Twenty-two years ago yer man and I had a very grown up discussion about moving house, as both of us wished to move somewhere a little more country.
While himself poured over pages of accounts I did my best to listen, with one eye on Coronation Street. Shortly after the final credits he closed the books and declared it would be three years before we could afford to move.
Perhaps with Coronation Street in the background, I’d not listened properly, because all of one week later I found the house of my dreams and after a little subterfuge convinced yer man it was what he wanted too.
Despite his prediction of financial ruin, we survived the move and have been living here since. As a home it’s a lovely place, but as a house it’s a lot less than perfect.
Usually I’m blind to its imperfections but as I watched RTE’s House of the Year I couldn’t but wonder, what if those judges came to my house?
First impressions might not be great as our rather quirky hedge comes into view, which has enormous gaps due to the untimely death of chunks of it last year. Once past the paint peeling gate they would step onto the drive.
“Is that cement or tarmac?”
The correct answer is both.
Years ago some boyos who, “lucky for us happened to be in the neighbourhood,” put down tarmac that lifted a few months later. Himself thought the solution would be to fill in the resulting potholes with cement.
Not being overly talented in the cement-making process, it dried and once stepped on cracked into pieces, creating a mosaic effect over the holes.
If the judges don’t fall into one, our hall would be their next port of call, a feature of which is the 100 pairs of shoes discarded there.
A number of gear bags sit beside them, the owners too exhausted after training to take the one extra step required to put them under the stairs.
Entering the kitchen, our heart of the home, I’d hope they don’t linger near the table as it has that many scratches it looks as if we ate off it without plates.
If they decide to have a sneaky cup of tea they may be out of luck as the new kettle only works if tilted to the side. Unfortunately, we have no idea where the receipt is.
While admiring our kitchen they may become alarmed by a loud clicking noise from the oven as the pilot light magically tries to light it. If they bang the oven door a few times it usually stops.
I’m a little concerned that while looking at our bathroom facilities they may be tempted to use them. If they opt for the one upstairs they could be there for some time.
It’s not that the lock doesn’t work, it does, but only if you very gently turn the key a certain way. Thankfully downstairs there are no such issues as it has no lock. If the door is closed it’s occupied!
Entering our sitting room they may notice the cracks in the glass of the double doors. Perhaps they will think that a design, rather than the result of a child’s temper years ago.
The room itself contains our pride and joy ‘the white couch’. Unfortunately, our funds have yet to recover from its purchase so the walls are bare.
At this point, they should visit the bedrooms but will find them locked, once the horror of a teenager’s bedroom is seen it cannot be unseen and I worry the judges may never recover.
As they leave I’m not confident how we’ll score, but I like to imagine them sidestepping potholes declaring: “We don’t come across one like that too often.”
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