My Back Yard - Friday

I see the earnest-looking woman making a bee-line towards me, even as I navigate past the less pressurised lunchtime shoppers. I’ve already dodged the wino in the empty shop unit doorway, and swerved the Big Issue salesman, who in truth has almost given up pestering me with his entreaties. I’ve told him at least once that I already help the homeless. It didn’t go down well.

There was a time when my wife used to lovingly pack me sandwiches, so I could keep going through the working day - after all many people want to view homes in their own lunch hour. But she tired of making them, just as I tired of eating them and I now welcome the chance to stretch my legs and walk to the shop for a meal deal. Of course I have the dilemma of the healthy eating - taste-free range - or something with flavour and big numbers on those nutrition information panels. Fortunately my close eyesight is failing, in line with my resolve.

My resolve to dodge street surveys and charity-chuggers trying to sign me up on a direct debit to support abandoned donkeys in Greece, hasn’t faltered though.  I can sidestep faster than a rugby wingback, even with my battered back, so I’m already dummying left, before zig-zagging right past the bloke in the disabled scooter, as the woman with the leaflets comes closer.

‘Excuse me sir.’ She calls stridently, before showing surprising agility and sidestepping to block my path. ‘I know you don’t I?’

This isn’t great. Telling a past client I haven’t recognised to push off, isn’t going to foster repeat business and if they are a buyer, or tenant, I might still be jeopardising office revenue. Reluctantly I stop.

‘Aren’t we near neighbours?’ Presses the woman waving a black and white, home-printed leaflet, in my face.

We might be, my wife tends to know the names and occupations of people in our road, I prefer not to intermingle. You never know when you might be repossessing their house. Fist name terms don’t always go well, when the locksmith is drilling through the front door and the kids are sobbing on the lawn….

The woman confirms her address - next road down - and smiles triumphantly.

‘Then you are just the sort of person who will want to support this.’ She says, handing me her leaflet. I scan the piece of clumsily edited A4 and my heart sinks. It’s an objection to a big new development, planned for a green space not far from my home. The stern-faced woman is looking at me challengingly. She’s a NIMBY - not in my back yard - protestor. They are all late middle-aged and have the glassy-eyes zest of converts, without any of the naive charm.

‘This is a scandal.’ She continues, blocking my path completely. ‘ There’ll be no green fields left in this area if they get away with building this monstrosity.’ I know all about the proposed development - it’s my job - and I’m conflicted. People need homes to live in, my two sons will need sensibly priced homes themselves. But I also know if planning is granted, the landowner will become a multi-millionaire overnight, and the prices will be astronomical too. Paradoxically, the social housing element the planners will insist on, also conflicts me. There are some people you’d rather not live in the same school catchment area.

‘We’ve put all the links on our leaflet and a draft objection letter template,’ Continues the woman, forcibly handing me the leaflet. ‘And it has the email  addresses’s of the local councillors, so we can make our feelings known’ She’s presuming she knows my feelings. Big mistake. Better not let her know I sell houses for a living. I’m hoping she’s unaware, or surely she wouldn't have stopped me?

‘I trust we can count on your support.’ Says the woman forcibly, as I make to leave. ‘We can’t let these people ruin our lifestyle.’

I know the developer won’t use an agent to sell the homes. I know they won’t put in sufficient flood prevention and the schools are already overflowing. I also know the prices will be unaffordable to most.

It’s objectionable.

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It's Behind You - Thursday

‘You’ve got a ghost house to look at.’ Says trainee F triumphantly, as I walk through the door.

‘Is it going to disappear as soon as I turn up?’ I ask him sarcastically.

F looks hurt, but sticks and stones will break his bones and words won’t - or he’d be in intensive care by now.

I don’t need to visit and market another home with a supposedly interesting angle that I can’t quantify to a belligerent Trading Standards officer, or some prissy pen-pusher still living at home with their parents, who works in a bubble at the Advertising Standards’ Agency.

‘You know ghosts don’t exist, don’t you?’ I ask F flatly.

‘You don’t know that.’ Interjects negotiator S. Good god, I hoped she’d be a bit more level-headed - maybe those enormous breasts are canting her forward again.

‘Well the lady who lives there says she’s seen the ghost lots of times.’ Persists F.

‘After the second bottle of wine, by any chance?’ Asks obese mortgage man M. He may be a peddler of pointless policies, but he does live in the real world. McDonald’s mostly…

‘And she wants to sell, does she?’ I press, starting to lose the will to live.

‘Yes,’ confirms F. ‘I’ve booked you a valuation this afternoon.’

‘Nobody is going to want to buy a haunted house.’ Says loose lettings lush B from her desk.

Thank you, I think fleetingly, until she adds. ‘She should rent it instead.’

