‘Do we sell park homes?’ Asks trainee F, phone cupped
ineffectively instead of on hold, as I always keep telling the numbskull.
If it’s a home set in a park, I think, yes we’d be
delighted - if it’s an overpriced shed, not so much. But with new instructions
to sell always a battle, I waver, despite the evidence of history.
‘Get some more details.’ I tell F having walked over and
stabbed the mute button on his phone base. ‘Then see when I can go and visit.’
It’s a long shot. Park Homes, for the uninitiated, are
what used to be called mobile homes until someone realised you’d get more money
for them if you took the wheels off, hooked them up to a rudimentary sewerage
system and provided electricity for daytime television viewing. In the United
States, I believe they’re known as trailer parks, in the UK they are similarly
trashy only without the need for air conditioning units. The parks tend to be
populated by elderly couples who failed on the property ladder of life, or have
downsized ill-advisedly, thinking a timber cabin with stick on rubber roof
tiles is actually a bungalow, only cheaper, thereby allowing them to eat more
than value meals and tinned horsemeat for the rest of their naturals. The
beneficiaries are never thrilled.
‘So they’re, like, really good value?’ Enthuses F after
I’ve given him the low down.
‘Not exactly.’ Interjects assistant manager T.
F frowns that bovine look that makes you think
slaughterhouse and a humane bolt-gun administered to the cranium - no questions
asked and only minimal paperwork for the Personnel Department.
‘Nobody will lend on a park home.’ Continues T. ‘At least
not mainstream banks and building societies.’
‘Waste of time.’ Echoes fat mortgage man M as he seesaws
past, masticating.
‘Cash buyers only, as a rule.’ Says T.
‘And they’re too skint to take out decent insurance
policies.’ Adds M. ‘Property underclass. I wouldn’t have one if you gave it to
me.’
He would.
‘Thanks for letting me come with you.’ Enthuses F, as I
negotiate the bumpy track and see the Park entrance. A paint-blistered sign
promises high-quality new homes from a price point I still consider expensive.
I’m already regretting my generosity twofold; one by coming to value a timber
caravan I probably can’t sell, and two for bringing the only type of owner
these places will appeal to – albeit in about forty-five years time after F’s
inevitable failed marriages and ineffective career. I really must look into
registering as a charity. I’ve talked about it and there are plenty of empty
shop units in the high street for a rent-free outlet. I just need to get round
to the paperwork.
As I daydream and slowly motor along the cramped,
weed-strewn lanes of shabby units, an officious little man with a goatee beard
and an attitude problem steps in front of the car and holds his hand up,
traffic policeman style. I’m sorely tempted to accelerate, but of course I
don’t. Window down, I wait for the inevitable lecture.
‘Who is this?’ Hisses F as the sour-faced man walks
around the car towards me.
The park owner, or warden to be more accurate.’ I
whisper. ‘Little Hitlers most of them. He’s about to warn us nobody sells
without his say-so.’
And true to form, we’re informed.
‘So you’ve met that grubby little man.’ Says the lady
owner, as we sit in her open plan lounge, slight swaying motion as the wind
whistles round the angles. She’s made the best of a bad job with a mock
fireplace housing an electric fire, and a sagging sofa set arranged toward an
ancient cathode ray television set with a digital box perched on top. It’s still
a caravan though, just without the option to shift elsewhere that easily. I
tell her we’ve had our card duly marked. The owner reminding us all the homes
are on leases granted by him and that he has to approve any new incomers -
effectively making the whole flyblown couple of acres his own creosote-coated
fiefdom. Needless to say, he’s already offered to ‘buy’ the unit, at a price
even I wouldn’t dare to suggest.
Moving on.
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