Never trust a lady

The estate agent was hopelessly late — stuck in traffic, she said — so I gave the couple the tour of our home instead. It was clear that they had no intention of buying: they lived nearby and were just being nosy. What’s more, I caught them exchanging superior glances, first at the framed portrait of Her Majesty the Queen, and again at the stuffed cuckoo at the top of the stairs. He was embarrassed at being caught out; she was shameless and haughty. I whipped them around in record time.

On their way out, they paused in the conservatory to pass a patronising comment on the bougainvillea and the view of the bay. As we looked, two young coastal-path walkers came along the road, which runs along the front of the house. It was difficult to tell whether they were male and female, two females, or two males, until they drew level, when it became clear that they were two crop-haired young women whose aim was perhaps to appear as masculine as possible.