On the market: The stresses and strains of moving house

Rachel Love

Rachel Love - Credit: Archant

After 12 years, Rachel’s mum is selling their house - much to her daughter’s dismay.

The three most stressful times in the average person’s life are supposed to be death, divorce and moving house. Fortunately I haven’t had to tackle the first two, but moving house I have experienced, and not without my share of battle scars.

Preparing to move out of my family home has been stressful for me and, when I’m stressed, I become socially awkward and inappropriate. I think it’s safe to say that this time I really have put my socially awkward foot in it!

I was aware that my house was on the market but I had been avoiding all knowledge of it, finding it too sad to bear thinking about. This was until last week when I was rudely awakened on my walk home; three people - two casually dressed women and a smartly dressed man/boy standing outside my beloved, in crossed-arm chatter, looking up at the property and then at each other. Swept up in the moment I began to run towards them, throwing all the dignity I had into the wind.

We stood in an awkward circle on the uneven pavement; the young estate agent with his prepubescent face fuzz, two smiley, slightly bewildered women, and me; puffing, spatially unaware and windswept from my jog (sprint).

“So, what did you think of the place?” I asked quizzically.

“It is absolutely beautiful. Your mum is a very talented interior designer.”

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“She’s a classy lady… She doesn’t come with the house though.”

So now they want my mum too, opportunistic and greedy.

I continued, looking from one woman to the other, “So who would be moving in?”

“My partner and I,” she said, gesturing towards the other woman with a grin.

Still flustered from my run and dizzied with grief and angst I replied, “Oh I love lesbians! We need some lesbians around here, add some diversity. That’s great.”

And it didn’t stop there, like verbal diarrhoea: “I’m not a lesbian, but I love lesbians… I’m all for it. Who needs men?!”

Then, looking to the estate agent, “…apart from you, we need you because you’re an estate agent, even though no one likes estate agents!”

The boy looked at me, gave a forced chuckle and put his hands in the pockets of what I can only assume was his dad’s blazer.

The smiling lady replied and pointed towards the other woman, “No, my husband… He’s in the car.”

And there he was, in the car that was waiting across the street, behind the other woman.

I walked away with a slight stoop of shame, but it happened again.

Flailing my arms wildly in the air I shouted back to the group, “Don’t buy this place… I murdered someone in the study.”

They maintained a forced laugh as they walked towards their cars.

“Just kidding!” I yelled, cupping my hands around my mouth like a megaphone for my rubbish joke. “Or am I…?!”

That was it. They didn’t even pretend to find it funny anymore.

At least they won’t be buying my house.

The saga continues…