Today, some good news! I have just had an offer on the house! Yes, an offer! Well, that’s the good news. The bad news is the level of the offer. “How much??” I said to the Twitskiis. “I’m sorry, I thought I must have misheard!”
I then stormed into the kitchen in a rage. Fickle ran for cover under the kitchen table.
“YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS!” I screamed, McEnroe style.
“Two hundred and eighty thousand!” I huffed at Fickle.
“TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHTY THOUSAND!” Don’t they realise I spent over an hour with them, showing them around whilst they poked about, looking at this and that, and asking me daft questions. And then they have the nerve to offer me two hundred and eighty thousand. OK, OK, I know the housing market is not great at the moment but that is ridiculous! RIDICULOUS!
Fickle was still hovering under the kitchen table, not entirely sure what the significance was of my tantrum.
“It’s OK,” I said to Fickle. “I’m not cross with you.” Fickle came out from under the kitchen table hesitantly and I gave her a cuddle.
“I’m just cross with those silly house buyers, that’s all. It’s OK for you, you only have to worry about your basket!”
I mean didn’t they read that house price survey last week? Prices are rising you know! Yes rising! According to that my house is worth one thousand four hundred and sixty-two pounds and eleven pence more than it was last month! Maybe I should tell the Twitskiis.
Apparently that is all the bank will lend them. And even that is conditional on the dreaded survey! Who knows what that is going to bring up? Wet rot, dry rot, wood worm, every kind of worm and all no doubt resulting in chunks being taken off their paltry offer.
And then, just when I thought things really couldn’t get any worse, I opened the local paper. There, right before my eyes, on page three like a beacon sticking out is the house opposite mine advertised for sale.
“YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS!” I screamed for the second time in about five minutes. Fickle immediately ran for cover again. I mean why do they have to sell now? It’s my turn to be selling not theirs. I put my house on the market first, they should wait, shouldn’t they? And why does their garden have to look so pretty? I don’t have green fingers you know and I live with a mad border collie who shreds lawns faster than a combine-harvester.
“Immaculate four bedroom detached house for sale , with south-facing garden,” reads the advert.
“An opportunity not to be missed,” it goes on.
Right, I’m taking them off my Christmas card list. They were round here only the other weekend, all lardydar, saying how happy they were here and how the children had settled in so well at the local school. Mmm, now I come to think of it they were asking about how the house selling was going, and whether I’d had much interest. The little rats! That’s probably the only reason they came round, to poke about and see whether they thought their place was nicer than mine. Maybe Twitskii will be going over there now as soon as he sees this ad. I hope they ask them lots of questions. ‘So can you tell me the precise name, origin and density of the breeze blocks used to build the foundations of this house...?’
I decide to play it cool. Yes, that’s right. I shall sit on Twitskiis offer for a few days, make ‘em sweat a bit. I won’t mention anything to the snakes across the road either. We’ll see what happens. Maybe in another month the house will be worth even more. Might even have to put the price up! That’ll teach ‘em!
by Samantha May