Dodging the smelly bullet
Some years ago I was moving house. The process had been a difficult one, partly because of Mrs Moon Monkey's insistence on moving at the same time as she was due to give birth (I believe they call it "nesting", but another name would be "adding a metric fucktonne of stress"), partly due to weird luck (the freeholder for the flat we were selling decided to drop dead on the day we were to exchange contracts), but mostly because the people buying the flat were irritating shits who complained about everything and attempted to use every possible excuse to get the price down.

Eventually, with the price now many thousands under the original agreement, we stumbled through the process and were all set to move. Even this last barrier was fraught, as The Shits suddenly announced on the day of completion that they didn't actually have the deposit they'd agreed to pay. Now THAT took some frantic sorting out!

But we got there. We were living in a cave in the piles of boxes containing our worldly possessions, waiting for the actual moving day. And then, without warning, The Stench arrived.

A foul miasma from the depths of the Earth wafted up from the floor, like something had crawled up Satan's arse and died. Dear god, it was rank; it could strip the varnish from the woodwork and bubble the enamel on the fridge. I learned several new forrin swearwords from my mother-in-law, who was staying to help with the new arrival. But weirdly, it came and went; hours would go by with nothing, then suddenly we were living in the lowest pit of Hades and inhaling perdition's putrid pumpings.

So what to do? Panic set in as all possible sources were checked and eliminated. Then we realised something wonderful: having completed the sale, this was now Somebody Else's Problem! The annoying couple who had screwed us out of every possible penny, and caused untold extra stress, were now the legal owners - of both the house and The Stench!

So, with a certain amount of guilt, we said nothing and disappeared into the night. I heard from the neighbours that they had to have the floor taken up and excavated in every single room of the flat, to locate the source: a sewer pipe (running under, but not related to, the flat) had cracked. Serves the fuckers right.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Mon 20 Jan 2014, 10:43, 1 reply)

Speaking as someone who
on Friday pulled out of a sale to two dickheads who agreed to buy my house in SEPTEMBER and were still dicking about asking questions last week, I approve of this post.

I can however placate myself with the knowledge that as first time buyers in a busy market, they have fucked themselves to the tune of about 25 grand.
(username failed moderation, Mon 20 Jan 2014, 12:19, closed)