Bittersweet Home - Wednesday

Fifty-odd weeks of the year, there’s a game I play when not actually visiting their homes, or being polite to them in the office, that works well when people-watching. Try it, if you like, I’ve not filed for a patent.

Take any outside situation, be it cafe, park, beach or just avoiding the crowds in Oxford Street and ask yourself as people walk towards you, would I talk to them on holiday? It might be an indictment of me or more likely the general public, but ninety-nine times out of one-hundred, as I search for fashion sense, self-awareness and a hint of intellect in the eyes, it’s a big fat, badly-dressed, overweight no. So when you do actually go on holiday, be prepared for quite a few dinners for two.

‘Look at the state of that.’ I  whisper to my wife, as another obese Brit in unsuitable swimwear waddles past me at the pool.

‘Shhh. You are so judgemental.’ My wife replies. ‘They might be nice once you get to know them.’

‘I have to deal with knobs all day long at work, I’m not going to start conversing with them voluntarily.’ I say. ‘Particularly when you can actually see their knob.’

What is it with old men and Speedos? If I wanted to see wrinkled willies thinly-encased in over-stretched lycra I’m sure there’s a specialist website, but I don’t - particularly when I’m trying to relax on a sun-bed and read my Kindle in direct sunlight. And don’t even start me on thongs. If you meet complete arses every day of the working week, there’s no need to ever see another one.

‘Don’t you despair of the human race?’ I ask my wife, as I wave for another ice cold daiquiri - a sort of slushy for adults that I’ve become rather fond of. Well, as you can no longer drink at lunchtime in a working week, there’s something pleasantly decadent about getting quietly pissed, then sleeping in the afternoon, knowing everyone in the office is stressed and sober.

‘You just don’t give people a chance.’ My wife responds, wearily. ‘I do, I just don’t really believe in them until they exchange contracts.’ I retort. ‘Until then they are just another wastrel, who’ll probably go back on their word.’ Maybe I’ve been selling homes for too long. Bad surveys, bad solicitors and bad karma have sucked the optimism from me.

‘I mean look at this meathead.’ I hiss, as a tubby lad with a wife-beater vest struts by, clutching one of those ridiculous e-cigarettes.

‘You don’t mind looking at his girlfriend.’ Responds my wife, tartly. Busted. But in truth just as much as I was checking out her toned bikini-body, I was actually thinking, no I won’t be talking to you on holiday, because your partner is punching above his considerable weight and you, girl, have made some bad boyfriend and tattoo choices.

‘Why do pretty girls ruin their bodies with awful inking?’ I ask as the pair walk by.

‘So you were looking at her.’ Retorts my wife.

‘Purely in an observational fashion.’   

‘What other kind of looking is there?’

She doesn’t need to know.    

‘Now that’s a outfit only an Italian can get away with.’ I say later, as we escape the heat of the pool and check out the local town. I’ve been drawn, like a moth to a flame, to look at the local real estate office, much to my wife’s chagrin. A stylish-looking man has just sauntered out of the office in question. The olive-skinned bastard looked effortlessly cool, in a linen ensemble, that on a sweaty-Saturday in the UK, would resemble a rumpled dish-cloth after four fruitless viewings with time-wasters from Tewksbury, who will, only put their house on the market once they find something. ‘Ours will sell really easily, you see.’ No. I don’t.

‘Have you seen the piss-poor photos these Italians take, and where are the EPC ratings?’ I ask as I look in the dull window display with far less flamboyance than the just-departed agent.

‘You are ready to go home, aren’t you?’ Asks my wife.

Yes.

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Licensed To Thrill - Sunday

So the holiday that seemed to be forever over the horizon draws to a close and with it comes the inevitable darkening of mood as thoughts turn to work and just how much damage limitation my team have managed, without my increasingly unsteady hand on the tiller.

‘You alright?’ Asks my wife as we meander along a row of sun-drenched shop units. Not really, I want to scream, but I answer in the affirmative. Few people are lucky enough to do a job they love which still remunerates sufficiently to provide the standard of living aspired to. I’ve seen enough impoverished musicians, painters and, yes, writers lose their homes to know following your creative urges can lead to the council house waiting list.

‘Oh don’t do that again.’ Chides my wife, bringing me back to the present. Momentarily I’m befuddled by her admonishment. Earlier by the pool I’d found myself idly rubbing my trunks in a half-baked drowsy stupor. Fortunately I’m not fiddling with myself in full view of the promenading public. Worse in some ways, I’ve stopped in front of another realtor’s window.

