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I’m selling my home. It’s a unique Georgian apartment with many period features set in an imposing mansion in stunning and extensive grounds with own garden shed. Well, that’s how the agent describes it, and who am I to argue with that?

You’d think with a such a tempting description, all one would have to do was sit back and watch the streams of potential purchasers coming down the impressive drive.

Not so, my friends. First of all, you have to make sure you are not there when the viewing takes place. And that means both personally and in spirit. My experience of looking at possible new Oswick Towers tells me that I don’t want the incumbent hanging around while I inspect behind their sofa or poke about in the back of their meter cupboard. Secondly, I don’t want their knick-knacks clogging the clean lines of the work surfaces. I want to imagine my own knick-knacks cluttering the place. In fact, I don’t want to see any evidence of them, just potential evidence of ME!

Thirdly, no signs of cooking, apart from the legendary smell of fresh bread, now available in handy aerosol form. To be greeted by last night’s beef stew is a definite no-no.

So it’s show-house condition every morning. This means making the bed regularly for the first time in fifteen years. It means doing the washing up. It means no tide-mark on the bath. It means plump up the cushions, put away private papers, freshen the flowers, fold the towels, chuck out last night’s lager cans and plug in the air freshener. It’s positively exhausting! I worried myself sick all day recently thinking I might have left a pair of pants on the bedroom floor. (Not true as it turned out)

Mind you, it’s difficult to get rid of all evidence of me. There’s a vast oil panting of moi in the bedroom, a collection of twenty five framed photos of my feet in the bathroom (don’t ask), a collage of me dressed as a Swiss maiden in the vestibule and numerous portraits of Lady Margaret in the drawing room. Any visitor must think they have entered the home of a megalomaniac egotistical cross dressing weirdo with a foot fetish.

Only some of which is true.

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