Biting Back The Tears - Thursday

‘Wish me luck.’ I say to my wife as she leans in for the traditional peck on the cheek, pre work departure.

‘Expecting problems today?’ She asks. She’s clearly not been paying attention for a couple of decades. I’m an estate agent, problems come with the job.

‘The dentist.’ I tell her, pointing to the lost filling.

‘Oh don’t be such a softy.’ She chides. ‘Maybe they’ll give you a lollipop, if you’re a good boy.’

That’s kind of how the problems started, as it happens. 

Obviously my parents’ generation all had false teeth by the time they were in their forties, my generation had endless fillings before we reached senior school and the current bunch squeal if they need treatment before they get their driving licence. I still think that ghastly old dentist I had as a child was some sort of pervert who got off on children’s screams, drilling teeth without anaesthetic.

‘You on any drugs of any kind?’ Asks the bored-looking receptionist, when I arrive. Only alcohol, which I self medicate after bad days - most days. I answer in the negative, don’t think they cross-check with the local Majestic wholesaler.

‘There’s a form to fill out.’ Says the girl yawning and displaying a mouth devoid of amalgam. Of course there is.

‘And they’ll buzz you when there are ready.’ It turns out, much to my surprise, the Polish lady is still practicing dentistry in the UK - she still doesn’t have any vowels in her name though. I’m hoping she doesn’t feel too alienated by the political climate, as the ability to inflict pain is very much in her hands.

‘Are you still the estate agent?’ She asks, when I’m prone in the chair, light in my eyes. I’m an estate agent, I want to correct, but appropriately, I bite my tongue. Pedantry and dentistry are probably not a good mix. It should be fairly obvious I’m selling something anyway, as nobody else is daft enough to wear a suit and tie in this weather.

‘Hmm.’ Mutters the woman as her assistant peers into my open mouth and mimics her boss. I know it’s not a pretty sight, but I do a lot of grinding.

‘This might hurt.’ Says the dentist, prodding with a steel implement. My yelp of distress comes out at least an octave higher than I’d have liked.

‘Two options.’ Concludes the black widow of Gdansk.

‘Mmmm?’

‘The nerve is exposed, so I can’t fill it in case you get a serious infection. So I recommend extraction.’

Surely that’s one option. I press.

‘Well I could do a temporary filling but it will come out again.’

Still one option.

‘Can you do it now?’ I say, not sure which answer I want.

‘Yes, but it’s a wisdom tooth, they can be difficult. If it doesn’t come cleanly, I’ll have to refer you to hospital.’

F**k. The only thing I hate more than the dentist, is A & E.

‘Crack on.’ I instruct, with as it turns out, unfortunate prescience.

Two injections later and wielding the sort of medieval instruments the Spanish Inquisition would have been familiar with, I’m in squirming agony. I can hear the tooth moving and ripping at the base, inside my head. And with a gut-wrenching crunch, it breaks off at the gum. Not much wisdom left, I think, grimly. But as it turns out the root is still keen to hang in there.

‘Not good.’ Says the dentist, and her assistant agrees as she enthusiastically vacuums out blood like a vampire at an abattoir.

‘One more try and it’s the hospital.’ She says, leaning in. Now I’m sure there’s a website out there for those who favour eastern European women in uniform, squatting on their chest. But I just want my credit card details back.

With one final wrench, I can still hear and feel now, the shattered tooth comes free.

‘Are you a vegetarian or vegan?’ Enquires the dentist. And my head spins. What the f**k?

‘I have gelatine to stop the bleeding, but it has animal product.’

Stick a whole leg of lamb in there, wool and all. Just stop me from drowning in my own plasma, lady.

‘Good day?’  Asks my wife.

I’ve had better.

Tardy Tenure - Monday

At the unprepossessing entrance to our Palma Airbnb apartment I fiddle with the keys. As an estate agent of multiple decades’ standing, I pride myself on locating the right slab of sculptured alloy for easy access, with little difficulty. On the third attempt an elderly Spanish lady opens the communal door from the inside and looks at me suspiciously. 

