One shouldn’t complain. It’s paid work. £6 per hour is better than £0 per hour and no work. Even so. Following the usual race to gather together the list of viewings for the day, the sets of keys, the names of viewers, and rapid briefing on directions to the property I hare off again to my favourite place to meet two sets of people. I arrive to find a Volvo estate blocking the parking area for two cars; there is nowhere to go for the first people, or for me.
The Volvo belongs to the neighbour who parks it in the empty property as a burglar deterrent and he hasn’t been told we are coming out here today. To save him trouble I say to leave it there and I park in his place. This is a mistake. What seems the easiest solution is often a mistake. The viewers squeeze through the tiny lane, inching between the old stone walls, in an enormous Jaguar, and leave it in the lane. We go ahead with inspection of the property. To my disappointment the owner has still not had the steps and path pressure washed, despite my telephoning him and imploring him to do so before someone has a serious fall. The ‘creeping black’ algae has built up to such a level on the slate that it is not possible to get a foothold, and walking on it is like walking on ice, with no purchase at all. I stand sentinel on the steps and make each person come down sideways, only to find that the patio area is even worse, and I take off in an inelegant slide towards the building.
The couple love the property and I feel somewhat aggrieved because I love it more. It feels right, and the travel memorabilia around the old place gives it a charm that I find hard to resist, and I find myself attracted to the absent owner because of the ambiance. Before they have finished soaking up the good vibrations, there is the sound of much revving and crunching of stones outside and the second set of people have arrived. There is nowhere for them to park. The narrow country lane and farm buildings set close together do not allow for these enormous luxury vehicles to come in and out without great difficulty. I go outside to explain that we aren’t quite finished and we will be another minute or two, and can see that the lady is in a very stressed state. She is tense and aggressive, unsmiling, failing to make eye contact, and spluttering about the parking situation. I speak to her gently, as to a nervous Alsatian, and she softens just a very little. I still have work to do here. She decides to wait in her car until my first couple have gone, and then drive in.
This manoeuvre is attempted. She gets increasingly angry and is swearing about the lack of space etc. I sympathize but can only wonder why some women buy cars the size of sitting rooms when they are unhappy about parking and reversing. Exasperated, she leaves it in the lane. We go inside. As I am explaining the quirky layout, she lets out a furious sigh. A large chestnut horse and lady rider have appeared outside the window, wanting to get through. It’s not even 10 o’clock and I am afraid my patience quota will be exhausted before I have finished at the first house. I go outside again, have a look at the space, see there is no room for the ample equestrian and her silky buttocked steed to pass, and return to my agitated lady to ask her to move her car. It is a move too far. She only needs to drop forward about two feet, but it is as if I have asked her to execute a three point turn in a garage. However, I offer her calm directions and she manages not to gouge the door panels along the wall. The patient rider and the girdled bulk of her mount sashay through the gap.
Once back inside the property she likes it, gets more and more keen, and I feel resistant again. I don’t want her to have it. She’s too tough, too spiky, too cross. This quiet old barn is for a mellow soul who loves gardening and reading. Perhaps with a smaller car, she could be that zen like owner. Outside, she is anxious about the huge pond and water feature, and asks particularly if it is a natural pond, in which case, drainage could be a problem. The two plastic pipes sticking up in the air, one bright blue, the other black, are a fairly strong clue to the origins of the pond, as is the plastic stepped section down which the bubbling water runs when the pump is switched on, but she still wants clarification from the owners. Madam, no natural pond would form at the top of a bank. The owner is amused when I telephone to ask him, and I am embarrassed to do so. I bang on again about the danger of the steps, find myself flirting with him, which is more embarrassing because it really is just my hormones, and I need to address this or I will end up in a situation not of my choosing. One cannot loose off one’s overheated hormones over the telephone at any male when you haven’t seen him first.
Danger is averted however, because he is not listening to me, and my hormones respond instantly to such a strong signal. He thinks the steps are slippery because stone always feels slippy when wet. Now then. He is not only not listening to me, he is patronizing me. I am positively repelled. I am not the kind of bubble headed blonde who can mistake a few mls of slime for a simple wet surface. I sense his puzzled rejection down the telephone line, and know he is wondering why I have become businesslike and cool. He is never going to clean those steps, and he is therefore never going to be the kind of man with whom I will playfully flirt.
All the car shenanigans make me late for the next slot, an open viewing with four sets of people, who are all understandably annoyed, and I drive past handing the keys out of the car window to my colleague who takes them, and the flak. I scoot off to the next property which requires a good tidy up. Surprisingly, none of the parties are that keen and, yet again, someone farts close to me in a confined space. I am not paid enough to inhale other people’s bottom gas, but I am too well controlled to gag and run from the room. Last week it was the intestinal vapours from two children in separate viewings, and I was left to wonder what kind of diet provokes such uncontrolled leakage, and why children have no sphincter training. This week it was from an adult; man or woman I couldn’t say, but I suspect the man; he had an unhealthy look about him; pale and peaky, and even peevish; his wife was far too attractive to have done such a thing. The horrid thing about an unwelcome smell is the way that it sticks itself to the roof of your mouth, and will not let go, sometimes for a day or so.
