June 6, 2002

• Hunting.

  
  

  We've been househunting. Seems like the thing to do, cash up, take advantage of ridiculous Sydney real estate and blow the rat race for a quieter cheaper life up the coast.

  
  

  I'd forgotten just how dreadful looking for a new home is.

  
  

  There may be truthful real estate agents out there but not the ones we are dealing with. The ones we met are only acquainted with truth in advertising if it is hair replacement surgery.

  
  

  Why, when you specify a FOUR bedroom house, do they waste your time with a THREE bedroom house? I mean this one guy showed us one that not only was THREE bedrooms, but it was painted in early institution (think: Prison beige, army green, hospital blue), a kitchen that had lovely fake plastic wood benchtops and as its basement it had....

  
  

  ...a pile of dirt and rocks with support beams. No kidding. Big old piles of earth. Chunks of old concrete poking out and earthworms crawling about. The look of absolute horror on my face made the agent pause, but only for a nanosecond. It became, the 'prime place for a wine cellar'. Yeah, if you were used to living in a cave perhaps.

  
  

  And just what about my earnest clear-eyed gaze and my shiny hair and lack of facespackle made him think I was into a wine cellar?!? Matey - if it's bought, we drink it. The record for a bottle of wine in our house is 3 days. And that was for a bottle we were saving.

  
  

  Oh and perhaps the widening of the road in front won't necessarily affect that house, but er... why are the owners selling then? Perhaps bucolic evenings spent on the front deck inhaling exhaust fumes and listening to 18 wheelers change gear is not to their taste, either?

  
  

  And then we saw a nice-ish place, but with a pool. Hmmm. Not really into the whole pool thing. I grew up with them and they can be fun, but only if you are a kid. If you are a grownup, they are constant reminders of water bills, chlorine top ups, concrete cracks and leaf skimmers. But hey... it had a 'spa'. Hmmmm. Not really keen on those either, to be honest. They are things that seem better in fantasy then reality. I mean there you are, bobbing around nekkid in someone else's dead skin and pubes. Or worse if you've been frisky in the past week or so. And guess who'd be cleaning it? Yuk. Rather save it for a dirty weekend where I can torment the maid service. And wave around a bottle of champagne and a joint without the neighbours dialing the authorities.

  
  

  So. No house this week. Almost waffled over a chalet type thingie which was beautifully laid out with decks and views of aussie rain forest until I realised we would be paying for what was essentially a glorified ski chalet with a view of cows. Nope. Thanks, I used to TRASH chalets - I don't want to relive those memories in a place I pay a mortgage on.

  
  

  So, here we are. All we want is a 4 bedroom house, that's got a reasonable yard and that doesn't have crackheads, bikies, ho's or Mary Kay saleswomen for neighbours. This may be an impossible dream. Stay tuned,

  • 4:50 am
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