Mezcla

What am I, a Real Estate Agent?

So far, we'd had wonderfully quiet and considerate next-door neighbors ... because they never put in an appearance. The house next door had been sold but never occupied and the garden had been left unfinished. All the windows still had the manufacturer's stickers on them. Paco told us that a wealthy Spanish family in Madrid had bought it, sight unseen, as an investment.

Then, one afternoon, we returned from shopping and a large "for sale" sign had appeared on the front gates. The owners had decided to cash in. That signalled the end of our tranquillity for the next few weeks. For some inexplicable reason, the house attracted an inordinate amount of interest. We had always had cars cruising slowly up and down the street while their occupants gawked at the villas, but now they had a reason to stop.

Every evening and weekend a steady stream of potential buyers stumbled around the rubble-filled garden and peered through the dusty windows. Children scampered around the empty swimming pool while their oblivious parents loudly discussed the size of the kitchen in a multitude of foreign languages.

Then, if I was unlucky enough to be caught in my garden, the interrogation began:

House Hunter:       'Bonjour! Dis 'ouse, it is for sale, no?'

Me:                              'Yes, it says "for sale" on the big sign.'

House Hunter:      'How much cost?'

Me:                             'I don't know, but the agent's number is on the sign.'

House Hunter:      'You don't know?'

Me:                             'No, I don't know.'

House Hunter:      'But is next door to your 'ouse, why you not know?'

Me:                             'Because I'm not thinking of buying it. The agent
                                     knows. His number is on the big sign.'

House Hunter:      'Is it maybe two 'undred 'tousand?'

Me:                            'Maybe, but I don't know.'

House Hunter:     'Does it 'ave air-conditioning?'

Me:                            'I don't know. I don't know the price or what it
                                    includes but the agent does, and his number is on the
                                    big sign.'

House Hunter:     'Is this 'ouse same as yours?'

Me:                           'Similar, but the agent will have photos, and his
                                   number is on the sign.'

This line of questioning usually carried on for another five minutes before the prospective buyer finally realised that I know nothing whatsoever about the house next door and am not really interested. He eventually gives in, but not before firing his parting shot:

House Hunter:    'I think to call the agent, you know his number?'

With a sigh, I walk to the front of my garden and read the number out loud from what really is a very large sign. At last, I return to my pottering and happily deadhead geraniums for ten gloriously undisturbed minutes. Then my peace is shattered by those familiar words and I glance up to see a face peering over the fence.

'Goedenavond! Dit huis, it is for sale?'

***

This purgatory continued for about six weeks until the house was sold to a family who only use it for holidays. So our peace was restored and I went back to clipping my bushes without interruption ... until the day The Boss wandered outside and asked if we had anything that resembled holly.

'As a matter of fact, we have,' I told her proudly, pointing at a small holly bush I had planted as an experiment. She looked at it with an expression of contempt and shook her head.

'I'm going to need an awful lot more than that,' she said. 'It's time to get the Christmas decorations up.'