Today I feel dirty.
With my house about to go onto the market today is the day the photographer comes around to take the shots that will go on the estate agents website for all to see. And they will see, for as soon as the For Sale board goes up the neighbours and strangers alike will be on, perusing through every room and judging. Judging the house and in turn, judging me.
So I have cleaned and vacuumed and tidied to the max. It hasn’t looked this ridiculously good for years.
New ornaments have been placed strategically to titillate and entice. Cushions have been pumped up and sit there preening, inviting at a come hither angle. Rooms have been newly decorated, the faint lingering of paint still hangs in the air.
Kitchen utensils have been hidden away, the garage is crammed with everyday items I’m continually taking in and out. Family photo albums and my books – so many books – have been crammed into storage boxes and I can’t find…anything!
In the garden I scowl at every weed that comes up, and wonder if I can still cut the lawn so it looks its best despite it still being wet from a recent shower.
But as I’m sure you all know, this is what we go through when we sell our house. Every minutiae is obsessed over, every angle considered.
And despite the constant cleaning, as I said, I feel dirty.
I feel like I’m pimping my place. The place where I have lived since I was eight years old, the place my mother and father chose when they were young and looking to the future. The home from where they went to work each day to pay a mortgage, the place my father clung onto by his financial fingertips after my mother suddenly passed away so young and an income went down by an almost crippling degree.
Christmas Days and birthdays, family and friends come and gone, laughter and tears and celebrations. My grandmothers second wedding had it’s reception here, my sisters excitements on their wedding days reverberated into every brick, all panic and joy, bridesmaids and the same proud father-of-the-brides.
And now I’m putting the four walls that bore witness to all that up to the highest bidder. But, it needs to be said, at my fathers wishes, to be split between myself and my two sisters. And in truth it’s too big for me. Two of the rooms I don’t even use, which is a waste.
And the memories feel like sadness now, the quiet feels like ghosts of what once was.
New memories need to be made within these walls, the daily laughter – and arguments – need to return. Music needs to be played too loud, the new aroma of different meals have to fill the kitchen, people need to go out of the front door to work and play and return; parties held, friends to visit.
And I need to fill a new home with the same, to create independent good memories for myself.
So for now I’ll play the pimp. I’ll preen and try to find new homes for objects and throw out or recycle what needs to be, and hide away the rest. For a few days until it goes on the market the house can breathe out a little until, like a middle-aged man he pulls in his stomach again, waiting for someone to make him lean and eager and vital again.
SONGS AND SCRIPTS AND DUNKING BISCUITS 
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