‘I think it would be cool.’ Says S enthusiastically. ‘We could get loads of publicity in the local press with an angle like that.’

‘And you’d be inundated by every nut-job in the area.’ Says M, shaking his fat face. ‘Loonies and losers with a credit score lower than Greece.’

‘And they are the type that look but never buy.’ I add. ‘Any normal person isn’t going to be enthusiastic about buying a house with a resident poltergeist. Most people prefer the furniture moving to stop once the removal men have left.’

Now I love a home to market with an unusual story. Not least because you can indeed get the press, and social media, to lap up tales that might allow a sensational headline with a stock photo from Getty attached. They say any publicity is good publicity, especially if it’s free, but ghoulish stories and things that go bump in the night don’t exactly enhance your hopes of a quick sale, or a good price.

‘What was she like?’ I ask F wearily. Let me guess. Eccentric.

‘A little bit flaky.’ Confirms F.

‘Single?’

‘How did you know?’

‘With cats?’ I venture.

‘Three.’ Confirms F, looking at me as though I’m the supernatural one.

‘Flowery skirt, with greying hair too long for her age and a fleece covered in animal fur?’ I ask.

‘You know her don’t you?’ Demands F.

No. But I know the type.

Time was, I used to revel in selling homes with well-known residents from the past. I have even sold a couple with those Blue Plaques on the walls, over the years, detailing famous historical figures who once lived there. But the laws as they are preclude any spurious tales about a home’s history, unless they can be verified and quantified. It’s why estate agents’ particulars are so uniform sanitised and dull. Don’t blame me, blame the consumer lobby who assume every buyer has had a full frontal lobotomy before they were given their first credit card. Caveat Emptor is as dead as the Latin language.

‘So why does she want to sell her home,’ I ask F, after scanning the message book. ‘Surely she loves the company?’

‘Apparently the ghost spooks the cats.’ Says F, in apparent seriousness. 

Now I’m starting to like this  apparition. I’d love to be able to frighten away every little spiteful fur ball that has stuck it’s claws into me over the years. They seem to know a cat-hater instantly, even before I start sneezing; and kicking some malevolent moggy while the owner isn’t looking makes a valuation even harder than it is.

‘Good luck.’ Says S cheerily as I leave later. ‘Do you think she’ll be sensible on price?’

Not a ghost of a chance. 

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If You Took A Holiday - Monday

‘You need to get up.’ Urges my wife’s voice through a sleepy fug. Now that causes some confusion to my jet-lagged brain, as I wonder what day it is and if the instruction is some encouragement for early morning action?

‘The Germans will have bagged all the sunbeds anyway.’ I tell her drowsily, once I’ve realised you only get pre-breakfasts sex, before the first wedding anniversary.

‘What are you talking about?’ Replies my wife curtly. And an unpleasant realisation hits me just as I realise there is no embryonic sunrise-warmth colour-washing the walls. Instead that inane couple from the local radio breakfast show are jabbering the usual nonsense, urging any loser with no life and a mobile phone to ring in and talk to them. Anyone.

‘We’re not on holiday any more are we?’ I state rhetorically, as I glance at the bedside clock and realise I’m late already and that it’s dark outside.

‘You can’t have forgotten the flight from hell.’ Says my wife nudging me in the direction of the en-suite, with one leg.

As I stand unsteadily and empty my bladder, something it proved hard to do on a plane journey where the sole aim of the cabin crew seemed to be to flog over-priced drinks and perfumes while blocking your route to the toilets, I realise it’s Monday. And I’m due back at work.

‘That week went too fast.’ I tell my wife, after a hasty shave where I managed to scrape off two days worth of sunbathing, then nick myself on the neck in a place where it will probably still be bleeding when my shirt collar needs to be buttoned.

‘Tell me about it.’ She says with a yawn, padding off in her dressing gown to put the kettle on. She could read the Blog, but doesn’t show much interest in truth.

‘Can I have some honey in my tea?’ I call, as I gaze in disinterest at the array of ties I’d rather not wear.

‘Diet starts today.’ Comes the reply in the negative.

That’s the problem with holidays and an all-inclusive package. You need a lot of self-restraint. I mean, if you want to dispel the convenient notion that your morbid obesity can somehow be blamed on genetics, just take a look at where the biffers head for once the breakfast buffet opens. It’s not the fresh fruit counter.

‘I’m exhausted before I start.’ I tell my wife over a soggy bowl of bran, with that opaque fully-skimmed milk I’ve avoided for the last seven days.

‘It didn’t help the holiday operators dumped us at the airport  three and a half hours before our flight.’ She reminds me.

If looks could kill, the airhead rep on the microphone, who gaily informed us as we trooped off the coach, that the queues would be extra long for check-in, would be getting gushy memorials on her Facebook page by now.

