The Guardian 'Space' magazine: May 98

Oddly enough, Alastair, the numero uno negotiator at estate agent's Pratt & Idiot, was about to slope off to a chum's wedding when a senior seafaring citizen walked in. At least Alastair, sharp as ever, could tell he was some sort of mariner from the fact that he wore a peaked cap, a blue reefer jacket and had a large brass telescope tucked under one arm.

A couple of the other negotiators were free, if you don't count filling in the "O's" in Property News, and Alastair indicated them with his mobile. But the old boy steered straight towards him, fixed him with a glittering eye and laid a hand like a long-dead starfish on his Armani-style jacket sleeve.

"I am an ancient mariner," he said, "and I have a house to sell. But give not up the day job yet - It is a house from Hell. Some years ago while still at sea I had problems with a bird," (here Alastair thrice shook his head, 'twas a tale he'd oft times heard).

"No, nothing like that" the seaman said, "I shot an albatross, a real bad move which, in property terms, can lead to grievous loss. Though house prices rise, my dwelling falls about my tortured ears. If something can go wrong it will and it's been like that for years. An albatross that's taken can give your very soul dry rot. Get your home address in that bird's black books and well, basically, that's your lot. I've water, water everywhere yet still the floorboards shrink. There's fungus in the header tank, a blockage in the sink. The joists they creak, the rafters sag, the plaster all is blown. I have to sell, no longer can I manage on my own." He knelt and flung his arms around the negotiator's knees: "Please rid me of this cursed place and put my poor soul at ease." The wedding guest tapped his fake Rolex watch and once more shook his head: "It isn't one for us I fear. Try a house auction instead."