There are a lot of things to love and hate about my job. We deal with so many people that you quickly become immune to a lot of the drama that goes on around you. Every once in awhile (and twice this weekend, thanks for that God) you get some people which really stick with you.
Like the little old lady, practically deaf, very arthritic and totally in love with a house we are selling. Two offers later she is at her maximum bid and every time I speak to her she tells me a little bit more about her life, apologising (completely unnecessarily) profusely for being elderly and deaf. The whole time we are talking I am silently begging for her not to tell me about her three legged cat with no eyes or fur because my heart only has enough room for three more caring moments this century and she is hogging THEM ALL.
Every time I speak to her I get a little bit more desperate for this deal to go through. To the point where I am practically pacing up and down the office knitting jumpers for her fur less cat. Next up is crafting it a peg leg from spare chopsticks. My middle name is not MacGyver for nothing.
Ok, I am kidding about MacGyver and the hairless cat, but she might as well have one because I am close to peaking in terms of emotional investment and so she may as well go and tip me over the edge, then I can explode and not have to deal with this odd emotion ever again.

Or another old couple, (do you see a theme here?), both in their late 80s, wife just out of hospital, and ready to exchange contracts on another house we are selling. Sadly these people are being totally normal and waiting for the structural survey to come back before sinking their savings into this house. This displeases the vendors greatly and I have lost count of the number of times one of us has answered the phone to a tirade of abuse from them because it is taking a bit of time. Funnily enough this is actually one of the quicker sales to go through so far. Property selling..it takes this thing called time yo.

Sadly I am only allowed to be polite and courteous at all times, but it still doesn’t stop me wishing for some very obscure and painful jungle disease to fall upon them. Preferably something that involves flesh eating, or larvae to grow in their brain. Or maybe I should be nice and wish for someone to remove that large stick from their arse so that they can then claim to be humans and not have Satan jump up and laugh in their face before sending them down to purgatory to perform the Soulja Boy dance from now until eternity, actually change that to when Britney gets sane, I think eternity has better odds.