‘How many times do you have to check property prices?’ Asks my wife with a distinct chill to match the air conditioned office I’m peering into. 

It’s a good question. The paradox is, I’m fascinated by homes and values, even in Euros or Dollars. I still get a frisson of excitement to match the languid enjoyment of lying in the heat and watching the less obese bikini clad ladies round the holiday pool. It’s a thrill I’ve enjoyed since I didn’t need to shave every day - face or ears. And yet I yearn to break free from the damaging obsession. Property is a cruel mistress.

‘See, he looks good in a short-sleeve shirt.’ States my wife, not for the first time. I glance away from a villa with infinity pool and no asking price - if you have to ask you can’t afford it - to see an impossibly handsome man with dark mediterranean looks, emerging from the office, carrying a man bag. The swarthy swine gets away with that effete monstrosity and effortlessly carries off the chino trousers, deck shoes and polo shirt. The expensive looking sun glasses the man dons are definitely not the “ genuine thing mister” Ray Bans the African guy on the beach tried to flog me for 10 Euros, earlier.

‘You have to live south of the Isle of Wight and still be living with your pasta-making mother to get away with short sleeves in my business.’ I tell my wife curtly, as I watch the realtor stroll across the road and blip his keys to reveal the bastard is smoking a top-of-the range Alfa Romeo. It’ll break down and cost you a fortune in garage charges I want to sneer. But he’s gone with a screech of tyres, plus I can only just mange to order a beer in his native language.

‘Nonsense,’ continues my wife. ‘You’d be so much cooler if you just wore a summer shirt when it’s hot.’ Pointless telling her you are never going to look cool with a fading suntan, post holiday stomach bulging over your too-tight waistband, while driving a bog-standard mass-market saloon to a repossession in an ex-local authority tower block.

‘Lot of people reading Kindles and the like.’ Reports my wife as we take the last rays of our two weeks. She’s right. At least two-thirds this year are holding up e-readers, although it’s a fair bet not one of them has downloaded any of my output. Writing anonymously seemed a good idea, but in terms of marketing yourself it’s akin to not putting a photograph of the house you’re selling, in the office window.

‘I wish we’d met you before the last night.’ Chortles the woman sitting at our table as the sun sets. I’ve been avoiding this couple for thirteen days but relented, having drunk too much. I’ve fed her and her fat husband a few anecdotes for amusement and to see if I’ve still got it. Inevitably, she asks what I do? I give her my default evasive answer.

‘Why, are you a secret agent then?’ She responds jovially.

Something like that.

Over To You Danno - Tuesday

‘Oh great.’ Grumbles assistant manager T, here comes that bonehead with the books.’

I look through the window to see the object of his scorn, a man in late middle age with an admittedly naked bonce. His head is glistening with sweat as he attempts to traverse the traffic while balancing a large box in his arms. Behind him his ancient Ford is parked on the double yellow lines, hazard lights winking an invitation to the nearest traffic warden. They won’t be far away as it’s not raining.

The man has the look of defeat in his eyes before he starts, the sort of demeanour you see in British footballers every World cup. Many people think estate agency is a loathsome lot, what with opprobrium of public and commentators alike, but try selling leftover books to apathetic office workers who have moved on to iPads and Kindles. It would be easier to flog quill and ink sets.

‘I don’t know why he bothers.’ Continues T as the man takes a half step forward, then retreats to the far pavement as a lumbering lorry thunders past and the light fittings and floor joists rattle again. Full repairing and insuring lease with upwards only rent reviews. God bless you group legal…

‘Oh he’s quite nice really.’ Counters S my big-hearted, large-breasted negotiator. She always manages to be uplifting, I think warmly, as I wonder idly if she has a penchant for the more mature man? She rather ruins the daydream, as the bookseller leaves the sanctuary of the kerbside, by adding: ‘He reminds me of my granddad.’

‘I haven’t got time to read books. ‘Says T scornfully. He doesn’t buy a paper either, but he’s always pinching mine at lunchtime. My timing has never been great, something my wife will doubtless endorse. Too late to be a partner cashing in when all the financial institutions overpaid for estate agency chains, and an aspiring writer just getting the hang of it when the industry collapses due to free content and illegal downloads. Just as well I didn’t buy that guitar.

