A second weekend checking out the same suburb, the same home for sale. Just to be sure. We arrive early, so walk up the street and around. 3 kids come out of a house - can't be more than about 10 - and one of the girls says "she's lying about her weight. she can't be less than twenty-eight." - and I wonder at the precise age when I used to hear my friends talking about weight. It certainly wasn't 10.
Inside the home, carefully arranged to "look nice" for the public, teddy bears sit in a row across a bright purple bedspread. Downstairs, I notice a copy of FHM in the corner, next to a "how to get rich" book and a John Farnham CD. It's not as showy as another place, nearby, which was more expensive and had a flat screen TV in the wall, playing "chill out" music as people gingerly stepped through a place they knew they couldn't afford.