With my wife muttering something inaudible behind, we commence an awkward Mexican stand-off - same language, just with less over-sized hats - until after my flurry of pigeon Spanish completely bemuses the poor old girl and I have to beckon her out with hand signals. She tuts as she passes and I wonder if she has me down for a Brexit voter who has opted to dismantle the European Union and no longer subsidise sunnier climes.

‘You asked her where the toilets were.’ Says my wife disparagingly, as we enter the dingy entrance hall.

‘Did I?’ I respond, uncertainly. I try my best to offer a little of the local language wherever I travel. It’s a courtesy easily applied with a little forward planning and I still bridle at ignorant Englishmen shouting in their native language, whilst  attempting to make themselves understood ordering a meal.

‘Servisios are the lavatories.’ Enlightens my wife, as I wonder if I may have ordered some still water and a beer from the confused old lady, too. My sons have mastered more than one language - and university degrees - and travel the world effortlessly, while I remain resolutely mono-lingual and stuck in a bigger rut than an open cast coal mine. Still, as a parent you wish for so much more for the next generation; it’s evolution at its purest.

‘Not very welcoming is it.’ Remarks my wife as we get to the end of the poorly-lit communal area.

She’s right. In a British block, this space would be full of notices, insurance certificates and dire warnings from the committee not to breach any of the myriad regulations. Could be why we are leaving the European union. Britain is the only country to take any notice of the rules.

‘I wonder if it’s really allowed, holidaymakers coming and going in the block like this?’ Ponders my wife, as the lift wheezes its way to the upper floor and I hope it doesn’t break down. I’ve seen the after effects of elderly people stuck in carriages for hours, and shitting in a shopping bag isn’t an option that appeals. 

My wife has a point. Leasehold in the UK is a second-class tenure and most arcane, wordy documents, setting out the rules and obligations in a block of flats forbid sub-letting, or temporary tenants such as we are. Vast swathes of London are held on diminishing term leases, where in theory the buyers are little more than renters in a shady shared-ownership scheme. The freeholder - some over-privileged landowner with a title, whose ancestors helped the winning monarch shaft scores of dis-enfranchised peasants - gets to charge a premium to extend the lease, or in worst case scenario, takes the property back at the end of the term. At least Dick Turpin had the courtesy to wear a mask.

‘They probably ignore the rules and just rent the flats out anyway.’ I speculate, as I pull open the patio doors and drink in the fabulous view. The sun is glistening on Palma bay, the magnificent Gothic cathedral stands sumptuously to one side and another mega-slab of cruise liner is inching its improbable way in to port.

‘Maybe they aren’t as strict as British leases.’ Suggests my wife, heading for the bathroom. Judging by the electrical sockets alongside the taps, nothing is as regulated. I’d imagine they loose several senoritas a year to hair dryer in tub accidents. Not to mention how many swarthy Spanish chaps are fried, using electric shavers on the bidet.

‘The whole system needs updating.’ I say, when my wife rejoins me and we make a dent in the first bottle of Rioja.

‘The plumbing?’ She asks, wrinkling her nose.

‘No, the property market.’ I tell her. But I’m running out of time to do it.

The second bottle will ease the pain.

--------

Bearer Of Bad News - Thursday

‘Bad news boss.’ Announces trainee F before I’ve even crossed the office threshold. In the property game - where one in three sales is destined to fall-through no matter what the market does - you get used to a greeting like this.

‘You really need to narrow it down a bit.’ I tell F familiarly, as I walk to the message book.

’It’s not in there yet.’ Says F hurriedly. I turn towards him. Now in sales you train yourself to mask emotions with a neutral smile and demeanour, but F isn’t buying anything from me - other than a one-way ticket to the job centre - so I’ve clearly failed this time.

‘It only just happened.’ Says F pointing at his phone as if that inanimate object is likely to plead his case. I glance at negotiator S. The conflict flashes across her face almost imperceptibly, but I see it, with S it’s hard not to keep looking. S shakes her head from side to side and does that balancing thing with her hands - it’s not quite so successful where her tits are concerned, but I digress.