‘He can’t make enough money to live off doing that job.’ Posits T as the man approaches and I see his hangdog look miraculously replaced by a cheery demeanour straight out of a 1980s sales seminar. He’s faking it like everyone else.

‘Just be nice.’ Says S to T with a steely stare. ‘He can leave the box and you’ll probably be out when he comes to collect any orders anyway.’

‘There won’t be any orders.’ Counters T accurately. ‘Who wants end of run cookery and reference books when you can get all that stuff on-line?’

T is right, nobody with a router wants a set of encyclopaedias in a Wiki-world. But then, who would employ the world-weary man in any modern, digital industry? I see the sad CVs most weeks. One’s where they’ve taken out the schooling dates to try and fool the recruiters and even shortened the career history to show just the last ten years. But you know, you just know. The Government need people to work until their late sixties and few worthwhile employers want to recruit anyone over thirty-five. I can’t afford for it to be me trying to shift literary units. Except in an e-book format of course….

‘Morning everyone.’ Announces the man with teeth-grindingly cheeriness. I saw his face moments earlier. It was a bottle-top twist away from a whole pot of paracetamol.

T turns his back on the man callously. B in lettings picks up a line that wasn’t ringing, leaving S to feign interest in the motley selection of hardback books with garish photos and unknown authors on the cover. I walk over to join her.

‘Got some good titles this month.’ Says the man with admirable enthusiasm. I’m almost convinced. Then in the background I see the traffic warden approaching his ancient Mondeo.

‘I’ve never heard him swear before.’ Says S in surprise, as the man bounds through the traffic to plead his case. I’m willing to bet he spits a few expletives out in the privacy of his, now ticketed car. I’ve started to issue it, sir. The appeals procedure is on the reverse.

Booked. 

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Last Call For Gate 13 - Saturday

‘Terrific.’ I groan sitting knees wedged against the coach seat in front, flight bag balanced on knee. ‘Here comes the jocular Geordie’. My wife looks up from her Kindle. How does she do that read peacefully and not fret about the travel arrangements thing?

‘Just don’t listen if she bugs you.’ Suggests my wife before looking down again. I can’t help it. The false-smiled woman hasn’t been seen around the hotel, bar the welcome meeting, since we arrived. By the look of her tan she’s been on her back most of the week on a sun bed she didn’t have to reserve before dawn. And by the look she just gave the Greek porter she’s been on her back most evenings too, no doubt enjoying a stifado or two.

‘Hiya everybody.’ Trills the woman over the tinny microphone. ‘Did we all have a great time?’ A few mumbled responses echo round the coach. The representative has that pulled-back, Essex facelift hairstyle going on, and I’m not buying her false frivolity any more than I purchased her over-priced trips to bars where she gets a kickback and a free lunch.

‘Now has everybody got their passports?’ She quizzes with a grin.

‘What sort of cretin wouldn’t check?’ I say to my wife, just as Ms Miserable, the new divorcee, throws a hand to her mouth and rushes to the front of the coach. Luckily she still had the hotel room safe key in her handbag.

‘Just sit back and enjoy the rest of your holiday now.’ Says the Geordie lass, once Ms Miserable is back on board.

‘Enjoy roasting in a coach with wheezy air conditioning?’ I mimic to my wife just as a mum with a seven year old, asks if they can use the hotel toilet before we leave. They’ve already been on board for an hour and a half as the pick-ups are all about what suits the holiday company. We are still going to be at the airport three hours before the plane leaves – not including flight delays.

As the coach trundles through town I see the estate agent outside his office chatting to a shopkeeper, cigarette in hand. They are doubtless bemoaning the state of the market. We do the same, just under an umbrella. It was dark when we arrived and now I get to see what the place looks like beyond the narrow strip of tourist shops. It’s a dump. We pass several closed down shopping centres, windows whitewashed out, not even the British dodge of rent free charity shop leases, to give a pretence of affluence. I spy numerous for sale boards that have clearly been in-situ for months, if not years. It seems having disused white goods in the front garden is popular here too, that and a huge f**k off Alsatian on a long chain, to deter postmen and estate agents doing leaflet drops.

‘Looks like their property market is worse than ours.’ I tell my wife as we pass dozens of half-built units rising from the dust, in a post-apocalyptic-like landscape. Coarse scrub is growing round many of the skeletal properties as nature follows the banks in reclaiming the homes. A sun-bleached hording proclaims luxury villas to be constructed but all I see is several hectares of streets laid to plots, crumbling kerbstones and rusting light-posts - testimony to the folly of expecting property values to perpetually ignore Isaac Newton’s laws of gravity.

