So I haven’t been around much aside from bitching about public transport via social media.
I worked nights the whole bank holiday weekend, then got up on Monday afternoon and proceeded to clean the house from top to bottom in preparation for our property inspection.
For the uninitiated, this is when either your landlord, or the agency who manages the property, comes around to inspect the place.
I totally get why they need to do it and I do realise that they’re mainly just checking you haven’t turned the place into a meth lab, or brothel, or maybe breeding pygmy goats in the kitchen, or perhaps just burnt the place to the ground and ran away (although, in which case, why in the hell would you still be paying rent on it?!) but even though I know that’s why they’re doing it, there’s just something about having a total stranger come for a snoop around your home that makes me feel like I’m being judged.
So even though we maintain a fairly lax but healthy level of cleanliness most of the time anyway, those 48 hours before the inspection are when we raise the bar. I even lifted actual things and dusted under them.
I’ve had a stinking cold since Sunday so cleaning the bathroom with my nose dripping wasn’t exactly high jinks but I did it.
I didn’t clean the oven because by the time we’d done all the other stuff the idea of scrubbing away charred food with toxic chemicals whilst wearing rubber gloves and sneezing my brains out all over the shiny new surfaces made me feel like drinking the oven cleaner, never mind anything else.
Tuesday morning, 11.30, one of the guys from the letting agents came along. Toby was in the middle of one of the worst tantrums he’s ever had. He’d thrown a toy at my head because I said he had to share with Rudy, and then screamed at me when I’d told him we don’t throw things. So he’d been sent to calm down. Which had had the exact opposite effect (welcome to parenthood!) He was screeching like I was removing his toenails with pliers when the guy knocked on the door and when I opened it he looked pretty scared I can tell you.
He then popped his head in each of the rooms, including the one with the wailing child, took some photos, asked if we had permission for the dog, like you could sneak this in under the radar:
And then off he went. I felt like calling him back in and asking him if he’d like to run his fingers along the shelves and see exactly how ZERO dust he’d find, but then I realised he’d probably get half way across the living room floor and trip on one of the thirty toys spread across it and end up injuring his back and there goes our unblemished tenancy record. So I let him go, and resolved to freak out less when our next inspection comes up in another three months. But of course I won’t…Maybe next time I’ll even clean the oven…