Estate Agents, a Joy to do Business With!

Posted on December 14, 2013

I would like to apologise to my adoring fan base for the distinct lack of blogs in the last week. Whilst it is impossible to feel your pain, I do sympathise your state of emptiness. The lack of blog posts has not been courtesy of being bereft of material, it is actually more to do with the misery that is being inflicted on me by estate agents.

If I was paying these people thousands of pounds to tell lies and send chauvinistic emails to my fiancée, I would have to accept that I have received fantastic service. However, I have actually paid them to deal with the selling of my house, something that they have done with begrudging ineptitude laced with lashings of conceited arrogance that would test the patience of a Buddhist.

In recent times regular readers may have noticed that I have reduced my tendency towards bad language on blogs as I don’t like to offend an expanding reader base. However, there are exceptions, so please look away or skip to the next paragraph if the next, entirely necessary sentence, might cause you offence.

Estate agents are Cunts!

I’m sorry, it had to be said and by putting it in to words, my mental state is already reducing from boiling point to a gentle simmer. In truth, it is generally the male ones who get to me like nails down a blackboard, though anyone who remembers Marion at Sansome and George in Tadley, will recall one of the towns finest ever suppliers of instant nausea.

I am currently, allegedly, moving to Ringwood in Hampshire and after being told in September we would be in our new home by the end of November, Justine, my fiancée, handed in her notice at her rented home. She is now, effectively, a mother with two daughters but no home. Don’t get her a mood pendant this Christmas, it will only explode.

In the past week, we have been given five different exchange dates that have being conveniently forgotten as each one passes. This Monday coming is our next effort but for God’s sake, if you are the betting type, stick your wages on a pig flying instead, or if you are feeling really outrageous, an English Ashes victory.

So there you have my explanation and at a guess, your are probably feeling a bit sorry for Justine as she jumps from favour to favour whilst her personal belongs sit redundant in a storage container. Just to add spice to our heady mix of despair, whilst we were packing the container, an oak chair dropped on my head. As I staggered semi consciously across the yard, all that was missing was some comedy Laurel & Hardy music.

When all is said and done it is not life and death, at least we are not war refugees in a tent fighting off a Syrian blizzard. It’s not so much the inconvenience, it is the preposterous lies that come with it, that do me my head in.

So there are my excuses and for those of you who do not follow me on Facebook, I have added a male guide to Christmas gift wrapping as compensation.

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