Dead End - Friday

I’m driving round a character-free 1990’s built identikit estate slung up by one of the national builders. Although the developers have regional headquarters that mushroom in the good times then contract in the bad, they pay no attention to local materials or architectural heritage.

‘Do you think I could ever afford one of these places on my salary?’ Asks negotiator S, who is alongside me as compensation for the bland elevations outside the car. And I gaze out at the mock Tudor façade of the homes we are passing, still having not found the road we’re looking for. Not unless you shag someone with a lot more money than you, I think uncharitably, as we meander into another mazy cul-de-sac that peters out in trio of squidged together homes, all sharing one drive access - a guaranteed recipe for future neighbour disputes.

‘I’m sure you’ll be able to one day,’ I answer disingenuously. ‘Particularly if you get to run your own office.’ And the market comes back; adds an unspoken inner-voice - oh, and you don’t get pregnant and leave.

‘How much do you think one of these would be worth now?’ Asks S her eyes misty with lust – the property kind, sadly. ‘If I could find the bloody road we’re looking for I’d tell you.’ I snap back angrily, as we reverse back out and I find myself unable to remember the route we took in.

The truth is, I could value one of these standard four bed detached boxes with internal windowless en-suite second bathroom, downstairs cloakroom, kitchen/breakfast room and through lounge/diner, without leaving the office, which as it happens I may have to, as I still can’t find the address we’re due at.

As we nose into another dead end and I screw my eyes up to try and read the house numbers - absurdly, too vain to wear the glasses with S in the car – I remind her we can find all the price data we need on the computer system in the office. The only variation we’re likely to find being the odd plastic conservatory addition, or a left over plot size bigger than standard that the architect couldn’t squeeze another unit on.

‘At least the drop in value will be uniform for all of them.’ I tell S with a sweep of my hand as I commit to the price I’m expecting to recommend shortly. S whistles through her teeth and says. ‘I thought so, still way too much for me.’ And she succinctly illustrates how one man’s property crash, is another woman’s foot on the ladder opportunity.

‘It’s eerily quite round here isn’t it?’ Says S as we gaze out at the empty double drives, the odd free standing unused basketball hoop and the occasional people carrier with twin baby seats in the back. These family vehicles seem to be all you need now to advertise your fecundity, now those baby on board stickers have fallen out of favour.

‘Young mum’s and pre-school kids are all you’ll find round here.’ I pronounce sagely as we judder to a halt down another dead end only to see an elderly gent prodding his front garden with a hoe, and eyeing us suspiciously.
‘Oh, and the odd pensioner who downsized because the plot was too big.’ I hurriedly add, as the crusty gardener squints towards us then moves our way.

‘Bloody marvellous.’ I mutter under my breath as I ponder a high speed reversing manoeuvre and a hand brake turn. ‘Here comes the neighbourhood watch busybody.’
‘Are you going to tell him you’re lost?’ Asks S through her fingers, suppressing a breast-jiggling giggle, as the man approaches signalling for me to open the window.

‘I think he thought we were looking for a quiet place to park up.’ Chuckles S as I back out again, the old man’s sneeringly given directions ringing in my ear, along with the familiar condemnation for my part in his property price fluctuations once he’d discovered my identity.

And as we zigzag to our intended appointment, passing a blank-faced young mum with pushchair and an equally bewildered Internet shopping supermarket delivery van, I can’t shake the vision of a now welcome empty road and a quiet tête-à-tête with S.

Think I might be losing it.