Thick And Thin - Monday

‘Got a valuation for you this evening.’ Chirps negotiator S as I return to the office.

She should be pleased, these are the lifeblood of any estate agent. Without homes to sell you don’t survive, no matter what the market’s supposed to be doing. The only cloud on my immediate horizon, is the “evening” bit.

‘How late?’ I ask cautiously, not wanting to put a dampener on S’s success. 

‘Only 6.30.’ She replies with a winning  smile.

Yes. I think, but it’ll be 7.30pm before I’m out of there even if they are complete nutters, and there will be a pretty angry wife waiting with some incinerated supper. Still it could be worse.

‘And he’s a bit creepy.’ Adds S sheepishly.

‘How creepy?’ I ask hurriedly. Estate agents have been abducted by homicidal people before and I don’t particularly want to be the first to be dismembered and served with those African beans and an Italian red.

‘Not chop you up creepy. I don’t think.’ says S reading my mind. Fortunately, she can’t do that all the time.

‘Just desperate and gullible creepy.’ Adds B, from her lettings’ desk, with a sneer.

Gullible I don’t mind, particularly when it comes to negotiating a sole agency fee, but desperate isn’t always good - unless he’s lost his job and has to sell…

I look at S for some further information but she clams up and looks embarrassed.

‘He’s one of those fat, bald, ugly middle-aged blokes with a young Thai wife in tow.’ Enlightens B with a knowing smirk.

‘I didn’t necessarily mean that.’ Counters S defensively. She probably did.

‘You know the type.’ Continues B, hitting her stride. ‘Can’t get a British woman, because they have a mind of their own and can be picky about sweaty creeps with body odour, so they abuse some third world girl with the offer of untold riches and an ex-council flat.’

Wow. B’s goods are more damaged in transit than I thought.

‘She seemed perfectly nice.’ Counters S, with an awkward look my way.

I have a horrible feeling I might have some forms to fill in to send to Human Resources, I’ve detected sexism, possible racism and fattism, at the very least.

‘They are all nice until they get their feet under the table.’ Says obese mortgage man M, entering the fray. He’ s still smarting several years after his wife left him for a man who could see his own penis without a mirror.

‘Keep on her good side.’ Suggests assistant manager T, to M. ‘You might find she’ll be keen to load him with big portions and a bigger life policy.’ M’s podgy face lights up. Since they rumbled endowments and PPI policies he’s been looking for the next big thing.

‘They are all on the make.’ Says B. ‘Before you know it the stupid sap will be sending money back to Thailand for some made up relatives.’

‘That’s just so wrong.’ Snaps S sparkily. She’s rather splendid when riled.

‘It’s just as well nobody knows what we say.’ Says T with a chuckle. ‘The public wouldn’t like to hear what we really think of them.’

Hmm. Fortunately my team don’t show much inclination for reading, blogs or books. At best I’d guess we have a couple of men’s magazine perusers, a buyer of fantasy mags from the geekier end of the sci-fi spectrum and a closet Mills and Boon fan.

‘You can mock me.’ Continues B. ‘But I know how men work.’ That’s beyond dispute.

‘And you are all suckers for pretty girls, even ones half your age.’

‘Bit of a sweeping statement.’ I say, trying to avoid looking at S.

‘Bollocks.’ Snaps B. ‘And everyone knows the sort of oddballs that get Thai wives off the internet  wouldn’t have a hope in hell of shagging a British girl.’

‘Apart from the fat ones who will bonk for biscuits.’ Says T, unhelpfully.

The awkward silence hangs in the air like a fart in lift.

‘What?’ Asks M eventually.

‘Nothing.’ I say, thinking of the forms again.

‘I’m not fat, I’m big-boned.’ Says M huffily.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

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Spanish Fly - Sunday

‘I’m not sure we belong here.’ I tell my wife as we search in vain for a couple of non-towelled sun beds. You have to invade the pool early to get a space before these surprisingly sprightly ex-Nazi youths, stake a claim.

‘You are just being foreign-phobic again.’ Hisses my wife, ‘Bet you couldn’t take that attitude at work.’ She continues, as I spot the only free beds are next to the shaded shower where I refuse to soak myself before jumping in the pool. Needless to say the portly Bavarians all follow orders.

She’s right. I don’t discriminate where property is concerned. Not only is it illegal but it’s counter-productive. Without offshore money there’d certainly be a lot of London agents looking to renegotiate their rents, and lazy journalists might need to leave the Central Line for their next glossy interior story.

‘I mean who thought people still wore Speedos outside of the Olympic diving pool?’ I say, as the man I’ve nicknamed Dead Elvis strides by. This scrawny octogenarian sports an improbable silver-coloured quiff and leopard print trunks. His leathery skin is tanned to ebony brown and has more lines than a cyclone affected weather map. I wouldn’t let him within five miles of a school.

‘And here come the Munich festival crew.’ I grumble, as a group of retired German bankers - who else can afford to stop work while they can still herd shopping trolleys round an Asda car park – arrive at the pool bar and order their first beers of the morning. In the cheaper, locals’ bars behind the beach, unemployed Spanish men are also drinking alcohol with a spooky symmetry.

The overweight German men are already in their skimpy, unappetisingly saggy swimsuits, and their perma-tanned wives sport garish prints on their blouses that match their varicose-veined legs. The males wear more gold reserves around their necks and wrists than the Greek economy can muster. I start to yearn for some kids to disrupt the smug air of entitlement and maybe wet this bunch on the outside with the sort of bombs that didn’t remodel Coventry.

‘Don’t check you work emails.’ Scolds my wife as we get out of the midday sun ahead of the mad dogs. I’ve just had a shameful rant that the overworked maid, on a minimum wage sweating in a nylon uniform, hasn’t cleaned our room yet. The naivety of my punk rock anarchist days never seemed further away.

‘I need to know what they are up to.’ I tell my wife switching on my netbook and failing to find a strong enough Wi-Fi signal again. We’ve changed room once already and the receptionist insists on greeting me with a curt, Guten Morgen before breakfast every day. I can’t make another fuss.

‘The office will survive without you.’ Continues my wife so reasonably I want to bark a couple of angry Halts Mauls at her. The paradox is, I ached to escape the office and now I feel like starting a tunnel to get back there. Maybe it’s Stockholm syndrome, my geography is all over the place, so who knows?

‘What did that achieve?’ Asks my wife as we go back to the hotel terrace for a pricey coffee, as there is no kettle in the room. We’ll be taking the tea bags back home again then.

‘Not a lot.’ I acknowledge. The asinine work emails I’ve just scanned made me testier than ever and now my shorts are feeling so tight I reckon I’ll need to concede to the next waist size up when we next travel. All this food and alcohol is starting to take its toll, my liver is grumbling as much as I do and I’ve a feeling I’ll still be finding sand in places I didn’t know I had, in February.

‘No we don’t want any fake sunglasses.’ I snap at the African lad flogging knock-off designer shades with authentic looks and all the UV protection you’d get popping you pants on your head. Then the smokers sit next to us, something I now find as offensive as someone squatting down and taking a dump alongside you.

Auf Wiedersehen. 

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