The agent was fabulous--she had a terribly suspicious mind, which I approve of greatly in an agent as long as they're working for me (i.e. "What is this new wallpaper hiding? It's a lousy job, and nobody hangs wallpaper right before they move unless they're trying to hide something. AHA! Feel this! There's a crack behind here!")
The houses varied. We looked at six, some of which were regrettable, some of which were okay but didn't grab us. The one we had hopes for had a really neat design, a huge yard, and so many structural problems in the roof (including massive squirrel holes that you just KNOW means that the area between roof and ceiling is carrying a half-ton of stored acorns) that there was no way--we can fix anything that requires paint and tile and sweat, but once the ceilings start cracking, that's out of our league. But tomorrow is another day, there are more houses to be looked at and more comin' up all the time, and I didn't really expect to find a place the first day out anyway.
James, meanwhile, is now in desperate pain, his foot is a bit swollen, and we're planning on taking him in to the doctor tomorrow--our insurance's 24-hour nurse line says either severe sprain or a fracture. He still wants to look at houses tomorrow afternoon. I suspect this will not be happening. James occasionally reveals himself as one of those people who, having accidentally cut their arm off with a chainsaw, walks ten miles out of the woods to help, fighting off bears with the severed limb and thinking of geeky new ways to mod their stump. Me, I get a stubbed toe, I retire to the couch with a comfort book and send out for pudding.