Privacy inviolate
Flatmate has put this place on the market. Over-keen estate agents keep bringing doubtful looking people round to see it, mostly when we’re out. This is not a surprise, as I am aware from past experience that this is how property wheeling and dealing works.
Everyone does the same thing. They scoot through the house like a dose of food-poisoning, and then ask three standard questions:
“How far is it to walk to the nearest station?”
“What are the neighbours like?” (This is the only question at which I am forced to lie and say “They’re great. We hardly know they’re there” while desperately hoping that this won’t prompt a flurry of elephantine thudding from upstairs.)
“How old is the boiler?” This is a perpetual problem with houses in London, in my experience. You move somewhere and instantly the boiler packs up, costing you lost days of bitter cold, while you try and find a boiler expert who is available to come out any time this year and won’t charge you more than your mortgage to sort it out. Ditto washing machines.
Anyway, Flatmate is a complete neat-freak. The house is immaculate. Even the cushions have their place on the sofa. I like it - it’s soothing to come back to somewhere that is uncluttered and neat. My room, however, is mine. I’m not the tidiest person, but I have been making a concerted effort over the last weeks to keep it looking respectable. Yesterday I got up early to sort it all out and hoover it before the first lot of prospective buyers turned up for their lightning visit. Then I went out.
When I came back after a night of carousing and hobnobbing with celebrities (of which more later), I came home to find that she’d been in and made it tidier. As far as I can tell, this entailed taking the water glass from beside the bed, hiding my contraceptive pills so I couldn’t find them, and squaring the duvet up. Now, I fail to see how rearranging my already neat bedclothes and making the edges of my pillows paralle, could possibly make this house more attractive to buyers. I don’t mind if she asks me first. What really makes me mad is when I feel as if my privacy has been violated. It’s my bed! My room! I’d like to feel that I can leave a pair of dirty knickers safely hidden under the covers without fear of them being exposed to prying eyes before I’m ready. Call me a slob - I care not a jot.