Christmas arrives early.
Well then … the DA has come through. Cue fanfare. Ranks of white rabbits, liveried, betrumpeted, and parping. That sort of thing.
And after all the fuss and palaver of the preceding months, other than a requirement to take a photographic record of the house in all its ‘before’ gloriousness, there are no conditions, nothing has been denied us. It feels rather strange – almost too easy.
For all my striking of attitudes about not getting an upstairs bathroom, it seems all three bodies are unanimous that we shall have one. Not to mention the opening in the dining room wall so that we can stroll in leisurely fashion out into the un-garden. What’s more, we’re at liberty to demolish the bubonic lav which takes up a quarter of said un-garden (I kid thee not – it is that small). Also granted us is a modest opening between kitchen and dining room. And the guest shower room with its smokey glass roof – if you come and stay, I can offer you starlit nighttime ablutions and the best lav-side view you could wish for. And if all that were not enough, the Juliet balconies, which were intended as the sacrificial items on the wish list – maybe they should be called the Iphigenia Balconies? – we got those too. In fact, we got all of it.
Powers that be – we thank you. Everso ‘umbly.
Of course there ain’t going to be no work on the house anytime soon because, despite solemn oaths, (Not-So) Esteemed (At-The-Moment) Architect has not finished the tender documents, nor produced a builder from his hat. Stern words are scheduled for next week. And to be strictly honest, even if he had, the collapse of Mr Pimp’s mine means we don’t have the mountain of dosh needed for the work anyway.
And so, as a consequence, our present house has been primped and rouged and bundled onto the market somewhat earlier than we intended. In fact our first viewing was yesterday, and it was a somewhat disaster-strewn path leading up to it. The washing machine died utterly on Thursday, the boiler on Friday (luckily it was resurrectable, at exorbitant cost). And the day before the viewing our very nice cleaner did something very nasty to the floor which seemed, bizzarely, to splalm a thin layer of grease over the entire, glossy, re-coated surface. It took us much frantic mopping and a great deal of scrubbing at midnight, then dawn, on hands and knees in pyjamas and dressing gowns to remove it – finishing, oh, what, a very spacious twenty five minutes before the hoardes (six groups) came streaming through the front door.
And the reward for all our sweaty endeavours? A cold shower, natch, the boiler still being broken. I swear there’s a correlation between cold showers and heart attacks; they are she-ocking. But anyway we got there, rather in the manner of an Ealing Comedy. And we are launched now, bobbing along on the unpredictable currents of the Sydney property market. If you see a paper boat sail past, please wave. Oh, and if you’d like to buy it at an exorbitant, inflated price (in the cause of heritage works, of course), please wave wildly.
So anyway and anyhow, this is one of the estate agent’s photographic offerings of our present house – the least distorted and most representative of a typical estate agently schleckshun. What is it with those wide-angled lenses?