Hospitality

I can't see. My specs are upstairs and I can't be bothered to go and get them.

Anyway, Her Royal Thighness and her friend should've landed by now I reckon. It's quite exciting, the prospect of seeing April again; she was the perfect hostess when I visited back in 2006. I was quite honoured to be allowed to live in the home of a true Indian Squaw, to share their cuisine (Kraft dinners); culture (cable TV) and general way of life. I felt particularly privileged to be asked to join the Cowichan People as an honorary member, although the initiation tests were a bit death-defying (waterskiing, clinging to a helicopter, water slides, river rafting).

But I survived all that and now I have the opportunity to reciprocate.

They get here on Wednesday morning and I've been thinking of things that I can do with them for the two days they're here. And that's probably why I'm so unprepared for their visit. We'll be meeting up with Piggy and Tazzy and have a wander round the City, so that'll be a laugh. I want April to get into an argument with somebody in Asda; you should hear the language that comes out.

Did you know that Kraft sell something called "Cheesy Pasta" here in the UK? Yes, the UK does indeed have its very own Kraft Dinner - get yourself to your local Netto, it's on offer!

So we'll be running around on Tuesday and getting the house fit for the visit. We're doing this quite a lot at the moment anyway; what with trying to sell it and having viewings and things. We had another viewing yesterday, 1pm. I spent 2 hours cleaning up, tidying it, making it spick and span. Then I had to take myself and the dog out so they didn't twig that a same sexed couple live here with their alternative lifestyle (with a name like Hussain, your own prejudices forewarn you of theirs). So I wandered the streets, waiting for Trump to text me to say they'd left. Forty minutes later, tired me, tired pooch, and a call from Trump to say it didn't look like they were turning up.

I was so fucking mad when I got back. Ignorant, rude bastards couldn't even be bothered to phone the estate agents to tell them they weren't going to bother. So in the tale of trying to sell Trump's house, we've had:

1. The buyer who put an offer in then came round without an appointment at 7.30pm one evening saying "I've put an offer in on the house, can I just have another look round because I want to compare it with another I've just seen". Basically, he was putting an offer on everything, then deciding which he wanted to buy afterwards.
2. The viewers who come in, walk around, don't say anything, then leave, without ever giving feedback.
3. The viewers who come round ask lots of questions, leave, but still don't leave feedback.
4. The buyers who say they have a mortgage in principle, put an offer in, then can't get a mortgage.
5. The fucking bastards who don't turn up after you've wasted the whole fucking morning on a Saturday.

And for most of these, I feel forced to leave the house before they get here because the people viewing would probably burn us alive because we're gay.

I'm going to start insisting that the estate agent asks for a £50 deposit, returnable when they've actually had the courtesy to view the property.

I blame Trump for buying a house round here in the first place. I'm wondering if I can burn it down.

I love the way they leave the free paper sticking out of the letter box. That's right, let all the fucking heat out of the house, don't mind me. Does anybody even ask for the free paper? Cocks. Oh, I see the estate agent has put the house ad in there again.

And then you saw me dead.