I Blame My Mother…

For that rising dread and adrenalin rush that overtakes as I open the letter from the real estate and see the words “Routine Inspection”.

It conjures up mental images of me running about like a headless chook, ensuring the house is adequately scrubbed, polished, vacuumed, tidied and washed so that when the mean old property manager comes along with her white glove and clipboard folder so she can come up with reasons that I shouldn’t rent my home anymore.

Of course, our property manager isn’t actually mean, and she doesn’t wear a white glove. And as far as I know she doesn’t want me to move.

It’s just that when my mum got one of those letters when we were kids, we knew that’s what was coming. We knew mum held her breath until after the property manager walked back out the door. And everything had to be S.P.O.T.L.E.S.S. Including the insides of our cupboard. I now know that they’re aren’t actually allowed to look inside your cupboards, but I’m sure that little tidbit was handy for mum to keep from us at the time.

Yes. Today was our house inspection. And we did the scrubbing and cleaning. I can’t help it. The property manager turned up while Pete was trying to vacuum under our bed (hehe). And it was a he this time. A new guy. He didn’t even know about the front-door entrance of our house (it’s on another street from our roller door and the entries of the other units). So he knocked on our bedroom window. I like to think he giggled when he saw Pete’s legs sticking out from under the bed.

Anyway, he came through, and left within about 2 minutes. Possibly less. He didn’t look at anything apart from the major leak in our bathroom ceiling, and to tick off that we had a smoke alarm.

*sigh* all that scrubbing!

I’m consoling myself with the thought of how nice it will be to come home to a spic and span and shiny house next week!

Thanks mum, hehe.

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