Happy Family - Monday

On a valuation with mortgage man M in-tow. It takes me several sets of traffic lights before I realise the lack of acceleration isn’t due to the ageing fleet car, but the big man’s corpulent bulk seriously impacting on my 0-60 figure. To add insult to injury one of those glorified Indian built electric milk float cars pulls up soundlessly alongside at the next red stop light, and my foot begins revving the accelerator menacingly.

‘Calm down tiger.’ Quips the base rate plus two blubber mountain. ‘Don’t want another camera flashing you.’
‘Fat chance of that.’ I spit back unthinkingly, and a stony silence to match the electric cars decibel rating, descends on the cabin.

‘I didn’t mean it like that’ I venture clumsily as we ease into a box junction with only a 50/50 chance of exiting it without stopping in the yellow hatching.
‘It’s not my fault you know.’ Sulks M as I think, please don’t say it’s hormonal I’ve seen the pastry crumbs on the office carpet.

‘I eat to forget you know.’ Suggests M with a melancholy sigh. ‘Ever since my missus upped and left me.’
It seems churlish to point out he was a bloater long before she legged it with the kids, so for once I keep quiet, a useful skill for a salesman that I don’t always adhere to outside of a sign-up situation.

‘This one’s a matrimonial too isn’t it?’ Questions M as I spy our turning and leave the main drag to inch down a narrow road with cars parked either side. Once again my door mirrors are under threat as I weave along cautiously trying to dodge over-wide four-by-fours, while looking for some house numbers to help me identify how close we are to the target property.

‘Possible sale, possible re-mortgage with the new boyfriend.’ I tell M as I spot a parking slot then curse as I see it’s zoned for residents only. The doctor on call badge might have to make an outing from the glove box again, but I’m loath to overuse it in case the wardens start clocking the car.

‘If he’s got any sense he won’t get involved with a woman with kids dragging behind her.’ Suggests M sourly as he waddles alongside me and we walk back towards the house, parking space found. M’s only bitter because his ex-wife and his children are now tied-up with some smarm-bag with a BMW and a 34-inch waist. ‘You know,’ posits M as I make to ring the doorbell and he wheezes behind me two steps down. ‘The only time my wife really rode me hard was over the divorce settlement.’ And with those salient words ringing in my ears and the bell doing the same, footsteps approach.

‘He seems a bit sleazy.’ I confess to M as we take a quick tour of the enclosed garden, discarded children’s toys scattered around the grass. The mother and new lover are watching us from the kitchen as the kettle boils. I want to gather my thoughts on a suggested asking price if they move on, and M just seems intent on becoming increasingly morose. Doubtless he’ll cheer up if they offer biscuits and decide to re-finance instead.

‘So, we just need some figures for now, see where we stand.’ Informs the lady as her weasel-faced new lodger eyes me suspiciously and I try not to do the same back. I’ve stuck with my wife – or more accurately she’s stuck with me – but just the thought of some proto-paedo coming near your kids should be enough for any man to keep it in his trousers.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been to homes where it’s obvious – at least to me – the woman left with the family, is succumbing to an ever less trustworthy and less able succession of boyfriends just to fill the affection gap left by a departed husband. Maybe they should just comfort eat like M, at least the children wouldn’t have to lock their bedroom doors every evening.

‘I wouldn’t trust that bloke with my kids’ gerbil.’ Says M as we return to the car.
‘Call social services?’ I ask in jest.
‘Let’s see if they re-mortgage first.’ Announces M pragmatically. ‘I’m starving here.’