The Landlady takes a cross-country trip

I am writing this column on a very long train journey to Stoke-on-Trent. I have managed to book a bargain return ticket for the unbelievable price of £13.30. This works out at a staggering half-a-pence per mile. It is, however, a very convoluted route, which involves changing at Clapham and getting on a train that goes via Shepherd’s Bush to Milton Keynes Central.

The train also runs through and stops at the charmingly named Bletchley, which The Big Daughter and I have decided is the most ugly place name in the entire United Kingdom, sounding somewhat like a cross between ‘blotch’ and ‘belch’, neither of which are very evocative of pleasant things. As a joke, I always text The Big Daughter as we shudder to a halt at Bletchley, just to make her feel my pain and she usually replies with some sarcastic comment.

I am going to Stoke in order to contribute to the continuing saga which is the sale of my late mother’s house. Needless to say, it has still not sold and it has taken seven long months in order to convince my cousin – who is the executor of the will – that we should rent it out until the market improves. I think my mother chose him as executor because he is the only member of our family who has a university degree. As we all know, this does not mean a thing in this day and age, apart from you might have a large debt that you wish to pay off.

“I have no idea if my cousin is homophobic”

I am sure that my cousin is very good at his job in an academic capacity, but as far as practicalities and savvy go, he is the slowest person in the world and has no grasp on the property market whatsoever. As you can imagine, this is highly frustrating for me, as I’ve been in the property business since the ’90s and there’s not much I don’t know about the horrors of buying, selling and renting.
Well, after an uphill struggle, we have a couple who wish to rent out the house with, joy of joys, the intention of buying it after a couple of years. The estate agent called me – as my cousin, who is usually deep in the throes of academia, never, ever picks up the phone or returns calls.

There was a very awkward conversation between myself and the estate agent, who informed me in very hushed tones that the ‘couple’ were both women, who were in fact a ‘married couple’. I wanted to tell the estate agent that I live in Brighton, where ‘two women’ or ‘two men’ who are in fact ‘a couple’ is more common than the hetero variety. I have no idea if my cousin is homophobic and I am hoping he doesn’t want to banish them all to Bletchley.