Pique N' Your Interest 

An unusual welcome to our new neighbourhood

We had been in our new house for less than a week when the Welcome Wagon arrived.

That was just long enough that our little condo was starting to feel really cozy and homey. And fortunately, it was not so long that we were getting sick of the wood panel walls, the over-powering use of white stucco on the ceilings and the walls, and the mismatch patterned linoleum on the floors.

Sure, it needed work but this was our home, the fruit of two long years spent working weekends and evenings and scraping together every last dollar and cent. It was ours and we loved it in spite of its flaws. In fact, we considered it palatial compared our small basement nook, which we called home for two years.

But, being a first time homeowner, I had no idea that there was an official Welcome Wagon in Whistler, to greet us into the new neighbourhood. More importantly, I had no idea the Welcome Wagon would arrive at four in the morning, wasted and buck-naked. But it did.

There’s nothing quite like being woken up in the dead of night with someone pounding on the front door. It’s one of those noises that jolts you out of sleep, wide-eyed and alert with heart pounding and adrenaline pumping.

The knocking, and by "knocking" I mean the noise that results from putting the full force of your shoulder into the front door much like a battering ram, would not let up.

I imagined my last moments on earth. Surely a gang of hoodlums would be breaking down the front door within the minute and my boyfriend and I would be murdered in our bed in our new house. What a way to go.

When the door held fast for another minute he decided we should investigate. Personally I would have preferred to cower under the covers but it sounded as though the door was about to come off its hinges at any moment. Better to face our fears.

Heading down the stairs we could now make out a voice amid the din.

"Let me in my house," cried a girl over and over again.

But this was our house. Wasn’t it? Surely all those endless signatures at the lawyers’ office proved this was our house. Surely our empty bank account was even further proof. Surely we did not imagine the whole transaction.

Still, there was a desperation in her voice. She seemed so utterly convinced that we had locked her out of her house.

What if the previous owners forgot to tell their daughter that the deal was sealed less than a week ago?

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