Sometimes you can be too honest.
IF there is one thing I’ve learned in the few weeks since our house went on the market it’s that the Missus would make a spectacularly disastrous estate agent.
Our first viewing was enough for me to realise that our chances of selling decrease exponentially if she is within a one-mile radius of our home.
“We’re leaving the oven,” I smiled at the prospective buyer who came to look round – a 30-something woman whose parents live locally. “That’s yours to keep.”
“It’s on its last legs,” the Missus chimed in. “It really doesn’t work very well.”
“It can be a little temperamental at times,” I conceded, trying desperately to rescue the situation. “Still a decent cooker though.”
“It conked out on me three times the other day when I was trying to cook the children’s salmon,” the Missus said, as our prospective buyer mentally crossed our house off her ‘possibles’ list. “It made me cry.”
The solution I put forward to this problem was slightly different to the one the Missus proposed.
“We need to buy a new oven,” she said.
“Oh,” I said. “I was going to say that we should make sure you’re never here when someone comes to look round.”
In the end we decided to do both. Which now I come to think of it may have been her plan all along.
I now handle the viewings and the other night we sat down at the laptop to look at some new cookers. “How much?” the Missus screeched. “That can’t be the right price, can it?”
The Missus doesn’t really get capitalism. This is the woman who had to be bribed to look at washing machines when our old one broke and then took umbrage when the sales assistant, asked for a recommendation, duly gave us one.
“Huh,” she’d said when he had left us to browse, “if they’re selling them then they should all be good.”
She then decided that we should go with the gas cooker that came with a glass lid. Despite it a) being uselsess and b) adding another 80 quid to the price.
“It will help keep the children safe,” she insisted.
“But how?” I asked. “If the gas is on the lid will be up. When it’s closed, the gas will be off.”
Luckily enough I then managed to find an online post in which the owner of said cooker reported the glass lid ‘exploding’.
“We’re getting the one without the lid,” the Missus announced.
“Phew,” I nearly said.
The next night, we gave a quiche the honour of being the last meal to be inadequately heated in our old cooker, using the long lighter reserved for such occasions because the ignition no longer works.
“It’ll be out in 10 minutes,” predicted the Missus.
Naturally, Sod’s Law dictated that the darned thing stayed on.
“Are you quite sure we need a new oven?” I asked.