Highway To Hell - Friday

Ship up at a town house, three storeys of confused accommodation with the lower level reserved for storage and lodgers. I lived in a 1970s built monstrosity many years ago, renting with a terminally slobbish friend. His initial cavalier charm over washing-up, cleaning cooking surfaces, and emptying the rubbish soon began to fester almost as badly as the un-emptied black sacks of mouldering foodstuff - mostly take-away trays from memory. I still get incipient panic attacks whenever I see a cooling, globule-flecked plate of sweet and sour chicken balls.

‘Shall we start here?’ Asks the potential seller, once the opening pleasantries and business card presentation is dealt with. And he leads me along a cluttered hall to the rear bedroom. As expected the space is piled high with boxes, suitcases, and a battered children’s swing to one side. The casement door to the rear looks out over an overgrown patch of weeds and a rusting kettle-style barbeque.

‘Not much of a gardener.’ Apologises the man stating the obvious, as he sweeps a hand towards the paltry patch of earth, rear gate with one panel kicked out, leading on to a pedestrian walkway behind. Where without bothering to look, I’m confident there’ll be a collection of spent extra strong lager cans, cigarette butts, used condoms and the odd discarded needle. No wonder the swing is indoors.

‘And why are you thinking of moving?’ I fish neutrally, keen for selling signals.
And the man looks at me disconsolately then coughs his last few years’ history. It’s an increasingly familiar tale. Wife threw him out, so he bought this place as a stopgap, with enough room for his children to come for weekend visits, only now they don’t come. Not surprised, I think callously, if you have to eat burgers from a rusty grill and the only playtime involves indoor swinging, or running the gauntlet of dealers and druggies out back.

‘So I just want out.’ He finishes with a resigned shrug, before adding those magic words. ‘Whatever it costs.’ Now I’m really interested, particularly as he seems to have enough equity in the place to take a bigger hit than the junkies over the fence.

‘Oh and of course there’s the garage.’ The guy tells me, as we edge back along the hall and he opens the fire door to the space where nobody parks their car. Sure enough in the absence of a motor, the void is cluttered with the detritus of a failed relationship. A sagging sofa, a chest of drawers and two children’s bicycles, both with telltale flat tyres. Then I spot the gleaming motorbike.

‘That’s what I plan on doing.’ Confirms the man underscoring the fact that he’ll be selling, no matter how deflated his price. ‘Go travelling on the bike, see a bit of the world before I die.’ And he tells me how he’s been made redundant and with the tax-free lump sum, he’s about to burn rubber and leave as soon as possible. Mentally I carve another five grand of my suggested asking price.

The man is a middle-aged cliché, I think, as I follow him up the steep stairs that mean elderly retirees who believe a town house a good idea, will soon be re-selling once the arthritis starts to grate. All he needs now is a guitar in the lounge, I ponder, as we make the room, kitchen at rear, and I spot the acoustic sat alongside a pile of motor magazines.

I flashback nearly thirty years as I see the grubby unwashed sink full of dishes, and I’m sure I detect a whiff of special chow mein in the air, unless he’s using that Lynx deodorant my youngest wears.

‘There’s nothing left here for me.’ Opines the man, once I’ve checked out his unmade bed and grubby bathroom, bog lid up, basin sporting a shaving foam tidemark.
‘I’m going to have a bit of me time and worry about the consequences when the money runs out. That’ll show the bitch.’ And I wonder if he’ll swallow a further £5k trim.

Driving back, I pass the bike dealer and finally the guitar shop. Current thinking is there’s less chance of dying on a Telecaster than a Triumph.