I thought selling my Edinburgh property would be easy, but it's not

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I recently had my offer accepted on a property, and my beloved flat has gone on the market.

There was hardly any time to celebrate finding our dream home. We’re part of a chain now and don’t want to be the missing link.

Despite the pressure, I had been naively looking forward to this bit of the process, though there have been a few rookie errors.

It was probably a mistake going on before the Easter break, just when our estate agent took a three day out-of-office hiatus, and a swathe of potential buyers also bogged off on holiday.

Anyway, we still wedged in about a dozen or so viewers, over the first week.

We have studiously followed the imaginary Flat Selling for Dummies handbook.

I guess everyone who is about to flog their property also gets sent an estate agent video, demonstrating how to prepare your home for marketing. We did, and after following orders, the photos and video were taken.

Since then, we’ve tried to keep it as immaculate, for when viewers come over. This is difficult for us. In real life, he’s messy but clean, and I’m tidy but unclean.

We’ve had to meet somewhere in the middle.

Then there are the essential home sale primps. That has meant plumping the cushions and turning on every light - they tell you to do this, because viewers are like moths - as well as hiding the forbidden remote controls and Wi-Fi dingly dangly flashy boxes.

Whenever potential buyers come over, we’ve also switched the heating on, even though it’s roasting outside.

I worried that someone might think I was trying to hide unpleasant pongs, but on viewings I have been lighting my finest Diptyque scented candles. These are the ones that I’ve managed to eke out for about 15 years, because they’re reserved for special occasions.

All other products and unguents have been tucked away, apart from the Laura Thomas Co and Aesop ones, which are displayed by our sinks as if they were priceless artifacts.

Secretly, they are long finished, and I have refilled the bottles with Lidl’s finest dupes.

We’re not going as far as making our flat smell like coffee or baking bread. Those tricks are too hackneyed.

However, it has been thoroughly decluttered. No towels, including the tea ones, are allowed to be on display. We wouldn’t want to give any potential buyers the dreaded ick.

Our cupboards should have a sign saying avalanche risk on the outside, as they are stuffed to the gunnels, and we’re using the car, the oven and dishwasher as storage units.

Oh, and I’ve been in charge of fresh flowers. Since it’s tulip season, I invested in the ones that are striped like raspberry ripple ice-cream.

In a way, this process has been like speed dating. There have been so many interesting people that I’ve clicked with. These have included a few relocators from Canada, and others moving up here from Durham and Watford.

Most are retirees, looking to downsize from a house to a flat. We’ve only had one young family, with a baby who cried inconsolably when her dad went down to check out our cellar. I think Junior vetoed the move.

I have seen couples, when you can tell one of them loves the flat, but the other doesn’t. The woman who adores it, the man who was promised a workshop, which we don’t have.

I wonder about their post-viewing conversations. Who wins?

However, as well as the interesting and pleasant folk - almost everyone, and ALL of them have asked if they should take their shoes off, when coming inside - there have been the rude ones.

My sister reminded me of the time when she sold her house, and she had one viewer who was extremely suggestive and refused to leave, while she was showing him round solo.

Her reminder has also made me remember Suzy Lamplugh - the estate agent who went missing in the Eighties, after attending a viewing with a man who called himself Mr Kipper.

Thankfully, there’s been nobody intimidating, but I have told my other half that I won’t be doing viewings alone.

We may have dodged nefarious behaviour, but not general bad manners. We have had a couple of scheduled early morning viewers, who cancelled with no time to spare.

Both times, we were up at the crack of dawn, cleaning and lighting those blimmin’ candles. It feels like you’re preparing to go on stage - panstick on and showtime! Give them the old razzle dazzle. Then you have the adrenaline comedown, when they say they’re not coming. I cried at the second one. They’ve got nothing to lose. You do.

The excuses were lame. For example, one emailed the estate agent to say that they couldn’t come because they were no longer in Edinburgh.

Righty-ho. Maybe they’d been at a stag do the night before, and had woken in the morning and found themselves naked and handcuffed to railings in Birmingham.

Another cancelled last minute, then, a few days later, texted me to say they were nearby and could they view the flat, like, NOW. I replied, and said I’d be back in 15 minutes, dashed home, tidied, put the lights on, texted them three times and was thoroughly ghosted. See, this is like being back on the dating scene.

The thing that has stressed me out most about viewings, is how many people seem to be doing it for funsies. Just to see what’s out there. It’s part of a lovely day out and almost everyone who’s come round, thus far, isn’t close to selling their property or actually moving anywhere.

There is so much that is beyond our control. We just need the right people to find us.

Until then, we just have to smile and hide the tea towels.

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