‘So just tell me.’ I instruct F, tearing my gaze away from S. I don’t want to seem creepy or I’ll end up on another awareness course blue skying asinine ideas onto yellow post-it notes and pretending I care.

‘Number 12.’ Begins F and my stomach lurches even before the reveal. There’s half a month’s worth of commission riding on this sale, tell me it’s recoverable. ‘Bomber is doing the mortgage valuation.’ Continues F with an apologetic shrug. The expletive is still pinging off the filing cabinets even as I place a pound coin in the office swear box and grind my teeth expensively.

Every town has one. Some several. Surveyors who routinely lop about ten percent off the agreed sale price just to cover their bony arses. It doesn’t seem to change much, no matter what the market is doing. Rising, falling - according to the papers it’s never stable - these little weasels in sports jackets and grubby coloured trousers conspire to wreck weeks of marketing, days of fractious negotiating and hours of assiduous finance placing. And we have to pretend we like them.

I know I’m not alone in this, my twitter feed confirms they are all over the UK. Their modus operandi doesn’t vary much. They just ask the sale price, request some comparable evidence of similar sales - then take off a number they’ve already thought of. Our particular bette noir just happens to bear the nickname “Bomber” but I’ve heard of: Dr Death, The Wrecker, Demolition Man and Poison Pete to name but a few. Same pimp, just different coloured trousers.

There was a time, when I first started in house sales that I aspired to becoming a Chartered Surveyor. Back then, all the senior partners were qualified with RICS after their name. In fact it used to be the only way you’d be invited to become an equity partner before the banks and insurance companies moved in and bought estate agency firms in a frenzy of overpaying. Some of the ex-partners are still sunning themselves and playing golf even now. I was born too late - plus I didn’t fancy several years of studying…

Now the surveyors we see are just as haunted as the house sales people. Targeted and monitored to within an inch of their next nervous breakdown. Spending your days rushing from dusty loft space to dusty loft space then dictating your survey, or more often now, downloading the pre-populated report on your tablet computer, while sitting in a mid-range Vauxhall with pastry crumbs in your lap I can do without. We tend to run Fords…

‘Hello all.’ Says Bomber when he arrives for the keys. I can almost taste the hatred, he has the skin of a rhinoceros.

‘Any comparable sales?’ Asks Bomber as I hand him No 12’s keys and a set of our sales particulars.

‘We had a lot of people wanting this one.’ I urge. ‘It’s worth every penny.’

‘We’ll see.’ responds Bomber as he leaves.

‘Stick the For Sale board back up boss?’ Asks F before the door has closed.

He’s learning.

Parklife - Wednesday

‘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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Please Hold Caller - Monday

‘No calls for a while please.’ I tell the office as I begin the retreat to my own space. I don’t often close the door – not least because it’s lonely in there - but some calls need to be away from the general public.

‘Got to speak to the bean counter’ Asks assistant manger T with a wry smile.

Not sure publicising the nickname for my pedantic little figure-fiddling boss was the smartest move I’ve made, but once the lid’s off the box…

‘I’d rather not initiate a call.’ I tell T as he nods in understanding.

‘Secret girlfriend?’ Suggests lettings lush B with a salacious smirk.

‘He’s happily married.’ Counters negotiator S sweetly.

‘Yeh right.’ Contributes fat mortgage man M sarcastically. ‘We deal with more matrimonials than the Citizen’s Advice Bureau.’

‘You’re so cynical.’ Says S with the sort of naivety that only a girl with a single-hand boyfriend count since school, could muster.

‘If you must know,’ I tell the team, glad of the delay. ‘I’m about to ring a customer help line.’ The laughter takes a while to subside.

‘We’ve got to listen to that.’ Pleads T, tears of mirth not far away. ‘Could you instigate your open door policy?’

I promised myself I wouldn’t use the F-word and I fail even before I dial the suspiciously coded number that will probably cost me 45 pence a minute, or at least the bean counter - an upside I hadn’t expected.

