House of cards

As a veteran property journalist, I’ve seen some extraordinary things during the countless visits I’ve made to people’s homes. Moments of breathtaking stupidity, improbable ignorance, toe-curling embarrassment and – worst of all – the situations where the horror of what you’ve just seen is indelibly burned into your memory. I’m not talking about people’s choices of furniture or décor (give an infinite number of monkeys an infinite number of B&Q vouchers, and eventually one will choose a colour scheme that isn’t beige) but rather the art of viewings – showing prospective purchasers round your home. Sellers have lived in their property, decorated it, extended it, copulated in as many rooms as their partner would allow, and even learned how to walk down the hall at 3am without standing on the Squeaky Floorboard. Yet stick a “For Sale” sign in the front garden, and all that knowledge seemingly evaporates, taking common sense with it.

I could fill a book with examples of bad viewing techniques I’ve encountered over the last ten years, but a few will suffice, such as the £350,000 villa with a wasp infestation, where I was encouraged by the vendor to grind said creatures into the carpet. Few things will trump the rented million-pound townhouse where an SPL footballer was deliberately making everything as squalid as possible to deter anyone from making an offer to his landlord, although at least there was some low cunning on display among the soiled knickers. At the opposite end of the intelligence scale, I fondly recall the owner of a chic flat in Glasgow’s west end enthusiastically describing the 3am ram-raid on the shop downstairs the night before my visit, as if this impromptu street theatre was a selling point. My 22^nd birthday saw me in a filthy spider-infested barn, forced to climb a tottering staircase that splintered under my feet so I could “enjoy” the view of said barn from eight feet above ground level. And perhaps most infamously of all, I was once locked in a haunted French chateau by myself, while the 14 offspring of the senile octogenarian owner stood in a neighbouring outbuilding arguing about how high they could make the upset price. They were trying to prevent speculative visits from the local Mafia, who were determined to buy the chateau as a new headquarters. The price wasn’t the only thing that was upset that day.

Lest we forget, viewings are the bridge between the cliffs of property marketing and a completed sale. You can spend a fortune on refurbishment and decorating, advertising with the best solicitor, getting glossy brochures made up, and landscaping the front garden to give your home that much-needed kerb appeal. But if you watch your dog wipe its backside along the carpet and then inform the horrified viewers you’re leaving the flooring (I swear I’m not making this up), you’ll be talked about 25 years later in blog posts. Even if the lady in question had taken her excrement-smeared carpets with her, I don’t think my family would have gone back for a second viewing. In fact, when you think about that traumatic childhood experience, my subsequent career in property journalism seems quite perverse.

When the doorbell rings and the viewers pour forth, common sense appears to get abandoned on the doorstep. Some people simply walk around their house monosyllabically uttering nuggets like “bathroom” (yes, thanks, I’d never have guessed), a few masochistically describe the roof leaks and neighbour problems they’ve had over the years, while others simply seem terrified of the whole procedure. Maybe we need a reality TV show where an intrepid presenter teaches phobic homeowners how to conduct successful viewings. I’d certainly watch it. In fact, I could present it. Anyone got Channel Five’s number?