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We had a busy day of dashing around today, starting with some more house hunting out in the countryside. No celebrities or politicians today, alas and neither house we saw was right for us. I am not sure if we’ve seen our future home yet or not. There are so many parameters to consider and you’re unlikely to get ticks in every box and we lost out on the house that came the closest to satisfying us both. This is a big decision and one you can’t really put to the test without buying somewhere and seeing if it works for you. I don’t think I will ever spend more money on anything than I will spend on this (I am hoping I won’t ever have to move again, until they move me to my new home of blowing free in the wind - wherever I lay my ash, that’s my home) so it would be a shame to fuck it up.
It’s interesting being allowed into strangers’ homes, seeing how they live and what they consider acceptable kinds of toilets to own. Although some people are moving on for a new life (as we are) or or going somewhere exciting for a new job or a new love, many others have their houses on the market for sadder reasons. Maybe there has been a divorce or possibly someone is downsizing because their family has flown the nest and they’re too old for the stairs. Or sometimes someone has died.
One of the houses today was on the market because the husband had recently suddenly died, which we were told by the estate agent as a way, I suppose, to indicate that there wasn’t anything wrong with the house. We were being reassured by this good news. We went into one small bedroom that the couple had used as a dressing room with built in wardrobes on either wall. The estate agent opened one wardrobe door to reveal shelves packed with business shirts, still in their original packaging. The shirts of the man who had died. It was a weird moment, poignant and heart-breaking. But also intrusive and accidentally callous. The opening of a door reminded us of our own mortality and how any of us could unexpectedly disappear, leaving our useless possessions behind us. Somehow them being in their packets still made it all the more disturbing. These were shirts a man had bought to see him through many years of shirt-wearing ahead of him and now the shirts sat redundant and unworn in the house that his widow was now having to sell. Even had we liked the house this would probably have been enough to make us have second thoughts.
This estate agent was being shadowed by a young estate agent who was learning how to do the job. I wasn’t sure he was in the hands of the best teacher. We’ve seen a lot of estate agents over the last few months and obviously there are a lot of shysters in the business, but the ones that can read their customers correctly and know when to shut up and when to chip in are really something to behold. We saw this with the house that we ended up losing out on. When we first saw it the estate agent did a great job and we were pretty sure we wanted it, then we went to see it again with a different agent who managed to accidentally point out the wrong things and put us off. A few months later we gave it another go, with the original agent and she made us love it again. If you’re going to pay someone thousands of pounds to sell your house you would hope they wouldn’t fuck it up for you. And I know being a good estate agent is all relative, but I’ve only met two or three in the last 12 months that I can see are really great at their evil work.