‘Just don’t think about work now.’ Mutters my wife distractedly. Then the holiday rep is back on the microphone.

‘I’m passing out a questionnaire’ She trills.

‘Big mistake.’ I say quietly. We find punters use feedback forms as a forum to grumble, or extort compensation.

‘Next it’ll be the charity they’re supporting wanting your leftover Euros.’ I prophesise and sure enough the bag starts to come back over everyone’s heads. I just wish I could predict the lottery numbers so accurately.

‘I feel heavy.’ Says my wife as I pass the sparsely filled bag to the couple behind, unburdened by my contribution. They say travel broadens the mind. It certainly broadens the waist.

‘Diet starts tomorrow.’ She announces.

More slim pickings.

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Weather With You - Sunday

‘Here comes the prat with the ponytail.’ I tell my wife interrupting her reading. We both have Kindles and pleasingly about a quarter of the sun-frazzled bodies grouped around the pool are also using digital e-book devices. I can’t help wondering if any of them might be reading my book? It’s statistically unlikely. The majority of women using analogue technology – paper and ink – are conspicuously reading Fifty Shades Of Grey, enough to truly depress any wannabe writer. I should do soft porn S & M, not hard-core bricks & mortar.

‘Don’t make comments about people so loudly.’ My wife chides as the grey-haired man with the single plait walks by in too-tight Speedos and enough gold jewellery to fund a third-world coup.

‘He’s old enough to know better.’ I whisper, thinking you can’t Blog loud enough. Not nearly loud enough.

‘And now it’s the ugly sisters.’ I tell her, comment as involuntary as a nervous twitch, as two gruesome women in their thirties, with matching stomachs and spectacles, wobble towards the all-day buffet.

‘You are so rude.’ Pronounces my wife disapprovingly. What she seems to forget is I spend 48 weeks of the year being polite to oddball members of the public. In sales you are acting a part. It’s nice not to be a thespian occasionally I think, as right on cue the lesbian couple stroll past. Now I’m all for equality, some of my best customers have been gay, but I’m still bristling at the trousers only dinner rule, for men. Last night as I sweated in heavy jeans I only brought for the flight, the crop-haired masculine half of the pairing - the one who wears the strap-on I’m guessing - bounced in to the restaurant wearing grotesque shorts and nobody objected – other than me.

‘This is a people watching paradise.’ I tell her as the two women take the sun beds they’ve had reserved with towels since a pre-dawn sortie, despite it being early afternoon.

‘You might actually want to meet a few people, not just critique them.’ Sighs the missus, pushing the page-turner on her Kindle and tutting loudly. I don’t. I’m luxuriating in not having to talk to new people. Not having to flatter them on personality, price and property. Not having to explain what I do for a living. It’s far more fun to observe.

‘German.’ I hiss, as an old leathery-faced man bent double by his belly, shuffles past clutching a beer, incongruously wearing a £150 pair of Nike running shoes, presumably to help him get to the free bar faster. All-inclusive is proving to be a mistake, as even I have broken a cardinal rule and started drinking in the daytime. You can tell from what’s on their plate the sort of personality traits individuals have. Narcissistic, control-freak types hold plates bearing a few frugal fruits, and have the body shape to match. Greedy, weak-willed characters can’t help piling the food so high it totters as they waddle to their table. I just get pissed.

‘Check the t-shirt out.’ I tell my wife and she raises her eyes reluctantly. A woman with a lithe-figure but certainly not English as a first language, is wearing a capped-sleeve number with the legend Make Love Baby picked out in diamante.

‘Should I tell her?’ I ask mischievously.

‘Don’t even think about it.’

‘There’s a whole book, right here right now.’ I announce incredulously, but she just clicks to another page.

Then some arsehole’s phone rings loudly and I growl in anger. I’ve tried not to think of work for five days. I’ve studiously avoided the free Wi-Fi area by reception where saddos with no life and a handful of ginger-haired people who should have booked the Scandinavian cruise, gather to check their messages and avoid the sun.

‘Tell them I want the contract exchanged by close of business or the deal is off.’ Barks the man into his BlackBerry to some far-off subordinate, possibly his estate agent. My heart sinks faster than the bloater who just attempted to mount an airbed from the poolside and bounced straight off.

Until now it had been going swimmingly.

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