My sister is parked in the
street opposite the house. My good woman and I pull up on the stroke of 10:30.
The auction is at 11. We get out of our cars and greet in the middle of the
street. My good woman and my sister hug and touch cheeks. I have never hugged
my sister in my whole entire life. My family doesn’t do this stuff.
My sister has a qualification
of some sort in interior design. Her husband lectures in architecture at a
large TAFE college. They love renovating houses: he does the macro and she the
micro. On Thursday while I’m working in Newcastle, my sister drives from
Emerald to Carnegie to look at the outside of this house.
She sends a text message to
express her concern. The train line is too close. The townhouse going up next
door will overshadow the house on the west side. She apologises for her doom
and gloom. Don’t rush in, she says. The upside is that it looks sound and would
tart up nicely. Today my sister gets to look inside.
We are the first potential
buyers here this morning. We are here to bid, to buy this house if we can. We
have been to the bank; we know our limit. We move through the rooms. Soon we
are jostling our way against a tide of possible competitors. My sister seems
more positive about the inside. My good woman is quiet, nervous. I am too.
Outside a single speaker is
propped on the nature strip. A red auction flag billows in the wind. Cars are
moved from in front of the house and 20 or so people stand under trees and
across the street in the biting wind. Umbrellas go up; the rain threatens but
never quite happens.
The auctioneer’s spiel is patently
ridiculous, urging us to “unpack our lifestyle” in this “sensationally
renovated” residence. I’d be laughing hysterically were I not about to bid for
the place.
He calls for an opening bid, meets
silence. He names a starting price: $480k. Someone under the tree beside him
nods. The second bidder is a rotund bloke behind and to my left. He has three
people with him. I’ve already guessed he will be our opponent. The price goes
up to five-something. The first bidder declines further bids. The auctioneer
gets to “third and final time”. I raise a finger.
Now the second bidder and I
dook it out by fives and two and a halves. By the time we pass $550 he knows I
mean business. There are no other bidders. Two more times the auctioneer gets
to third and final time. I look at my good woman, up into a tree, but never at
the other bidder.
I hold the bid. He is offered a
last chance to bid, declines. This third-and-final-time seems to last forever,
then “SOLD!” says the auctioneer. My good woman, my sister and I group hug. The
other bidder comes to shake my hand. The auctioneer spins the red flag into a
rope and ties a knot in it. The crowd disperses, disappears.
We go inside to sign contracts.
I can’t till I’ve had a piss. The agent tells me I’ve earned one. We emerge 20
minutes later and I peel the back off a red SOLD sticker, press it onto the For
Sale sign. My sister goes home; my good woman and I leave to take a victory
walk among the Carnegie shops on Koornang Road.
My good woman and I own a small
art deco semi-detached house in a quiet street—apart from the trains—in a
sought-after south-eastern suburb.
Rock on.
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