
It’s 3.15. My last two viewings are with the same family. We are sensitively exploring the small Victorian terraced property where an old lady has recently died. It feels awkward wandering round amongst her things, squeezing upstairs past her stairlift and seeing her walking stick left hanging on the banister. We are respectful, and quiet, standing amongst her possessions, aware of her grieving family because we can see their photographs on the mantelpiece and it is clear that somebody is part way through bagging up and boxing items to be taken away.
But, humans are self-serving after all, and more affecting than the sad, vacated little house, is my bladder. I think I will have my chance, when the family head off to the next place but, to my astonishment, the woman asks if they can all come in my car. My car! She does not know what she is asking. My car is my mobile sitting room, mobile office, mobile cafeteria. I change clothes in it; I often sleep in it; and anyway I need some privacy to use the facilities right here where I am. Why won’t she just go away?
I agree, despite having no company car, and no public liability insurance, which is foolhardy, and heave all the junk out of the back seat into the boot. I realize too late that I’m operating my usual double standards. I didn’t object to having the nice looking young man and his father in my car last week. I lie for the second time today about needing to check the locks on the back door etc and, apologizing to the air as I run back indoors through to the bathroom, am relieved. The water is on.
Be warned, estate agents wee in your houses.
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