Home Truths - Friday

Prepared with briefcase primed and ready I ring the doorbell. I’m rewarded with an excitable high-pitched yapping and the skittering of paws on parquet and my mood sinks.

‘Just try and keep the dog occupied while I pitch will you?’ I hiss at trainee F, alongside me as I sub-consciously manoeuvre the boy to take the first manic clawing of another untrained hound. I’m already doubtful about the valuation, now I’m about to be salivated over by some stinking furball I’m supposed to feign affection for. It’s easier to coo over babies at least they remain in the cot most of the time – ugly or otherwise.

‘I love dogs.’ Enthuses F as I hear footsteps approaching and a half-hearted attempt to control the still barking mutt.
‘Good you can exchange pleasantries and spittle while I try for some business.’ I tell him as the door opens and I paste on a well-practiced smile.

‘Oh don’t mind him.’ Gushes the woman as a floppy-eared blur launches at me unrestrained. Oh but I do, I think maliciously, as the first prickly feeling stirs in my nasal passages and I feel my throat constrict fractionally. ‘He’s just trying to make friends.’ Continues the woman oblivious to the fact her whiffy-pooch is trying to dry-hump my leg in the hallway. So I sidestep the thrusting attentions and introduce the horny animal to F.

‘Oh he likes you,’ trills the infatuated owner as the dog attempts to mount a now less than enthusiastic F as he half-walks, half-limps, into the lounge, his canine admirer frantically copulating against his calf. At least with F’s cheap hand-me-down suit it won’t be quite so critical if it cops a wad of spaniel-spunk down the over-wide pinstripe.

We do the tour of the house, with F valiantly trying to shake off the lusty pet without actually kicking the thing in the nuts, and for once I’m glad I brought him along. The house stinks of course, something the owner is totally oblivious to, as are most pet owners such is their infatuation for a panting lower-order animal with bad breath that will show them some affection. It’s surely easier to get a husband.

The kitchen reeks of the drooling dog and the bedrooms are not much better, evidence of where the pet is permitted to sleep on the double bed occasioned by a grubby fur-strewn blanket. The bathroom has seen little updating in the last fifteen years and the same amount of cleaning products I’ll warrant. Then we hit the stay at home son’s bedroom.

‘He’s a bit messy,’ shrugs the woman. ‘But boys will be boys.’
I’m a boy too - at least I used to be - I think as I stifle the first sneeze, but I don’t leave my soiled clothes to fester in such quantities. I swear the pile is moving of its own volition as we back out the room and momentarily the stale stench of spent bodily fluids overcomes the pong from pongo.

‘Of course mine is the best in the road.’ Concludes the woman as she lights up a cigarette and the smoke weaves its way towards the yellowing ceiling. I toy with telling her the truth, just as the pet makes a strangulated noise and leaps away from F. The dog’s either ejaculated or F’s surreptitiously booted it. I’m past caring.

So for the record and in the fairly certain expectation that Mrs W isn’t reading - and if she is, in the reasonable belief that people don’t usually recognise themselves, here are the home truths.

People won’t take you as they find you – they just won’t take you, particularly at that price.
Dog hair all over the kitchen surfaces isn’t endearing it’s just slovenly.
Pebbledash has dubious enough value on a 1950’s elevation; it’s certainly not a winner on the close-coupled WC porcelain.
A lawn with patches of yellowy piss stains and spent dog turds is not a selling feature it’s a toilet.
And an unkempt son over twenty-five and still at home is known as a sitting tenant who seriously impacts on value.

No charge for the advice lady, like I said - no sale/no fee.