Looking for a House

Many buildings we saw, but only the one was worthy of being My House. Some were simply rubbish - small, cigarette-stained, squashed against a regional power transformer - but many others were oh just delightful, exquisitely finished, well appointed, in a good position, and with a trim neat garden and no problems with the plumbing. But they were not for me. They made me claustrophobic, or a window-less brick wall angered me, or the space inside was large but laid out long like a prison hallway.

Some months into the search, the people helping us were losing patience with me. Unrealistic standards, they assumed I had. Larger garden? This is not Australia. Too neat a layout? Not enough windows? It didn't make sense to them.

When we found the one I wanted, those people were surprised, and if they hadn't been so relieved that perhaps the infernal search and vague pernicketry might finally be at an end, they may have expressed concern, tried to convince us otherwise: we'd certainly seen buildings that they'd have preferred for themselves.

Lucky that we all have different tastes. Imagine if we all wanted the same thing.