The rest of the day is more pleasant because I have a no show, and a chance to get my breath back. I am, however, starving as usual, without a lunch break, desperate for a hot drink, and my feet are freezing. Happily, the next two couples are such a delight that I forget such selfish concerns and get on with my job, with customary dedication and panache.
The Volvo belongs to the neighbour who parks it in the empty property as a burglar deterrent and he hasn’t been told we are coming out here today. To save him trouble I say to leave it there and I park in his place. This is a mistake. What seems the easiest solution is often a mistake. The viewers squeeze through the tiny lane, inching between the old stone walls, in an enormous Jaguar, and leave it in the lane. We go ahead with inspection of the property. To my disappointment the owner has still not had the steps and path pressure washed, despite my telephoning him and imploring him to do so before someone has a serious fall. The ‘creeping black’ algae has built up to such a level on the slate that it is not possible to get a foothold, and walking on it is like walking on ice, with no purchase at all. I stand sentinel on the steps and make each person come down sideways, only to find that the patio area is even worse, and I take off in an inelegant slide towards the building.
The couple love the property and I feel somewhat aggrieved because I love it more. It feels right, and the travel memorabilia around the old place gives it a charm that I find hard to resist, and I find myself attracted to the absent owner because of the ambiance. Before they have finished soaking up the good vibrations, there is the sound of much revving and crunching of stones outside and the second set of people have arrived. There is nowhere for them to park. The narrow country lane and farm buildings set close together do not allow for these enormous luxury vehicles to come in and out without great difficulty. I go outside to explain that we aren’t quite finished and we will be another minute or two, and can see that the lady is in a very stressed state. She is tense and aggressive, unsmiling, failing to make eye contact, and spluttering about the parking situation. I speak to her gently, as to a nervous Alsatian, and she softens just a very little. I still have work to do here. She decides to wait in her car until my first couple have gone, and then drive in.
This manoeuvre is attempted. She gets increasingly angry and is swearing about the lack of space etc. I sympathize but can only wonder why some women buy cars the size of sitting rooms when they are unhappy about parking and reversing. Exasperated, she leaves it in the lane. We go inside. As I am explaining the quirky layout, she lets out a furious sigh. A large chestnut horse and lady rider have appeared outside the window, wanting to get through. It’s not even 10 o’clock and I am afraid my patience quota will be exhausted before I have finished at the first house. I go outside again, have a look at the space, see there is no room for the ample equestrian and her silky buttocked steed to pass, and return to my agitated lady to ask her to move her car. It is a move too far. She only needs to drop forward about two feet, but it is as if I have asked her to execute a three point turn in a garage. However, I offer her calm directions and she manages not to gouge the door panels along the wall. The patient rider and the girdled bulk of her mount sashay through the gap.
Once back inside the property she likes it, gets more and more keen, and I feel resistant again. I don’t want her to have it. She’s too tough, too spiky, too cross. This quiet old barn is for a mellow soul who loves gardening and reading. Perhaps with a smaller car, she could be that zen like owner. Outside, she is anxious about the huge pond and water feature, and asks particularly if it is a natural pond, in which case, drainage could be a problem. The two plastic pipes sticking up in the air, one bright blue, the other black, are a fairly strong clue to the origins of the pond, as is the plastic stepped section down which the bubbling water runs when the pump is switched on, but she still wants clarification from the owners. Madam, no natural pond would form at the top of a bank. The owner is amused when I telephone to ask him, and I am embarrassed to do so. I bang on again about the danger of the steps, find myself flirting with him, which is more embarrassing because it really is just my hormones, and I need to address this or I will end up in a situation not of my choosing. One cannot loose off one’s overheated hormones over the telephone at any male when you haven’t seen him first.
Danger is averted however, because he is not listening to me, and my hormones respond instantly to such a strong signal. He thinks the steps are slippery because stone always feels slippy when wet. Now then. He is not only not listening to me, he is patronizing me. I am positively repelled. I am not the kind of bubble headed blonde who can mistake a few mls of slime for a simple wet surface. I sense his puzzled rejection down the telephone line, and know he is wondering why I have become businesslike and cool. He is never going to clean those steps, and he is therefore never going to be the kind of man with whom I will playfully flirt.
All the car shenanigans make me late for the next slot, an open viewing with four sets of people, who are all understandably annoyed, and I drive past handing the keys out of the car window to my colleague who takes them, and the flak. I scoot off to the next property which requires a good tidy up. Surprisingly, none of the parties are that keen and, yet again, someone farts close to me in a confined space. I am not paid enough to inhale other people’s bottom gas, but I am too well controlled to gag and run from the room. Last week it was the intestinal vapours from two children in separate viewings, and I was left to wonder what kind of diet provokes such uncontrolled leakage, and why children have no sphincter training. This week it was from an adult; man or woman I couldn’t say, but I suspect the man; he had an unhealthy look about him; pale and peaky, and even peevish; his wife was far too attractive to have done such a thing. The horrid thing about an unwelcome smell is the way that it sticks itself to the roof of your mouth, and will not let go, sometimes for a day or so.
The rest of the day is more pleasant because I have a no show, and a chance to get my breath back. I am, however, starving as usual, without a lunch break, desperate for a hot drink, and my feet are freezing. Happily, the next two couples are such a delight that I forget such selfish concerns and get on with my job, with customary dedication and panache.
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