Did I tell you about our tiny kitchen? We thought it was all right – apart from the cobwebs, the dust and the food stains – in its own modest way. However, all our prospective buyers looked at it and wanted it to be bigger. But you just don’t get farmhouse kitchens where the children can do their homework and get in your way, as you swig wine while making dinner, in Mancunian suburbia. For that price. Besides, if you did, the estate agent would have mentioned it.
As for ourselves, we obviously make perfect house viewers. We have read the description of what we are about to see, and if the kitchen looks a bit small, we are too polite to ask why it isn’t bigger. A person can adapt, can’t they?
One agent said about the house he showed us that other viewers complained that it’s ‘missing a bedroom’ upstairs. As if a bedroom could just up and leave. Again, if the description mentions two bedrooms upstairs, I’d say you’d be unlikely to find three.
Besides, after reading about houses online, I rebuild. So far I have rebuilt, extended or otherwise changed half the properties for sale in Stirling. In my mind. It’s very easy and it’s fun. There’s not even all that much dust once you’re done.
Cough. Ouch. Didn’t see that lintel there.
We are now halfway along in the famous Bookwitch relocation saga. We used the services of Snape, Defense Against the Dark Estate Agents…
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‘And you just disappeared,’ said Mother-of-witch as we were out walking one day. I was probably about eight. I didn’t disappear. I curtseyed. Because we’d just walked past my headmaster in town, and you had to curtsey to people like him. Or so I’d been told. I was very obedient.
So I bobbed down, which was what she meant.
I blogged about an earlier curtsey a while ago, and felt like a dinosaur. (Do dinosaurs curtsey?) Back then, Swedish girls were brought up to bend their knees on all sorts of occasions. With adults. Teachers and other school staff. The King, if you happened to meet him. Maybe you didn’t have to for school staff outside school. I don’t know. To me a rule was a rule. You just did. And Mother-of-witch apparently didn’t recognise my headmaster.
(He probably didn’t even notice me.)
These days I doubt anyone curtsies. I wonder when they stopped instructing girls to do it? Boys had to bow, so it wasn’t just the one sex who had to be polite. They also had to take their hats/caps off.
The trouble is knowing when to stop, and by that I mean, when are you old enough not to be required to dip down? It becomes instinct, thus is hard to stop doing. I stopped very early. Partly because I felt like an idiot, and partly because Mother-of-witch told me not to do it when we visited England ‘because English girls don’t curtsey.’
When I arrived at the G’s house, at the age of 21, I was simply the latest in a long row of Swedish students they’d had living with them. Mrs G sounded amused and a little embarrassed when she told me that the other girls had curtsied to her on arrival. She must have felt rather Queen-like, I imagine.
That in itself made me pleased I’d given it up, because I could see that I too, would have ‘disappeared’ downwards. Purely from habit.