Summer In The City

‘Which tie do you reckon is suitable?’ I ask my wife, staring blankly at the 100-plus selection in the wardrobe door. Some of them should have been jettisoned but you never know when paisley will be back in fashion….

‘There isn’t a suitable one in this heat.’ Responds my wife, sweeping her hand towards the wide-open windows. Already the temperature is climbing and that’s after another hot and sweaty night - which involved no close contact whatsoever.

‘I have to wear a tie.’ I tell her stubbornly. ‘This weather can’t last.’ The British summer isn’t exactly renowned for day after day of unbroken sunshine. Already the lawn has turned the colour of straw. I nearly dusted off the hose and sprinkler last evening, until I remembered the water meter.

‘It’s set fair for another week they say.’ She replies smugly. ‘Something to do with a Gulf Stream.’

‘That’s an executive plane.’ I tell her tartly, while thinking it might just be an ocean current too. Never have internet access and Wikipedia when you need it – although the students who keep winning the pub quiz seem to manage.

‘Are you sure?’ She responds, fingering a gaudy slice of silk I bought at a station-side Tie Rack, half-pissed after a corporate bash. Of course I’m not sure, but I’m in sales and I know if you say something with enough conviction 9 out of 10 people will believe you.

‘You’re thinking of the Jet Stream.’ I say knowledgably, fingers crossed behind my back.

‘Now that sounds like an aeroplane.’ Says my wife damning more statistics, before spinning the little automated tie holder I screwed to the inside of the wardrobe door more years ago than I care to remember. The gadget groans and grinds to a halt as the batteries finally expire. I know how they feel.

‘I don’t know why you have to be so stubborn.’ Continues my wife, as I munch disinterestedly on the rabbit food muesli combo she’s decreed we’ll be eating for the next three months, as we try to shift the poundage we gained in just a fortnight of rest and relaxation.

She’s just reminded me how “cool” the continental realtors appeared when I was looking in agency windows on holiday. Only I’m British and we don’t do shorts convincingly, other than for sport. And there’s very few with a UK passport that can look anything other than a twat with a jumper draped over their shoulders of an evening.

‘You’re going to be hot.’ Announces my wife as I peck her on the cheek. It’s a phrase I haven’t heard in a while – at home, or in my one-to-one appraisals with the bean counter boss.

‘It’s the lightest weight suit I have.’ I respond, trying in vain to wedge my fingers into the trouser waistband. I’m sure the dry cleaners shrink clothes, no mater what the marketing blurb claims…

By the time I’m half way down the dual carriageway, I’m plucking at the over-tight shirt neck and loosening my tie knot, despite having the air-conditioning wound to a frosty maximum. The sun is in my eyes and I’m silently cursing the fiery red ball, even as the lisping idiot local radio presenter gleefully informs me of temperatures matching the Mediterranean. Perhaps the khaki shorts, polo top and sock-less deck shoes wasn’t such a silly idea.

‘Jesus it’s hot in here.’ Grumbles assistant manager T as he comes in and looks suspiciously at the air-con unit in the ceiling. The wastepaper bin underneath, half-full of stagnant water, gives a clue even as idiot trainee stumbles in. I’m not explaining Legionnaires’ disease to him again – he’d never even heard of Beau Geste….

‘We should be like the Spanish estate agents.’ Says Lettings lush B when she arrives in sleeveless blouse. I detect a familiar female theme even as I see the thermometer nudging 25 degrees centigrade.

‘What?’ I snap. ‘Price at 30% more than market value and have faded photos in the window instead of snow-covered shots. Or should I suggest to some of our vendors we advertise their homes with, Distress Sale. Offers Needed?’

B looks at me disdainfully. Here it comes.

‘Someone’s hot under the collar.’

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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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