First up, a 9.30 appointment out in the sticks. I have 15 minutes to find eight sets of property details for the day’s viewings, get directions to eight properties, locate eight sets of keys, get the names of the people I’m meeting, check which properties will have the owners present or not, and their names, so I am prepared for them, and to make introductions. I don’t have time to read any of the details, or to get any history as to the usual questions: How long has the property been on the market - How soon will the owners want to be moving - Is it a probate sale.
I hare off, feeling very unprofessional because I don’t have the necessary information to be able to respond to any questions. I do have the name of the owner, the names of the viewers, but I know this place has fields as part of the deal, a right of way down a track to the village pub, and unhappily, the owner is going to be in, always inhibiting.
I meet Dr and Mrs and their delightful toddlers who are waiting for me in the lane, apologize for lateness and explain that I have never been out to the property before, so they won’t expect me to be knowledgeable. The cottage is on for £350,000 and, of the two doors, neither looks like a front door. It looks small, and a bit scruffy, not what I was expecting for the price. We squeeze through the front door; the floor is filthy and step over various odds and ends associated with dog owners: a bit of blanket, a box, other dirty storage containers, and the door won’t open fully because of the clutter. Mrs shows us in and we squash into the narrow hallway, myself and the family of four. She scuttles about trying to drag the dog out of the kitchen. It’s legs are locked rigid and it won’t move, so she pushes and pulls it to the door, and shoves it in the car. It’s a fussy scene, and one best avoided. I feel as though we are not expected.
Mrs had suggested we start upstairs while she is manhandling the dog and the little family move forward, embarrassed. It feels as though we are prying. There is something so disordered and homely about this little cottage that we take up too much of its space. We climb the stairs and hear clearly the sounds of a toilet flush, someone in the shower, someone else using a hair dryer. Hesitating on the landing, I feel I should take the initiative here, but am hesitant as to which door to try first, so I say, "Hello?" on the landing. Nothing. I tap on one door and a charming boy steps out, fully dressed and smiling, aged about 13. We peep inadequately into his room and move on. The door to the next room flies open and a beaming couple step out. A girl and boy hand in hand, both aged about 16, dressed, and she wearing make-up. We look into this room. There is a double bed, beside which is an enormous statue of the Virgin Mary, about three feet tall. It seems an unlikely place for two teenagers to cuddle up together.
Outside this door, as we are about to negotiate the narrow hallway, it is suddenly filled by two very tall youths who have materialized silently in front of us. They manage to fill up the entire landing, despite being elongated, like overstretched elastic, then pass softly by, down the stairs, taking their extraordinary waxed and stiffened hair with them. Upstairs is finally emptied of young people and we peep in each room.
Dr and Mrs say the place is too small but I’m loathe to surrender just yet. We straggle over the paddocks, through long, wet grass. I suggest making the stable into the office that Dr needs, or perhaps converting the garage, but it’s a non-starter. As they leave, I pop my head in the kitchen door to say good-bye. Mrs is making a cooked breakfast on the Aga for her adolescent brood. I haven’t seen such a matronly, mother-figure since the 1970s, all homey clutter, lanky youths, dog beds and an Aga, cooked weekend breakfasts, and, well, indulgence. I tell her, 'Sorry, but the family need something bigger.'
Her pleasant smile disappears and tightens into something very hostile. She tries to maintain control and politeness but this is a very angry woman, holding onto civility by just a whisker. 'Something bigger?' she spits at me as if the very thought is outrageous. I am then told not to bring people to the house at such an early hour on a Saturday morning; her children often have friends to sleep over. Yes, of course Madam. It was too bloody early for me too.
Saying no to the sleepovers may not have occurred. Making some attempt to get the place ready for viewers likewise. Wet boots and a telling off for nothing.
I hare off, feeling very unprofessional because I don’t have the necessary information to be able to respond to any questions. I do have the name of the owner, the names of the viewers, but I know this place has fields as part of the deal, a right of way down a track to the village pub, and unhappily, the owner is going to be in, always inhibiting.
I meet Dr and Mrs and their delightful toddlers who are waiting for me in the lane, apologize for lateness and explain that I have never been out to the property before, so they won’t expect me to be knowledgeable. The cottage is on for £350,000 and, of the two doors, neither looks like a front door. It looks small, and a bit scruffy, not what I was expecting for the price. We squeeze through the front door; the floor is filthy and step over various odds and ends associated with dog owners: a bit of blanket, a box, other dirty storage containers, and the door won’t open fully because of the clutter. Mrs shows us in and we squash into the narrow hallway, myself and the family of four. She scuttles about trying to drag the dog out of the kitchen. It’s legs are locked rigid and it won’t move, so she pushes and pulls it to the door, and shoves it in the car. It’s a fussy scene, and one best avoided. I feel as though we are not expected.
Mrs had suggested we start upstairs while she is manhandling the dog and the little family move forward, embarrassed. It feels as though we are prying. There is something so disordered and homely about this little cottage that we take up too much of its space. We climb the stairs and hear clearly the sounds of a toilet flush, someone in the shower, someone else using a hair dryer. Hesitating on the landing, I feel I should take the initiative here, but am hesitant as to which door to try first, so I say, "Hello?" on the landing. Nothing. I tap on one door and a charming boy steps out, fully dressed and smiling, aged about 13. We peep inadequately into his room and move on. The door to the next room flies open and a beaming couple step out. A girl and boy hand in hand, both aged about 16, dressed, and she wearing make-up. We look into this room. There is a double bed, beside which is an enormous statue of the Virgin Mary, about three feet tall. It seems an unlikely place for two teenagers to cuddle up together.
Outside this door, as we are about to negotiate the narrow hallway, it is suddenly filled by two very tall youths who have materialized silently in front of us. They manage to fill up the entire landing, despite being elongated, like overstretched elastic, then pass softly by, down the stairs, taking their extraordinary waxed and stiffened hair with them. Upstairs is finally emptied of young people and we peep in each room.
Dr and Mrs say the place is too small but I’m loathe to surrender just yet. We straggle over the paddocks, through long, wet grass. I suggest making the stable into the office that Dr needs, or perhaps converting the garage, but it’s a non-starter. As they leave, I pop my head in the kitchen door to say good-bye. Mrs is making a cooked breakfast on the Aga for her adolescent brood. I haven’t seen such a matronly, mother-figure since the 1970s, all homey clutter, lanky youths, dog beds and an Aga, cooked weekend breakfasts, and, well, indulgence. I tell her, 'Sorry, but the family need something bigger.'
Her pleasant smile disappears and tightens into something very hostile. She tries to maintain control and politeness but this is a very angry woman, holding onto civility by just a whisker. 'Something bigger?' she spits at me as if the very thought is outrageous. I am then told not to bring people to the house at such an early hour on a Saturday morning; her children often have friends to sleep over. Yes, of course Madam. It was too bloody early for me too.
Saying no to the sleepovers may not have occurred. Making some attempt to get the place ready for viewers likewise. Wet boots and a telling off for nothing.
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