Weve sold you the house, but were entitled to stay for a week, the previous owners announced, quite cheerfully.
Back in 1975, we swapped the quiet fields of rural England for the less quiet, but considerably grayer, outskirts of Manchester. We bought a semi-detached at the citys edge, fully expecting a fresh startunaware that fate had in mind its own peculiar housewarming.
People in our old village always lent each other a handmy parents too, bless them. So naturally they agreed when the previous owners asked if they could stay a couple of weeks in what was technically now our living room, whilst they sorted out a few bits and bobs.
These folks also came with a truly monstrous dog, the sort whose main hobbies were glaring and occasionally eating your garden furniture. We werent going to inherit the beasthe barely acknowledged anyone existed besides his original humans, and even that was grudgingly at best. I still remember that hulking animal.
One week went by. Then two. Then three. And still, the sellers lounged about our sofa, dozing until tea time, barely leaving the house, and showing zero intention of, well, leaving. The worst part was how they acted like our names still werent on the mortgage, especially the matronly mother whod mastered the art of tutting and giving orders.
Dad and Mum kept reminding them about the arrangement, with the sort of forced politeness reserved for doctors waiting rooms. Each time, they promised theyd move out just after the weekend. Then another weekend rolled around.
The doglets call him Mr. Blackroamed wherever he pleased, without a hint of supervision. He relieved himself all over our newly-acquired flowerbeds, and frankly, we were too scared to mow the lawn. The beast lunged at everyone, and requests to keep him chained were met with smiles and the sound of him being let out the back as soon as Dad went to work or my siblings left for school.
Then, at last, Mr. Black (unknowingly) became our unlikely saviour.
My sister Alice got home from school one afternoon, and in a moment of distraction, pushed open the garden gate without checking. Immediately the dogbuilt roughly like a black bearknocked her flat. Miraculously, she escaped with only a torn coat and a bruised ego. The dog was finally restrained and chained up, and to top it off, they had the nerve to blame little Alice for arriving home too early.
That evening, Dad got home, andcoat barely offhed evidently had enough. Out marched the old lady, firmly shoved onto the pavement in her Sunday best. Behind her tumbled the daughter and her husband, chased by cushions, crockery, and mismatched lamp shades arcing over the fence into the nearest puddle.
As a parting shot, they tried to set Mr. Black on Dad, but the doghaving witnessed the whole spectaclewisely slunk off to hide behind the shed, wanting no further part in moving day theatrics.
Within the hour, every single one of their bits and bobs was outside, the gate snapped shut, and Mr. Blacknow a former residentwas left glumly watching from the other side of the fence. Welcome home, I suppose!
