Starting Gun - Wednesday

‘I want to lose some weight, obviously.’ States negotiator S. It’s not that obvious to me, she has the sort of curves race track designers and anorexic models yearn to acquire and I’m fairly confident there’s no silicon involved.

‘Load of twaddle.’ States bloated mortgage man M as he sways towards the kitchen with that rolling gait only truly morbidly obese people can display, short of a bumpy cross-channel ferry ride.

‘You won’t be cutting back then?’ I ask, trying to mask any irony.

‘You seen my targets?’ Replies M from round the door, echoing sound of the biscuit tin popping. ‘I’ve got no time for faddy diets. I need all the energy I can get if I’m going to flog that much unwanted insurance.’ From the mouths’ of….

We’re doing the New Year’s resolution thing, while the office door rattles in its frame and biblical levels of rain scour the pavements of congealed vomit and solidified chewing gum.

‘I’m going to try and pay off some of my credit card bills.’ Says assistant manager T with less than convincing authority. The man runs a bigger percentage deficit than most European countries – apart from the French obviously.

‘Really?’ I probe, hoping if he comes to terms with reality on the APR he’s suffering, he might take some ownership of the office objectives I’m labouring under. There’s more chance of M making the second WeightWatchers’ meeting - the one after the weigh in.

Everyone turns towards B, our loose lettings lady whom I’m fairly sure she hasn’t sobered up since New Year’s Day. I’m not expecting much perspective viewed through the bottom of a gin and tonic glass.

‘I’m going to attempt the impossible.’ Announces B rather sadly. You can almost hear several estate agents’ minds spinning rapidly, bit like an ailing hard drive on an elderly PC if I had to articulate it audibly.

‘So what is that exactly?’ S finally ventures.

‘Find a good man who isn’t gay or married.’ Replies B, to an unwelcome nod of recognition from S.

She has a point. I see a lot of low-life’s representing the male of the species, on weekly matrimonial valuations and regular fractious family disputes over the deceased’s home and chattels. Plus, B has screwed her way through most of the penis-toting Marriage Guidance members’ list, and rumour has it has woken, fuzzy-headed, with more than one camp man who agreed to try and be turned after several Campari’s and the promise of trying on B’s high heel collection….

‘Good luck with that.’ I tell B, thinking M has more chance of ditching the doughnuts and becoming slimmer of the year, than B stopping serial swigging and shagging

‘What about you?’ I ask F, our intellectually challenged trainee. F looks at me with those little boy lost eyes. They don’t work. I’ve tried dumping him on a leaflet drop at the far end of the office patch, but he still finds his bedraggled way back to the office. I guess that’s care in the community for you.

‘I want to get my own flat and maybe even….’ F tails off.

‘What?’ Ask three voices at once.

‘No, you’ll only laugh.’

‘They won’t.’ I tell him encouragingly.

‘Well maybe get on the company car list?’

Okay. I was wrong about the hysterical giggling.

‘And what about you, boss?’ Asks T, after the exaggerated rib clutching has subsided and the ladies have worked their way through several tissues. F is looking forlorn, but it’s a tough business. Although curiously, he’s the only staff member whose aspirations have revolved round their working life. If F hits his targets and his colleagues do too, an ageing sign-written Mini might not be out of the question.

I realise all eyes are on me now, as I ponder the question. Yes, we’ve done the weight loss and reduction of alcohol intake thing at home, and I realised long ago, after too many house repossessions, that living on credit you can’t afford is a short cut to a lengthy local authority housing list, or a crummy bed and breakfast.

I yearn to say, quit the property business and become a successful writer. I actually say:

‘Beat last year’s office turnover.’

Loser.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

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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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