‘So no real reason then.’ I state to my wife as she
fusses over which blouse to wear and I vacillate over unlikely shorts this time
of year, or trousers.
‘It’s just nice to do.’ She replies, tilting her head in
the mirror then turning towards me. God I haven’t a clue which one, I think as
she sees the look and decides not to ask. She goes back to the wardrobe as I
tug the shorts off. They seem a bit snugger round the waist since the last time
the sun came out.
It’s another ill-fated, much rain-delayed autumn
barbecue, which will still probably end up with soggy attendees huddling under
a leaky gazebo, a couple of kids heading for casualty after bouncing off the
trampoline at unexpected angles and a beer-fuelled argument about property
prices. I don’t really want to go as I could happily live without seeing the
majority of people coming, for at least another year – probably longer. But my
wife and her cronies still arrange the twelve-monthly gathering of friends,
neighbours and even ex-neighbours, who have the sort of lifelong membership
usually reserved for Wimbledon winners and those who make double centuries at
venerable cricket grounds. I’m not bowled over by the prospect.
‘Most people wait for a jubilee or a dead monarch to have
these cheesy garden parties.’ I grumble, as I notice the jeans are a bit tight
too and that’s before a carnivorous chow-down on burnt burgers and incinerated
ribs with less meat on them than Kate Moss. My wife glances at me with what
eighties warblers ABC definitely wouldn’t call The Look Of Love, although
no doubt someone will be playing them, along with Simply Red and the f***ing
Lighthouse Family before I’m sufficiently pissed to care. My Clash, Sex Pistols
and The Damned compilation was swiftly ousted by a woman who loved Michaels
Jackson a couple of years ago. Her husband looked like an albino chimp
appropriately enough, and it was after I inadvertently called him Bubbles that
the first argument started.
‘Just be pleasant’ Coaches my wife as I decide against
any shirt with even a hint of Hawaii about it and plump for something loose and
plain – the best way to get an easy screw according to the serial shagger I
ended up drinking with last year.
‘Hi great to see you.’ Gushes a pasty-faced man as we
enter the chosen garden clouds gathering, and I try to hide the cheap lager I
brought with me in the pile on a wobbly trestle table.
‘You too mate.’ I fib, wincing at the unconvincing term.
He must know, as I do whenever the disingenuous word is used, that I can’t
remember his name or what he does. The man has worn horribly and looks as grey
and washed out as a pair of old underpants. This sort of barefaced deception
would get me prosecuted under the Consumer Protection Rules if I applied the
lie to a worn out three-bed semi detached house presented, immaculately.
My wife seems to be circulating effortlessly while I get
stuck with bores bigger than North Sea oil rigs can muster and a new couple who
are wetter than the weather is about to get.
‘So you’re the estate agent?’ States the scrawny wife as
her underfed husband with the limp handshake looks on attentively. He looks in
need of a good meal but as she’s already told me she’s decided they should both
be vegetarians, he’ll get no sympathy - or sausages - from me.
‘We think we paid a good price for our house.’ Continues
the woman in what sounds like a challenge. They didn’t buy it from me so
there’s no duty of care. I mention a similar one we’ll be marketing in a week
or two at less money and leave.
‘Christ these people have aged.’ I whisper to my wife
when I go for a top-up - of someone else’s beer.
‘We all have.’ She replies tartly.
‘Which family have those bloody cats?’ I ask, glancing at
a portly man carrying more timber than a lumberjack’s trailer, wearing a
suspiciously hair-covered fleece
‘You won’t be crapping on their lawn.’ She tells me
decisively.
God save.
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More spitting about the property market here:
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