When I first saw the beach hut I realised it would probably be more expensive than a two bedroom town house. I pictured the agent’s face; the mocking laughter, shrieking down her phone to colleagues; ‘She thinks she can afford a beach hut!’
I’d been looking for a place to buy for ages. The woman in the estate agents had terrible acne, so it was hard to concentrate on her words, but she was almost laughing when she told me what my budget would buy in the town. ‘A garage …’ she said dismissively.
‘I don’t drive’, I said.
‘No’, she said, looking at her nails, or her watch, or her phone or something, ‘No, you don’t understand, it’s what you could afford, a garage, you’d have to live in it.’
‘Some garages can be really nice though’, she added, as an afterthought.
She agreed that this wasn’t ideal. But in the current market…it was really all I could hope for. She took a call from a much more lucrative buyer while fingering her spots and ran away from me, hoping that I wouldn’t bother her again.
I had a house already. A small, terraced house that I loved, but for some reason, I hadn’t told the agent this. The reason I wanted somewhere else was for my lover.
There was really no need to buy somewhere else; I had no husband, or partner, boyfriend, girlfriend, intrusive animals or anything like that. But I had a small daughter and the idea of bringing Lovely Man into our domestic life unnerved me to the point where I wanted another place where we could just be together. Occasionally. So, the garage without windows didn’t really appeal, nor did the dank basements from Psycho that she’d shown me.
It had to be somewhere…special. Different. I just wanted something for myself. Somewhere not filled with primary coloured plastic toys and covered with food stains and paint handprints. Somewhere you could imagine yourself having sex and not worrying about the shopping you hadn’t done or the state of the carpet.
That’s when I saw the beach hut for sale. For Sale, No Agents, All Enquiries Carefully Considered, the sign said. I liked that, the way they’d worded it. It was impeccable; painted in blue and yellow stripes, and it even had little curtains at the windows. Useful, those little curtains…. My first thought was Wow! And my second was, but what’s wrong with it? And then my heart dived when I realised it would probably be more expensive than a two-bedroom town house. I pictured the agent’s face; the mocking laughter, shrieking down her phone to colleagues; ‘She thinks she can afford a beach hut!’…
I’d been looking for a place to buy for ages. The woman in the estate agents had terrible acne, so it was hard to concentrate on her words, but she was almost laughing when she told me what my budget would buy in the town. ‘A garage …’ she said dismissively.
‘I don’t drive’, I said.
‘No’, she said, looking at her nails, or her watch, or her phone or something, ‘No, you don’t understand, it’s what you could afford, a garage, you’d have to live in it.’
‘Some garages can be really nice though’, she added, as an afterthought.
She agreed that this wasn’t ideal. But in the current market…it was really all I could hope for. She took a call from a much more lucrative buyer while fingering her spots and ran away from me, hoping that I wouldn’t bother her again.
I had a house already. A small, terraced house that I loved, but for some reason, I hadn’t told the agent this. The reason I wanted somewhere else was for my lover.
There was really no need to buy somewhere else; I had no husband, or partner, boyfriend, girlfriend, intrusive animals or anything like that. But I had a small daughter and the idea of bringing Lovely Man into our domestic life unnerved me to the point where I wanted another place where we could just be together. Occasionally. So, the garage without windows didn’t really appeal, nor did the dank basements from Psycho that she’d shown me.
It had to be somewhere…special. Different. I just wanted something for myself. Somewhere not filled with primary coloured plastic toys and covered with food stains and paint handprints. Somewhere you could imagine yourself having sex and not worrying about the shopping you hadn’t done or the state of the carpet.
That’s when I saw the beach hut for sale. For Sale, No Agents, All Enquiries Carefully Considered, the sign said. I liked that, the way they’d worded it. It was impeccable; painted in blue and yellow stripes, and it even had little curtains at the windows. Useful, those little curtains…. My first thought was Wow! And my second was, but what’s wrong with it? And then my heart dived when I realised it would probably be more expensive than a two-bedroom town house. I pictured the agent’s face; the mocking laughter, shrieking down her phone to colleagues; ‘She thinks she can afford a beach hut!’…