Poor Las Molieres.

There she was, decked out in her summer finery, winsomely blonde in the sunshine, and all the woman could say was that she obviously had a water problem.

If houses had ears I'd have covered them up at that point. Suddenly I'd become fiercely protective of my home and bristled somewhat at the estate agent's every derogatory comment, even if I agreed with them all.

"The floors slope a lot," said the agent, scribbling in her notebook.

"My visitors tell me that's part of its charm," I replied.

"Cosy," was all she could say about my admittedly smallish sitting room, totally ignoring the soaring beamed ceiling overlooked by a little wrought-iron balcony.

Sniffing the air like a chasse hound for a whiff of damp, she confided that all buyers were terrified of damp or perceived water penetration problems. (With what I'd sprayed around before she arrived, my buyers would think my walls were soaking up Chanel No 5.) It wasn't the time to describe the floods that had recently swept through the kitchen.

We moved on to my bedroom and admittedly basic bathroom. The estate agent stood at the door-less entrance and could find nothing to say. I said it for her: "Well, at least it's white."

"I think most buyers would put in new bathrooms and a new kitchen," she finally said, exiting swiftly to study the roof.

"So would I if I had any money," I muttered to myself.

Well, it was my own fault. I'd told her that I wanted to be realistic about what I could sell for; that I'd tracked the downward trajectory of the houses on her website, knew how many were on the market and was aware buyers were in short supply for houses in the mid-value range. The figure she came up with was €2000 less than I'd paid for the house before I spent around €30,000 on cosmetic work and book casing. But because I bought when a pound was worth €1.47, I could afford to take the drop and indeed would come out in actual profit.

"That would be with fees included," she added.

Ah. Her fees were 6%, possibly the lowest in the region, where fees can go as high as 10%. But it would still take a big chunk of money off the final figure. People often justify estate agents' charges here on the basis that they don't have high turnovers, but I find that a ridiculous argument.

"Of course," she said, "the buyers pay, not you."

Technically, perhaps, but if it's coming off my price then essentially I'm paying. Plus there are numerous reports to be paid for involving energy, termites, asbestos and lead.

Knowing my unpredictability, or rather perversity, I asked her if what I'd read was true; that if she got an offer at the price advertised and I had changed my mind on selling, I was legally obliged to give her the 6% commission she'd lost.

She seemed a touch uncomfortable at that point. "Yes, that's correct but it's never happened. At the bottom of the mandate you sign with us to sell your house there is a slip which you must send back with 14 days notice of ending our arrangement. Providing, of course, that there is not already an offer."

Pretty outrageous, no?

In Scotland you do not have to accept any offer if you decide not to. Yes, if you end the agreement you still pay for all your advertising and brochures, but you don't pay a fee of any kind and the average commission is 1.5%.

Here, the advertising is on the agent's own website: no brochures are produced and many of the agents are almost reluctant to push for a sale.

This woman, though, has an excellent reputation so that might not be a problem – me taking potential buyers around and selling them "a lifestyle" would. The agent diligently walks them through each room and usually says little more than the blindingly obvious, for instance: "This is the kitchen."

One can also sign up with several agents and choose to seek a different price through each. It's the buyer's tough luck if they buy at the higher price.

At least I now have an idea of what I'd end up working with. Naturally the price might not be reached or it could languish on the market for years, not months.

"Where do you plan to go next?" the estate agent asked.

"Plan?" I replied. "Now, that's the problem. I have no plans; no sensible ones anyway and any that do come to mind can change within a day.

"And then I think – on a hot summer's day like today – do I really want to sell? Even though I know this place isn't good for me, mentally or physically.

"I'm just waiting for Godot."

I said I'd phone with my decision. So far I haven't gone through with it. The plain truth is I couldn't take Portia away from here. I want her to live out what's left of her life in contented freedom.

If one of us is happy then so be it for now.

cookfidelma@hotmail.com