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Why is it that when you're not quite ready for house viewers they are always ten minutes early, and then on the occasions that you are ready they saunter up to the house twenty-five minutes after they were meant to be there without a care in the world!

“Bing Bong!”

“Crumbs Fickle, the Twitskis are here already!”

Fickle skidded to a halt on the parquet floor in the hall and looked up at me.

“Basket now!” I screamed in a mild panic.

Fickle's paws immediately went into reverse and she headed speedily back to her basket.

“Now don't you move from there!” I barked at Fickle. “Remember we are trying to convince people that this is a gracious family home, where the air is filled with the scent of summer meadows and fresh coffee. A distant aroma of damp dog is just not the same! You shouldn't even be in the house anyway. I mean really, the day I have two lots of house viewers coming round you decide to eat the most disgusting thing on your walk I have ever seen!”

Fickle looked back at me sheepishly pretending that it wasn't her misbehaving this morning. Having checked that Fickle was sitting statue like in her basket I marched quickly back to the front door to greet the Twitskis, thinking to myself that the last thing I needed today was a dog with tummy-ache!

“Hello!” I said smiling graciously.

“Do come in.”

I was really trying my best to look pleased to see them. But to be honest the last people I felt like seeing today were house viewers. All that poking about, and one hundred and one questions about everything from where’s the stop-cock (no idea), to why are you leaving? I certainly wasn’t going to tell them why I was leaving!

The Twitskis looked a funny pair. Mrs Twitski was taller than him, younger, slim and quite pretty. Mmm. I wondered if they were married. What was she doing with him? He looked a bit tubby, losing his hair and had iffy teeth! Maybe he was rich! Maybe she was an internet bride! I always think that’s the best part about selling houses – trying to work out why people are with their other-half, what makes them tick and all that. I started showing them round the ground floor. Mr Twitski wanted to look in the garage. Why are men always so interested in the garage? It’s not as if they’re going to live in there is it? I put the light on and Mr Twitski went in whilst we stayed in the hall.

“It’s a bit dark in here,” came a voice from the gloom.

Well it’s a garage isn’t it I thought to myself. It doesn’t have windows!!

“Can we open the garage door?” asked Mr Twitski. I pushed the button just inside the door to the hallway and it started to open.

“Oh it’s electric!” said a happy voice. Mr Twitski was obviously into gadgets. Mmm, what other gadgets can I bamboozle him with I wondered?

I decided to lead Mrs Twitski on into the kitchen as if we had hung about too long near the garage Mr Twitski would have noticed the dodgy electrics on that door, and the lagging on the pipes was truly shocking, and there is all that canine stuff in there that people really don’t need to see!

Just as we walked into the kitchen I could see Fickle had one paw out of her basket. She was desperate to go over and greet the visitors. Mrs Twitski didn’t look in the least bit like a dog lover, so I glared at Fickle and she put her paw back in her basket, disappointed.

Then Mrs Twitski opened the oven! I rushed over to help her close it again, before something awful crept out of it. I mean why on earth did she have to look in there? I haven’t cleaned it for ages! It looks like the black hole of Calcutta! I guess to be honest I was leaving it for the new people to sort out. And anyway, they might want to clean it in their own special way!

Still, I got away without mentioning Tesco’s! There was no discussion about planning applications, giant supermarkets, new roads, noisy deliveries or anything like that. I feel a bit guilty really. But it’s not my fault they want to build the mother of all supermarkets a few feet away from my back garden is it?

And I’m still not sure that Twitski is their real name. Mmm. I wonder if they’ll make us an offer. And apparently she is a vet you know! A vet! A vet that doesn’t like dogs. All very strange! So not an internet bride then.

by Samantha May