That friday feeling

It was a late friday afternoon. I had an appointment to do a house survey. The address was a forewarning for an ominously large sounding property, The Old Manor Farmhouse. I had been denied the luxury of any prior research on the scale of the job due to the usual afterthought of a prospective purchaser,telephoning that very day, ready to sign up ,that a survey was now urgently required hence the criteria that it must be inspected, like yesterday. I had allowed up to two hours for the job but on turning into a long driveway and seeing the imposing mass of the house I knew that more like two to three hours minimum was required. I regretted not buying at least a Mars Bar from the last available village shop to sustain me until, evidently, a very late tea-time back home.  It was in the latter part of august so at least  there was no panicky feeling about losing natural light. In fact, I could have done with sunglasses for the glare from the bright white colourwashed render which covered the south and west sunlit elevations. In typical consideration of security I found the front door key, as indicated by the Estate Agents, under a brick near the bootscraper block. I hoped that the key access was imposed because of a very recent vacating by previous owner/occupiers who again, hopefully, had given the house a thorough emptying and cleaning. This was not the case. The untidy external condition did not bode well for what I would find internally. It hinted at abandonment or being surplus to the requirements of a farmer on moving to, perhaps, The New Manor Farmhouse. I spent a good proportion of the first hour inspecting the roof, multiple chimney stacks, rainwater system, walls, trying to identify if there was any form of a damp proof course, assessing if a mouse could get through the airbricks and with glee, poking my fingers through the paintwork disguising a lot of soft timber in the window and door frames. Tracing the route of drains led to an open stagant ditch so room  for improvement there.I found a long stick as a precaution against the attentions of yet more rodents as I entered the very ramshackle outbuildings which had seen much better and watertight days. The interior of the house was in the same category. I kept to the edge of most of the rooms to benefit from the support of the few sound floor joists left beneath very undulating carpets. The plasterwork had largely lost its hold onto the walls and ceilings leaving large exposed areas of underlying brick or willow latts. Traces of former grandeur could just be seen under gawdy 1970's paintwork or where what will have been substantial panelled internal doors had been flush boarded over. Kitchen and bathroom fittings will have not been out of place in the Hygena or Ideal Standard museums or in a skip. The first floor bedrooms continued with the authentic retro-chic decor under acres of firmly stuck down polystyrene tiles. Surprisingly there were no signs of water leaking through from above and checking my notes attributed this to clear indications of the main roof having been recently renewed in a sympathetic clay tile although already green and mossy to the surface. I clambered up into the loft. This was the final stage of my inspection. I was now firmly in that friday afternoon frame of mind which made it very tempting to rush and deviate from my usual meticulous regime of looking and writing down in an inspection system for properties devised and perfected over 20 years. On the one hand the loft was murky, even with my best torch at play across the rafters and into the dark corners. In direct competiton was the thought of having to drive home caked in dust and cobwebs. Conscience and laziness fought it out in my mind. In reasonable compromise I crawled up to the chimney breast which dominated the mid section of the roofspace and shone the light behind. That way I will have seen all parts of the loft area. My conscience had won through.The beam of light caught something and I stared aghast. Nestled at the base of the rafters, under the lowest slope of the roof was a bright, almost fluorescent blob. It was the size of a duvet cover, scrunched up ready to be bundled into a washing machine. Almost high viz orange in colour, organic and palpably moving. A beautiful growth of fruiting and virile dry rot. Around the main body of the growth was a fine reddish dust. The thing was certainly very recent but also at its most active stage sending out rusty-red spores to populate and, if left unchecked, decimate the structural elements of the roof which, frankly, following recent works had until then been the most promising part of the house. I gloated a bit on my resistance to sloth. The many photographs I then took of the seething mass would serve to compound the fear and suspicion of the house buying public of the little understood but devastingly efficient work of fungus in a confined space. I marvelled at the natural beauty of the thing as I left it to its work in the humid atmosphere of the roof eaves. My client would be impressed by my thoroughness but mortified by the estimates for what would be required to rid his prospective residence of the unwelcome visitor.