Excess Baggage - Saturday

‘Now, I need an answer now!’ I yell as the hire car splutters on to a roundabout while I look the wrong way for the umpteenth time and narrowly avoid being sideswiped by an angry looking kid in a Seat.

‘I’m not sure.’ Answers my wife haltingly as the swarthy youth in the Leon gives me the finger and hurls a mouthful of Hispanic abuse at me that includes the words Loco and Gringo, plus several other colourful local phrases I didn’t find the need to learn when ordering Vino Blanco and the Menu del Dia.

All trace of the soporific, sun-warmed laid-back guy whom I thought, from glances in shop windows, looked a bit like George Clooney’s elder, slightly tubbier brother, have vanished even before we’ve arrived at the hire car drop-off point. We’re lost, my wife is getting flustered, the red fuel low warning light has just blinked on and the check-in desk has already opened.

‘Just orientate the map.’ I bellow ungracefully, as I wish I had actually brought the despised sat nav I tried once then discarded disdainfully when it dropped the signal, in a one-way street somewhere around Tower Bridge. I approach the next roundabout with trepidation as a 737 suddenly roars overhead, almost confirming the incipient cardiac arrest.

‘We must be near the airport.’ Ventures my wife to the sort of scream two Pratt and Whitney jet engines in full reverse thrust would struggle to match.

‘Of course we f***ing are,’ I bellow. ‘But we’re looking for where to park the sodding car - not passport control.’

In the space of a thirty minute drive I’ve turned for a sun-tanned silver fox with, an imagined, passing resemblance to a film star, into one of those boneheads who don’t know when wearing a top is appropriate, sport absurd three-quarter length shorts and have Love and Hate tattooed on their knuckles. If we don’t get to the car park soon, I’ll be barging into Catalan bars shouting loudly, ‘Big beer mate and a diet coke for the missus, yeh?’ All I’m lacking is a shaven-headed mini-me son and a four-year old daughter with pierced ears….

‘You need to help me here.’ I plead, as a Fiat 500 overtakes me with a blast on a two-tone horn and a stream of expletives, questioning my lack of Cojones.

‘I’m doing my best.’ Replies my wife, not exactly endorsing the statement by spinning the map in her hands through 360 degrees, as a Fill Up Now sign flashes urgently on the dashboard.

‘I’m sorry for shouting.’ I tell my wife contritely, as we hump the overloaded cases towards a huge queue at our designated check-in desk.

‘That’s alright.’ She answers unconvincingly. I’ve been in sales most of my life and I recognise a falsehood when I hear one. A little bit of love for me has been lost irretrievably and lies discarded on a dusty pull-in somewhere around runway 06L/24R.

‘How can it take this long to process one family?’ I rail angrily, as the queue alongside, inevitably, moves at a faster pace than our one.

‘Just calm down.’ Pleads my wife, increasing my sweaty irritation even further. I don’t like the man I’m becoming and that’s before I get back to my desk and read 350 inane e-mails.

‘Seven minutes that last bunch.’ Says a bloke in front of me, turning and tapping his, probably fake, Rolex.  He’s about my age but gratifyingly carrying more timber, with less thatching up top. Briefly I wonder what he does for a living and if he’s as stressed as I am?

‘We won’t have time to get out Duty Free cigarettes.’ Grumbles his partner, a perma-tanned woman with bleached hair and a botched facelift. I decide I don’t like them and hope they’ve just bought a dubious-titled holiday home. Ungracious, but I’m still an estate agent at the end of the holiday.

‘Would you like a brochure for your next visit?’ Asks a pretty woman, in heavily accented English as we finally ditch our suitcases and head for security. I stretch out a hand and accept the glossy publication.

‘God.’ I tell my wife glancing at the content. ‘More over-priced property.’

Welcome back.

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If You Took A Holiday - Thursday

It starts in the arrivals hall as I wonder if the tingling in my legs is cramp or a deep vein thrombosis? The knee-length flight socks that made me look like a nightmare version of a St Trinians’ schoolgirl might not have been worth the indignity.

‘Don’t suppose we’ll see our luggage again.’ I grumble as the baggage conveyor does the same and starts up, shunting several fat woman sideways who had sat down after the exertion of moving a hundred yards without priority boarding and a wheelchair.

‘Don’t go all negative on me.’ Chides my wife as a battered suitcase with one lock hanging off chugs round and round in a poignant search for its owner. I was never that upbeat. Who is after a childhood parental divorce and the first house move you didn’t want or need? But half a lifetime later and several thousand fraught moves on, while others take the equity and the plaudits, I’m a tad grumpy.

‘They know a property person when they spot one.’ Chuckles my wife, as suitcases recovered, we trundle through the airport and several shifty-looking Spaniards thrust up-market homes brochures at us while overhead advertising screens push new developments with waterside views and silly prices. Nothing changes.

‘Is it really three decades since we were here?’ I ask incredulously as the sun catches my face and I feel instantly better and the asking prices in my hand not so laughable. The island looked more built-up as the 737 circled the airport and it’s a fair bet I won’t be insane enough to dance to One Step Beyond by Madness this time, but the clubs are still thriving. The dream is tarnished when you see them in the daytime, but then the property market is just as disingenuous.

‘Bloody hell.’ I stage whisper to my wife as we board the coach. ‘Is this a hearse or are we booked into sheltered accommodation?’  A sea of sun-damaged faces, rheumy eyes and inappropriate sportswear look back at me inquisitively. It’s the first time I’ve felt young since that McCarthy & Stone launch evening.

‘At least I won’t have to talk to people.’ I hypothesise as we take the first walk round the resort, having asked to change the room when the sea view turned out to be another property Misdecription, only without the criminal prosecution and taped interview.

‘Why’s that?’ She asks warily.

‘Because they are all Germans.’ I tell her as a Teutonic couple march by and greet us with a, Guten Tag.

‘Look,’ I tell her as we approach the quayside shops. ‘Even the estate agencies are run by Krauts.’ And we pause by a row of shiny-windowed units with names like Engel & Humberdink and Voelkes & Himmler. They may not have hung on to Poland but they got most of the Mediterranean eventually.

‘Where there’s overpriced homes you’ll get big ticket boats.’ I tell my wife knowingly as we see equally flashy yacht brokerages cheek by jowl with the property purveyors. I’ve ex-vendors who bought in haste in Spain, sitting on 50% price falls still unable to return to the UK, yet here are row upon row of boats, all for sale just as the apartments are, just as everything is.

‘They’re having a laugh surely?’ I ask my wife as, sat at a waterside bar, we get the bill for a small beer and a diet coke costing more than a couple of NHS prescriptions. All around the tinkle of well-bred voices are, curiously, speaking heavily accented English across borders. Within view are more Sunseekers than a wet bank holiday in Hove and I just long to put the dampers on the whole fantasy by pricking the price bubble, but self-harm isn’t an admirable trait. I gently broil instead.

‘How many million Euros?’ I scoff, as I can’t help myself passing another agency window, pausing to look. The infinity pool looks enticing, as does the sun-kissed view, but come Christmas and the realisation that some Spanish planner took a backhander and you don’t own the parking or the plumbing, it might not seem so bright. I reckon David Blaine would be embarrassed by all this clumsy slight of hand.

It’s just an illusion.

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The magic property book here: 

http://amzn.to/ttGZ4j