One Angry Monkey

Okay, so, I know that I only update this when I have something to complain about (or at least I think I do) but seriously.Very little is more invasive than living in a house which is on the market. Living next to a house which is on the market comes a very close second.

Near the beginning of this year, by an unfortunate coincidence exactly at the same time as I went into the hospital, we were informed of the intention of the owner of the property which we were renting to sell the place. They were “considerate” enough to hold off on the open homes until I had recovered but then it started in earnest.

I like to think that I was extremely accomodating. Certainly we declined to have opens every single weekend but when they had them every other weekend I always ensured the house was spotless. When people wanted to come through for a second look, I only asked for enough advnaced warning to make sure the house was, again, spotless.

I suppose I really should admit that I’m a little OCD and get twitchy at the idea of having people in a house that’s anything less than perfect. Actually I get twitchy at the idea of having poeple in a house, full stop, end of sentence. I’ve entertained twice. The first time I spent the night with sky-high blood pressure, not helped by the fact that one of the people for whom I was cooking was a chef. The second time someone got me flowers and I spent the night with my nose dripping like … well I’ll spare you the details. It was dripping. And these were people I know and like, and had invited voluntarily.

Anyway. The place sold and we moved into a new rental property. (Long story short? Too late for that!) This new place is a block of single storey units (is that technically a block? Do I care?). Barely a month after we moved in, guess what the unit furthest from the road did. It went on the market!

Now under normal circumstances I wouldn’t give too much of a crap about that. These are apparently not normal circumstances. For some reason, you see, prospective buyers have been under the impression that nothing would make me happier than being asked questions about the place. “Does that dog next door bark all the time?” No, only when people are prowling up and down the bloody driveway. “Do branches from those trees along the back fall on the roof often?” I wouldn’t know. I’ve been here two months now and live a perfectly safe distance away from the offending flora. “How much did you pay for your place?” I didn’t. I’m renting. “Oh, well, how much do you pay a week in rent?” Does it matter? This place has one less bedroom and a smaller kitchen. Honestly.

Still, it should hopefully be over soon. They’re currently holding the auction. In the front of my bloody unit. People are standing on my bloody front lawn and looking in my bloody window when they’re bored.

It’s times like this I wish Australia had more relaxed gun laws.

This entry was posted on Friday, July 27th, 2007 at 1:27 pm and is filed under Journal. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.