‘I’m guessing it won’t be a pleasant experience for the end-user.’ Suggests S with a smile. I bang on day in, day out, about listening to clients needs and responding positively without resorting to a script. Major on the point of difference someone human can give, if they really go the extra yard – metres are available too you Trading Standards Nazis – and respond to requests by doing what they say, by delivering top-notch service. Without it we’re just another agent that nobody likes much.

‘You should tape it so we can have a giggle later.’ Suggests T. The secret recording equipment was banned some time ago, but not after we had several Christmas parties-worth of tapes where other agents responded to fee enquiries and mailing list requests, with laughable ineptitude.

It’s illegal to record without permission.’ I say limply. I think it is, but then I can’t keep up with conflicting legislation at the best of times. I’m supposed to be the Freedom Of Information Act officer - but I try not to tell anyone. The Data Protection Act just adds to the confusion. The thought of telling the call centre drone that I might record my call for training purposes gives me some amusement though. It won’t last.

‘You’ll probably get some dozy Indian who can’t speak English.’ Snarls B with the lack of political correctness that wins her lots of love from Eastern European tenants, trying to rent without references in English.

‘You can’t say that.’ Counters S feistily.

Race Relations Act, I’m 99% certain…

‘We are experiencing high levels of calls,’ clanks an automated voice I already hate as much as that officious woman on my wife’s car sat nav.

‘Of course you are.’ I mimic. When don’t you? I insist my staff answer within three rings but this doesn’t seem to apply in Mumbai. And the accountants think they’re saving the company money by sacking UK staff.

Ten minutes of unlikely 80s soft rock later I’m given several keypad choices, none of which are what I want. I press the # key repeatedly, just for the hell of it. I read somewhere if you don’t conform you jump the queue and speak to a real person. Instead I’m asked for my date of birth, something that really pisses me off.

Far off birthday recited twice, order number parroted in the slow fashion you’d talk to a toddler, or a tottering pensioner, and I’m asked for my home address. The expletive vow fails again.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that.’ Chimes the digitised voice. ‘Did you say: 4 Duck’s Lake?’

Close, but no cigar - and no refund. I had to hang up to take a call from my boss.

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Adverse Conditions - Monday

‘For crying out loud, is it ever going to stop raining?’ Asks assistant manger T, as he stumbles through the office door, hair unusually ruffled, designer glasses steamed up, sang-froid a little soggy.

‘I’m not doing outside appointments if I can help it.’ States loose lettings lush B to a mixture of bemusement and resignation – unfortunately not hers.

‘You can’t just stay in the office because it’s a bit damp outside.’ Chides negotiator S, a step ahead of me as usual.

‘You don’t have to go out there and meet the weirdo tenants and cheapskate landlords I have to deal with.’ Snaps back B. ‘They dampen my spirits enough as it is without ruining my outfits and making my mascara run unnecessarily.’

I’m spoilt for choice. A torrent of lines featuring B spending most of her time indoors, studying more ceilings than inventories and having damp clothes and tear-flushed make-up even on sunny days, washes around my head. But the desire for no more hysterical sobbing and the dawning realisation B is becoming a bit like me- just with more alcohol and casual sex – makes me keep my powder dry.

‘I reckon those new homes they built near the river will be getting a bit twitchy.’ I state, with more than a little relish. It still rankles the slimy local developer didn’t give me the business.

‘Do you think they’ll flood?’ Asks T shaking his raincoat and sending water droplets onto the window display with a hint of electrical arcing. If I have to replace another low-voltage lighting transformer at exorbitant cost I’ll hot wire into the mains and just take the consequences, however shocking...

‘You build on a flood plain what do you expect?’ I tell T sagely.

‘Think I flogged some home and contents insurance to one of those buyers.’ Muses fat finance man M while munching on a slice of microwave pizza. I’ve told him about eating in the office and I’ve told him about the smell, but I might as well be King Canute trying to hold back the tide.

‘Will it pay out?’ Asks trainee F.

‘The thing about insurance.’ Says M between mouthfuls. ‘Is they like to take premiums but are not to keen on settling claims. Kind of mucks up their business model.’

‘That’s wrong.’ States F naively.

