So I knocked on the door. It was a lovely century-old red-brick home in an affluent suburb. A house was on the market a few doors down see, and I'd used what we called 3-3-6 prospecting. It's a fact I can verify, having sold dozens of homes this way. The moment a house comes on the market in any given street, the probability of at least 2-3 others entering the market on either side or across the street is without exception, 100%.

The process involved knocking on the doors of the three houses on either side of the one on the market and the six across from it. It's like an infection spreads in the street. Or, since most moves are instigated by the wife/female partner, they use the "John and Mary are moving to a better suburb/better house, I think it's time we did too," nag routine. Hear that a few dozen times when you're Peter or Bob and sure enough, you're gonna move and a For Sale board is going to go up!

Anyway, a woman in her mid-forties opened the door. I introduced myself and then stood chatting for a couple of minutes on the front porch. The door stood wide open and I could see a short corridor, doors on either side, and part of a kitchen/living area beyond.

She was very nice, polite and seemingly interested in what I was saying. I was going to sell this house! I reached for my diary, intending to book a listing appointment further in the week. I was also mentally calculating my bonus, as the house was worth well over a million dollars.

That's when a naked man came out of one of the side doors and headed for the kitchen. I caught a brief side profile (slight paunch, some saggy bits) and then an uninterrupted view of his retreating backside. Jiggling...

Yeah, how do you keep a straight face? I managed it, face down in my diary. Just as I'd finished writing though, my hand extended with a business card, he emerged again, a shower cap (men wear shower caps?) on his head and yes, I had the uninterrupted frontal view this time. It was morning and Jeff must have woken up, heading for the shower. He was excited that it was morning.

There was no disguising it second time around. I don't know what my expression showed, (I was rummaging through my brain for an apology or some way to undo what I had seen) but the wife, after a quick look back said, "Oh, that's my husband, Jeff. You'll meet him on Thursday." I dry-swallowed the impulse to say, "Thanks but I've already had the pleasure!"

No apology, no embarrassment on her part. Jeff may as well have been wearing a business suit and tie. Okay, I thought, it was an unfortunate incident. I had arrived unannounced, after all.

Thursday, I was ringing the doorbell again. Lilly, the wife answered and invited me in. Jeff was shirtless, (it was summer) busying himself behind the high kitchen counter. He was making coffee, popping the filter in as I was led to the sofa.

I sat. Busied myself getting some paperwork out, waiting for Jeff to join us with the coffee. Jeff joined us. Stark naked, carrying a tray with three mugs and a dish of assorted biscuits.

Sitting as I was, my eyes were level with... anyway; Jeff was not excited to see me, a fact I was extremely grateful to see. Or should I have been offended?

Fact: Jeff was a nature-loving nudist and his wife had no problem with it.

I tried. I did. It would have helped if he'd sat in an armchair to the side, maybe crossed his legs or decided to read the morning paper laid out on the coffee-table. But no. Jeff sat next to his wife on the sofa opposite mine. Every time I looked at her, I saw him. All of him.

I did in the end ask Jeff to put some pants on and he obliged, after lecturing me on my prudishness and how if God had intended for us to be wearing clothes we'd be born in them? (What is it with me and men without pants?)

Every time I had to bring people through, I had to send poor Jeff away. Over the few weeks, I saw more of him than I could ever un-see. In the end, well, I just... went along with it... Each to their own, right?