Quite apart from their woeful plumbing arrangements and a propensity to avoid paying taxes, you can see why the Greek economy is going down the pan. The charming service we enjoyed at the hotel evaporated faster than gob on a hotplate, once we entered the airport. Surly doesn’t even begin to cover it. Those grumpy security staff and sullen passport control people will empty your goodwill, faster than a Transylvanian hooker.

I’d been feeling quite upbeat after a week of limitless food and alcohol. With only one lapse, where I foolishly looked in a Greek realtor’s window. But four hours with a screaming kid two seats behind and an intransigent woman in front who kept trying to recline her seat, despite my knees being wedged so deep into the seat-back pocket I was nearly taking her up the arse with one patella, took its toll. 

‘Try to have a good day.’ Urges my wife, as I do the customary peck on the doorstep. Then I’m passing the same faces in the traffic congestion again and suddenly I’m walking towards the office. Two  more fantasies dashed - it hasn’t burnt down and the window display hadn’t changed much either.

Think I’ll go to the travel agent at lunchtime.

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Time At The Beach Bar - Saturday

‘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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Grass Is Always Greener - Wednesday

‘Think I want to go home now.’ I shout angrily through the bathroom door.

‘Had enough sun?’ Calls my wife from the hotel bedroom.

‘Had enough of the plumbing.’ I tell her, grimacing as I look at the waste bin alongside the toilet. You can have too much information and the sign instructing wipers not to dispose of paper down the loo is an instruction too far. Once a rebel always a rebel, I tell myself as I ignore the notice and curse the flimsy gauge of the toilet roll. Scant material with the robustness of that tissue paper expensive lingerie shops wrap the underwear you buy your wife in. The garments she’ll be returning for a refund a day after her birthday.

‘Paper failure.’ I tell my wife as I emerge hands and nails scrubbed fastidiously. She grimaces and continues packing clothes she hasn’t worn, including the chain store dress we saw a fat-arsed woman wearing on the first night.

‘Hah, same dress as you.’ I’d said injudiciously.

‘It better not look the same on me.’ She’d hissed in reply.

‘No, that’s at least two sizes bigger than yours.’ I’d replied encouragingly.

‘Try four.’ Was the icy reply and now I’ll be humping the item, along with half a wardrobe of other unworn pieces, home again.

We hadn’t been to Greece for about twenty years so I’d figured the plumbing and the food would have improved. Wrong on both counts. About the only thing that can go down the toilet is the economy and I’ve remembered why they smash their dinner plates.

‘I fancy a look round the town before we go.’ I tell her. She doesn’t as it turns out, preferring to do the pool aqua aerobics one last time. I’ve refused that indignity. Twenty overweight holidaymakers mimicking the hot Greek girl’s movements I can do without, especially as I can watch her from behind the safety of my sunglasses without exposing myself.

On the way to reception I pass a few familiar faces and some pasty new ones. I’ve named a few just to amuse myself. Anal Retentive businessman is under a sunshade, talking loudly into his mobile phone while his bored trophy wife slathers sun cream suggestively. Heil Helga, the German woman with the saggy tits is sitting topless on the side of the pool still being ignored by the waiters. She’s twenty years and a long in the memory World War, too late. Then I pass newly prefixed Ms Miserable, the thirty-something slightly plump and getting plumper recent divorcee, who is with her elderly parents. You think you’ve finished holidaying with your mum and dad once you’ve left home but she’s back on both counts. I see her every night looking miserable comfort eating and drinking heavily while her parents play cards. She’ll make sure HE pays though. Maybe I can leave her a business card and get the matrimonial house sale if she’s local….

The hotel cat is sitting under a sparse tree languidly licking its private parts again, presumably just because it can. And the group of fifty-something blokes with beer bellies and bad Hawaiian shirts are propped against the bar talking loudly. The one with the dodgy combover I’ve nicknamed Steve McGarrett, is in full flow. I toy with the fashion police gag I’ve been working on and holding up an imaginary yellow card shouting: “Book him Danno”, but I leave it. Greek dentists are not going to be cheap.

Past the supermarket and a few tacky gift shops I see the estate agency. I’ve been avoiding thinking about work but now I’m drawn to the window like a fly to a turd. The door is propped open and an olive-skinned man, who to be fair does actually look passable in a short-sleeve shirt, is sitting in front of a giant oscillating fan. He looks at me and looks away. Never judge a book by the cover I think, as I scan the window and see the absurd Energy Performance Certificate rules apply to concrete shacks with no need of thermal retention in 40c temperatures. The prices are as laughable and unsustainable as ours and there’s no Waitrose...

My bags are packed I’m ready to go.

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The property book to occupy you..

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