‘Keep your head down.’ I tell my wife. ‘They’re coming
towards our table.’
‘Don’t be so anti-social.’ She replies tartly. ‘It’s our
last day and they’re nice.’
‘They’ll want to talk about property prices.’ I caution,
concentrating hard on the Greek salad I’ve been picking at.
The holiday is nearly over and I can feel the tension
rising. The thought of my in-box and what is lurking on my desk has drawn a
darker shadow than the ancient olive tree our beachside table is sheltering
under. I’d rather spend the remaining hours with my wife drinking the
all-inclusive wine package not discussing what sort of plot £100,000 would buy
in an impoverished economy. No chance.
‘Hiya.’ Cries the well-honed lady in an excitable voice.
‘Thought you were hiding from us for a moment.’
I was. My wife waved pointedly.
‘How’s the old property pirate?’ Chortles her
bald-as-a-coot husband, in an attempt at humour. I nearly lied, on first
meeting, and said I was a writer but I coughed the information, half-hoping it
might put them off. It didn’t.
‘Looking forward to repossessing a few homes when I get
back.’ I reply, to a stunned silence. Momentarily, I think they might opt for
another table. But the wife laughs hysterically and slaphead grins, pulls up a
chair and says.
‘You estate agents, can never tell if you’re telling the
truth or not.’
It’s a cross I have to bear.
‘Do you fancy a beer?’ Asks the man, skull gleaming so
brightly I need to pull my sunglasses off my head. Terrific, the only time a
member of the public has ever offered me a drink – apart from a backhander to
secure a home they couldn’t have – and I’ve already paid upfront for as much as
I can consume.
I decline and watch with waning appetite, as a trio of
overweight German women with more cellulite than a naturist’s weight-watchers’
group, waddle in to the sea. If anything would make the waves part, it’s about
600lbs of Teutonic blubber displacing more water than a small oil tanker, but
the sea takes them with an unpleasant sucking sound.
‘I’ll call Amy over.’ I say, as the woman starts
nattering inanely to my wife. I’ve named most of the staff and a good number of
the guests, in order to pass the time. The waitress in question has a
resemblance to Amy Winehouse, her tartier peroxide-died colleague has the
moniker Debbie, after Blondie’s horny early years and the portly waiter - who I
tend not to use - is Elvis, for his likeness to the King in his
spandex-stretched Las Vegas days. Simple pleasures.
‘What do you reckon a beachfront lot like this would cost
in Euros?’ Asks Eddie – The Eagle.
I don’t know, but the crumbling clientele might not
enhance the price - not unless it was a retirement development. The ancient
women wading in and out of the sea are spattered with more liver spots than a
clumsy butcher and if I see another pair of saggy bosoms in a one-piece, I
might start to bat for the other side.
‘Ah, look at the cats.’ Sighs Eddie’s other half – I’m
torn between Selina and Fiona at the moment. She’s referring to the feral
moggies that plague the open air dining area, encouraged by a group of elderly
French women. The Gallic cat-lovers feed the furballs with gnarled fingers then
return to the buffet to ferret for food without washing their hands. And as for
the buffet, well that’s an education in obesity-levels and portion control. At
one end, you have the anorexic-framed women who expend more energy climbing the
steps to the restaurant than they take on board with the frugal, fruit and
celery selections they make. At the other end of the scales there’s an army of
thigh-chafers who wobble back, plates layered high with gravity defying calorie
intake, resembling some sort of obscene gastronomic Jenga game. Like most
estate agents, I dislike humanity.
‘Oh dear, what are those cats doing?’ Asks Eddie, face as
wrinkled as his shaven-head. Copulating fiercely, I think, suppressing a laugh
as the cats shag uninhibitedly under a table of Croc-clad, mottled Parisian
legs.
The end is coming.
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