Finding yourself in a real life dismal irish novel

We've all read them: I was born poor, raised miserable, I didn't enjoy my life and then I died. Here are a few boring anecdotes from the protagonist's life.

I went to see a house with Sinéad the other day, and unwittingly became a character in a rather creepy irish novel.

The house was a small stone cottage on about 1 acre. An offer was in for €280,000. I said "no" from the outside. If I thought the outside was bad, the inside was worse.

Before we went in, another couple viewing the place came out and gave us "the eyes". I think they were trying to convey the horror within.

Two men were crammed in the kitchen with a baby, we entered with estate agent and shook their hands. They told us the kitchen was five years old, this estimate was presumably in dog years.

We saw the rest of the cottage in three minutes. In the sitting room cum corridor/bedroom ante-chamber the women of the house was standing by the fireplace smoking a fag. She told us this little story:

"See this fireplace? Original. My father built it with his own hands. Fourteen years dead today. I remember it. It's my mother's birthday. I have a candle lighting for him here."

We left, and shall not be putting in an offer.