houses I’ve sold.
‘This is a great room,’ I say confidently as I step inside. But then I stop, suddenly, when I see it. It used to be a great room; now it’s a mess. And I have a really high mess threshold, so for me to call a place a mess it must be bad. The curtains are drawn, so this normally bright room with patio doors onto the garden is virtually black. There’s a small girl on a dirty sofa watching
Come Dine With Me
and eating Wotsits. I can’t get my head around how much the room has changed. It used to be a big spacious living area, with a dining area, lounge and kitchen to the side, but now there’s a nappy-changing station on the table, which explains the whiff of poo and baby wipes, and there are towels everywhere. Two potties sit in the middle of the room, bizarrely surrounded by six dining chairs. Don’t ask. It looks awful and it stinks.
‘I think we should leave her to it today,’ says Mrs Hammond, the mother of the family.
‘Yeah,’ I agree.
This is my fault entirely. I should never have shown a property I hadn’t seen for five years. Anything can happen in thattime – and it clearly has. ‘Shall we just have a peep in the garden?’ I suggest, hoping at least to salvage one good impression from the property. I’ve known clients offer on a flat purely because they’ve loved the garden, such is the desperation of people to have even a square foot of grass in London.
‘OK,’ Mrs Hammond whispers.
We tramp through the assault course to the patio doors, and I glance at the bookcase, as I always do, searching for a copy of
The Five Year Plan,
hoping to meet another aficionado. I never have yet and today’s no exception. I steady Mrs Hammond as she nearly slips on a small puddle of wee, then I try to pull back the curtain, but it won’t open. It’s caught on something the other side. I tug a bit harder, but then I hear the sound of a child’s voice saying, ‘No!’
‘Hello, there, young person behind the curtain. Do you think we could have a little look at your nice garden?’
‘No,’ he repeats.
‘Please,’ I try, tugging the curtain again.
There’s some shuffling behind the material until a small boy’s head is revealed. There are two striking things about the child. One is a big green slug of snot sliding towards his mouth, and the other is something big and white that’s stuck to his head.
‘What’s that on your head?’ Posh Boy asks in a ‘talking to an under three’ voice.
We all peer at it. It looks like a badly applied bandage, but then, just as I am about to say, ‘Oh, did you bang your head like me?’ it dawns on me that it isn’t a bandage at all. It’s a sanitary towel. Thank God it’s clean.
This could well earn a place in my top ten crap viewings.
We traipse back to the hall.
‘We’ll pop off now. I’ll give you a call later,’ I say gently to Claire on the way out.
She nods and I lead the Hammonds to their car, then I run back to Claire, who’s staring into space at the door.
‘Are you all right, Claire?’ I whisper.
‘No,’ she chokes. ‘He’s left me for his masseuse. I’ve got to sell the flat to get out of here.’ She sounds desperate.
I stare at this beautiful, broken woman and I want to hug her, but she’s still holding the baby.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I whisper. And I am. I couldn’t think of anything worse. I imagine how I’d feel if Dan left me. I’d be lost. And that’s without a load of little people relying on me.
She doesn’t say anything; she just begins to cry. Then the baby starts as well. She gives me a sad apologetic smile and closes the door.
Posh Boy’s still on the driveway checking the soles of his shoes. He looks up as I pass.
‘Well, that was a cock-up,’ he says, sounding rather thrilled.
What can I say? Nothing. It was a cock-up, and I wish he hadn’t been there to witness it.
‘Shit, man, what happened to you?’
There’s no toast or Haribo today, so I have her full
‘This is a great room,’ I say confidently as I step inside. But then I stop, suddenly, when I see it. It used to be a great room; now it’s a mess. And I have a really high mess threshold, so for me to call a place a mess it must be bad. The curtains are drawn, so this normally bright room with patio doors onto the garden is virtually black. There’s a small girl on a dirty sofa watching
Come Dine With Me
and eating Wotsits. I can’t get my head around how much the room has changed. It used to be a big spacious living area, with a dining area, lounge and kitchen to the side, but now there’s a nappy-changing station on the table, which explains the whiff of poo and baby wipes, and there are towels everywhere. Two potties sit in the middle of the room, bizarrely surrounded by six dining chairs. Don’t ask. It looks awful and it stinks.
‘I think we should leave her to it today,’ says Mrs Hammond, the mother of the family.
‘Yeah,’ I agree.
This is my fault entirely. I should never have shown a property I hadn’t seen for five years. Anything can happen in thattime – and it clearly has. ‘Shall we just have a peep in the garden?’ I suggest, hoping at least to salvage one good impression from the property. I’ve known clients offer on a flat purely because they’ve loved the garden, such is the desperation of people to have even a square foot of grass in London.
‘OK,’ Mrs Hammond whispers.
We tramp through the assault course to the patio doors, and I glance at the bookcase, as I always do, searching for a copy of
The Five Year Plan,
hoping to meet another aficionado. I never have yet and today’s no exception. I steady Mrs Hammond as she nearly slips on a small puddle of wee, then I try to pull back the curtain, but it won’t open. It’s caught on something the other side. I tug a bit harder, but then I hear the sound of a child’s voice saying, ‘No!’
‘Hello, there, young person behind the curtain. Do you think we could have a little look at your nice garden?’
‘No,’ he repeats.
‘Please,’ I try, tugging the curtain again.
There’s some shuffling behind the material until a small boy’s head is revealed. There are two striking things about the child. One is a big green slug of snot sliding towards his mouth, and the other is something big and white that’s stuck to his head.
‘What’s that on your head?’ Posh Boy asks in a ‘talking to an under three’ voice.
We all peer at it. It looks like a badly applied bandage, but then, just as I am about to say, ‘Oh, did you bang your head like me?’ it dawns on me that it isn’t a bandage at all. It’s a sanitary towel. Thank God it’s clean.
This could well earn a place in my top ten crap viewings.
We traipse back to the hall.
‘We’ll pop off now. I’ll give you a call later,’ I say gently to Claire on the way out.
She nods and I lead the Hammonds to their car, then I run back to Claire, who’s staring into space at the door.
‘Are you all right, Claire?’ I whisper.
‘No,’ she chokes. ‘He’s left me for his masseuse. I’ve got to sell the flat to get out of here.’ She sounds desperate.
I stare at this beautiful, broken woman and I want to hug her, but she’s still holding the baby.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I whisper. And I am. I couldn’t think of anything worse. I imagine how I’d feel if Dan left me. I’d be lost. And that’s without a load of little people relying on me.
She doesn’t say anything; she just begins to cry. Then the baby starts as well. She gives me a sad apologetic smile and closes the door.
Posh Boy’s still on the driveway checking the soles of his shoes. He looks up as I pass.
‘Well, that was a cock-up,’ he says, sounding rather thrilled.
What can I say? Nothing. It was a cock-up, and I wish he hadn’t been there to witness it.
‘Shit, man, what happened to you?’
There’s no toast or Haribo today, so I have her full
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