The mutterings of a rubber chicken

Tuesday, May 01, 2007


I've earnt my name over the past week. Anything that can be washed down/scrubbed/polished has been. Every morning I strip off our current bedding and put on 'posh' bedding that no one has ever been allowed to breathe on yet alone use. Scatter a few wellplaced designer pillows...put out a basket of luxurious flannels/towels/spa treatments on the vanities in the get my drift.

Who the hell actually lives like that? Yet it's not just me. Virtually every house I've looked at in the past few weeks has done exactly the same. Some with more finesse than others. After all, a scuffed plastic bowl stuffed full of soaps and shampoos knocked off from various hotels doesn't quite work.

I hate this whole house selling/house buying venture. The whole hypocrisy of the exercise. I go into houses, homes to someone, and nitpick them to bits...'stairs too narrow', 'dark and dingy', 'something died in here....'....yet get woefully upset at the thought that someone might be saying something similar about my home. After all, it's nothing less than perfect. Ha. We all know it's about getting the price down. Mostly.

So far we've had little interest which is depressing. The location is a little bit of a tough sell possibly (near 'village' shops) but, hell, we're not on a motorway or something. In the meantime, I keep falling in love with houses only to get them snapped out from underneath me.

I was going to post a link here (it's on the internet) in case Moneybags McKay fancied a nice weekender downunder but then I realised it would give my address away and, within a week, I'd probably have the entire crew from Steve camped out on my front lawn. Maybe not.

And PS. I really hate most real estate agents.