The Last Straw: Kirstie and Phil of Channel 4's Location, Location, Location always make it look effortless. At 8pm they find a man living in rented accommodation and persuade him that he needs to get a foot on the property ladder. By 8.12 they've shown him four dream homes, by the time the ad break is over he's made his choice, and by 8.22 he's moved in. Kirstie and Phil's first-time buyer has himself a home. Just like that, writes Mary Hannigan.
By 8.25 he has renovated his home, the job complete as Kirstie and Phil drop in for a cup of tea. He serves them freshly baked scones, smothered in jam made from the blueberries he found growing in his garden. Kirstie and Phil gaze at each other, tilt their heads, and beam broadly. Then they bid adieu, skip down the path as their first-time buyer waves from the door, a sheepdog at his side.
There are always beams on the ceilings and fireplaces in the bedrooms of the homes Kirstie and Phil find for their buyers. There's always a stream at the end of the garden, handy outhouses that can be converted in to craft workshops and a spare field for a horse, even if the buyer doesn't have a horse and doesn't intend acquiring one. When you look out the kitchen window all you can see is a meadow, but you're only a two minute walk from your office in inner city Birmingham. But that's Kirstie and Phil for you.
What they never tell you is that as soon as they leave their buyer is back on the phone - if he has a working phone. Back on hold. After a few weeks he's a broken man. And the sheepdog has moved in to kennels because he can't take the atmosphere in the house any more. His horse would move out too, if he had a horse.
In fairness to Kirstie and Phil, they may very well have devoted a recent programme to these post-house-buying difficulties, but to have seen it one would have needed a connected telly.
"I've come to disconnect you," he said.
"No, no, it's already disconnected - I need to be reconnected." "This is 964E Clinton Morrison Boulevard?" "Yeah." "Well, I have to disconnect you." "No, no, I need to be reconnected." "Well, I could do that for you." "Could you?" "I could, but I can't - 'cos it says here I've to disconnect you." He climbs the ladder and declares: "You're already disconnected!" And as he bids adieu, skipping down the path, he says, "Give 'em a ring".
"All our operators are busy at the moment, please hold." Ding dong. Hang up.
"You're here for the . . .?" "Yep." So you show him the malfunctioning boiler. "It's a very nice boiler, love, but I'm here to put up your blinds." He puts them up but they're not long enough. And as he bids adieu, he says, "Give them a ring".
"All our operators are busy at the moment, please hold." Ding dong. Hang up.
YOU WAIT SEVEN weeks and then they all arrive together, the queue of vans outside resembling rush hour at the Westlink toll plaza. They have to wait their turn because there isn't enough room in the house for all their tool boxes. But you never, ever have the broadband man wait in the same room as the monitored house alarm man because they're incompatible and will only set each other off. Or so they say. They haven't actually arrived yet.
"Ah! You're delivering my desk! So you found the lost order?" "No love, I'm putting in your extra phone connection." "Okay. Thanks. In here." "Ah you'd be mad to put a phone in the hot press, love." "That's the master bedroom." "You're jok . . . right."
Ding dong.
"Brilliant, you're the broadband man?" "You're having a laugh love, you'll be lucky if he's here before Christmas - 2012. I'm delivering your bed." "Right." And then he brings in 18 boxes and a sack of nuts and bolts, and turns to leave. "Eh?" As he bids adieu, skipping down the path, he says, "I know, I know, I know: it was assembled when you saw it."
Ring, ring. "All our operators are busy at the moment, please hold . . . "
So you ring that nice telephone man instead, the automated fella, because you need your new account number to give to the broadband man who promises again he'll turn up in 10-14 working months, eh, days. The telephone man has no problem giving you your new account number, but he needs your account number before he can give it to you.
Ring, ring. "All our operators are busy at the moment, please hold." You finally get through to the bank.
"Someone's stolen my money! My account is empty! Worse! It's enormously overdrawn!" "Ah no, that's just your first mortgage repayment love."
A leaflet drops through the letter box. "Are you interested in selling your home? We have buyers lined up!" So you ring them. "All our operators are busy at the moment, please hold . . . "
Kirstie and Phil never said it would be like this.