Inexplicably, some years ago, we decided to sell our new(ish) house and purchase a 50 year old
shitbox “renovator’s delight”.
It was the quintessential “worst house in best street”. The market was high, we were starting to panic and all five of us (including a teething 6-month-old baby) were bunking with our in-laws. It’s fair to say I wasn’t exactly thinking straight.
That’s not to say I didn’t do my research. I dragged 3 children through countless homes in 35 degree heat with no air-conditioning in the car, and I had inspected house after house after shitting house, yet all of them felt, somehow, wrong. I was running out of patience and, to be honest, the will to live.
That’s the only feasible reason why we purchased what we eventually dubbed ‘The Money Pit’.
It was a deceased estate, and Hazel - the 80-year-old former owner - had lived a good life of orange shagpile carpet, lead-based paint, cleverly concealed shower leaks. She'd then carked it in the house somewhere.
I wholeheartedly believe she was still in that house, roaming around being a pain in our collective arses, until the day we sold it.