Does any of this ring a bell?
Vendor wants out. Instruction is to sell. Must go by end of this hour
Of course the vendor wants out. They’ve either a) found a gaping hole of mould in the bathroom floor, or b) need to get a foot more firmly on the next rung of the ladder. Or both.
The New Zealand open home is another rite of passage that we must all endure at both ends, whether buying or selling.
If you are the potential buyer you arrive, remove your shoes and immediately sign up to some kind of register for statistical purposes. Such fun already!
You waft in and out of the rooms equally with the smell of the Pam’s pre-cut loaf nestling in the oven and scent of the incredibly huge and strategic bunches of lillies placed everywhere. On the table, on the bench, even in the garage.
Towels in the shape of fantails lay at the foot of each bed, and you are genuinely impressed with the dust-free sills behind the Venetian blinds.
It took a lot to get the house to this point. Long-suffering dad and Pinterest mum hauled arse (and kept the kids on iPads all of Saturday) to sculpt the joint into a semblance of the ‘haven’ so gigantically advertised on the berm hoarding.
The advertisement is a living lie. Using extreme wide-angle lens and drone technology, the real estate firm has made your three-bedroom ex-state house into a sprawling manse.
The kitchen is now referred to as the scullery, and a few wooden spoons from 123 Dollar Store line the wall forlornly, repainted duck-egg blue.
The bathrooms also have abnormal epithets. “Grand second restroom” and “gold-lined fourth water closet”.
The back yard has been cleared of Barry the Spaniel’s extensive turds, and a cute play cottage has been constructed by wacky old dad very quickly, then crazed into a rustic folly by mum.
On auction day, the apex of the process, the auctioneer takes the stage. In a deep theatrically trained voice, he booms out platitudes, and the odd well-timed joke about the property bubble.
At 1.5 mill, it’s a steal. Sir — you need to get on that phone and tell your man offshore this game is on!
Bamboozled New Zealanders treat the spectacle as if they would a porno movie and walk away somewhat aroused yet unfulfilled.
The giant SOLD sticker is up, a lucky punter has got themselves a wee jewel to nestle inside their portfolio and it’s over.
The loaf of bread is thrown to the lawn and Barry is free to release his bowels on the clipped grounds once again.