There goes the weekend

You know what the worst way is to find out that your flat is having an open day for property developers in two days time? When you read it in the fucking Property Press.

This is after a week of being woken up by unanticipated strangers loudly discussing the house’s failings while peering in the windows, and the landlady visiting the property four times without notice, lying to us repeatedly about what’s going on, and stealing outside objects that don’t belong to her. Oh, and four creativity-killing days of unholy chainsaw work which has reduced our garden to a lunar surface, so potential buyers can see the “shape” of the land.

I really can’t express how much it sucks to arrive back from Auckland and to be treated this way, especially after living here for seven years. The real estate agent, an unpleasantly smug jerk whose every phone call sounds like a threat, wants to borrow our ladder so he can coax arteriosclerotic moneyed boomers onto our slippery roof to see the view. This isn’t going to end well.


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