Bananagrams and murky depths

Right, so here we go again. Now that we are getting in better shape to try to claw our way on to the property ladder, we are once again taking the plunge into the murkiest depths inhabited by the murkiest sales people on earth: estate agents. I’m trying really hard NOT to be positive, but I’m me after all so I can’t help but imagine us in the lovely cottage we viewed yesterday afternoon. On a lovely little residential road in Teddington and with daffodils adorning the front of it, I think even the realistic B struggled to find fault with it. B is the sensible one and I reckon even when he does feel woohoo about something, he tries to contain himself to maintain some sort of balance to yippieeeeeeee Anna.

If I try my hardest, I’d say the stairs were too steep. Also, given an extension where, strangely, you access the bathroom via the kitchen (what is up with THAT??), I did wonder how that would work. I mean, no problem when there’s the three permanent residents – me, B and Monkey – but what when B’s boys are staying? Don’t know if I’d feel right about coming through after a shower in a towel? Although, that’s not a difficult one to solve, I guess I’d just get dressed in the bathroom? See what I mean? This is me trying to find fault. Even so, I’m not a huge fan of the idea of things going in and out of us in the same area of the house, it just seems a little wrong. As for the other issue, Monkey can be quite clumsy and therefore the stairs up to and down from the bedrooms do scare me a little – you’d break more than one bone tumbling down those. Still, not enough reason to put me off because beyond those two not-really-faults this cute little place ticked pretty much all the boxes. I can see us being really happy there. To be fair, I’d be ‘really happy’ living under Chiswick Bridge so long as it’s with B and Monkey, but wow – I can picture those warm summer evenings so clearly…

…all of us, chilling out in the back garden, door open, Hendrix trotting around, Monkey doing his thing, ideally B’s boys there too, B and I enjoying some glorious Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc, perhaps a game of Yahtzee or Bananagrams with all three boys, occasionally scolding Hendrix for taking a dump in the wrong place…

…I can also picture just me there, perhaps an evening before B gets home, either inside by the kitchen table (on which there’d always be a vase with fresh flowers) or outside with my laptop, feeling inspired and working on the last sprint of the book…

Oh, it’d be so glorious!

Glorious, if it weren’t for those pesky agents that we’ll unfortunately have to deal with to potentially get us into the place. Look, I do want to trust them, I want to apply my normal, borderline over-enthusiastic faith in humanity, but ….no. I can’t work out if it’s the cheap suits or the cringy sales talk that gets my goat first – both awful – or the dishonesty and dirty tactics that closely follow that makes my soul die a little.

State of affairs: the cottage is over our budget. The agents tell us the vendors will accept an offer at the level we can stretch to. I asked what would be a realistic offer, given our top pain threshold will mean until this time next year that we can’t get hitched yet, no holidays whatsoever (would have to send Monkey to Sweden on his own in the summer and for Christmas), a strict budget with no room for going out much or doing anything remotely fun. They come back saying to go as high as we can and they’ll get it agreed. Not my question. But of course these amoebas don’t give a flying eff about anything other than every last penny of commission they can squeeze out of this potential deal.

Well. I shall remain optimistic. This property might just be The One, but if it’s not, we’ll have to consider it another frog and jog on to kiss a few more before we find our House Charming. It’ll happen.

Oh, here we go again – proving my point fabulously – a different agent just rang about a property she reckons is “perfect” for us. She yaps on and on about the spec and, yes, it does sound marvellous. HAD IT NOT BEEN IN ISLEWORTH. For God’s sake. #?@*%$


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