‘You don’t get commission clawbacks when some dickhead dies in the first few years of life cover.’ Retorts M witheringly.

I don’t know why we have such a bad reputation.

‘I suppose that leaflet drop is out of the question now?’ I muse semi-rhetorically, as the rain cascades down the window later.

‘You are kidding right?’ Questions T warily. His umbrella is still propped-up by the door, a small pool of water around it accelerating the warping of the cheap laminate fake-wood flooring the corporate cowboy builders fitted, on the last botched refurbishment.

I’m only half in jest. The leaflets have been printed-off. The mystery couple that urgently want to buy in your road obliquely sourced from the mailing list. The target areas identified. It’s just the shoe leather and desire that needs to be furnished.

‘In my day.’ I begin to a chorus of groans. ‘I went out rain, snow or cyclone.’

‘Aren’t they only found in tropical areas?’ Snipes M.

‘You can get them in the UK too.’ I tell him with more conviction than I feel. I don’t have a smart enough phone to Google and check, like those spotty students who keep winning the pub quiz by on-line cheating.

‘Not sure you can.’ Carps M as F looks on in bovine bemusement. I’m still not sure if I could use a bolt gun on F, with those big Friesian eyes.

‘Don’t you remember the great storm of 1987?’ I snap to instant regret.

‘I wasn’t born then.’ Says F after a long hesitation, presumably while he tried to recall his date of birth.

‘You must remember.’ I tell M but he shakes his fat head.

‘You then?’ I say towards B as she files her nails aggressively.

‘Not really.’ She answers disinterestedly.

‘Michael Fish.’ I continue almost pleadingly. ‘Said it wasn’t going to be windy.’

Blown out again.

------

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Falling Backwards - Wednesday

‘I never really get this changing the clocks business.’ Announces trainee F with that faraway look I’d like to facilitate.

‘He never really gets any business.’ Mutters assistant manager T.

‘Never really gets me any business.’ Grumbles mortgage man M as his vast stomach does something similar.

‘Why’s that?’ Asks negotiator S sweetly, turning towards F and nearly knocking her monitor off the desk. She’s too big-hearted for this business.

‘Well, like it’s too dark to do anything after about five o’clock.’ Says F pensively. You could try ringing round the mailing list get some of the dreamers off I feel like saying, but the conversation moves on.

‘That’s the Jocks fault,’ pronounces M sourly, ‘bunch of cheapskates. Never want full cover life insurance, act like rate whores when you try to place a loan for them and now they want to leave the rest of the UK because they think there’s some oil they can cash in on.’

Everyone looks askance at M wondering where that diatribe came from. Perhaps the bloke that ran off with his wife and kids had a secret kilt collection?

‘What?’ Asks M sneeringly, as he sees the opprobrium and I try to work out if it’s racist to rib those north of an arbitrary border some cartographer and a bunch of in-bred royals drew in the heather.

‘You can’t talk about people like that.’ Complains S. ‘My cousin is from Glasgow.’

‘Do they live there still?’ Probes M.

‘Not any more.’ Concedes S reluctantly.

‘There you go.’ Concludes M with a flourish. ‘They all come here because the weather and job prospects are better yet expect us to swap our time zones around every autumn just because a handful of knock-kneed shepherds want to shag their sheep in the daylight.’

‘Isn’t that the Welsh though?’ Queries F, as I lose the will to live - wherever the sun is situated.

‘Can someone hold the chair?’ I ask wearily as I reach for the office clock and find myself wobbling again. T grabs the seat squab and I pull the ancient analogue unit from the wall.

‘Computers, mobile phones and everything update automatically.’ Says F, as I spin the hour hand back, when I’d really like to shove it forward until the weekend.

‘Health and safety know you’re doing that?’ Mocks M as he heads for the kitchen where he’s half way through a packet of Hob-Nobs. The choices are endless, but I’ve two valuations to get to and I like to be on time.

‘Tell you what duck.’ Opines the wrinkly pensioner I’m sat with later.

‘Yes?’ I venture. I can’t be here all day and she’s the type who has agents out just so she can talk to someone. The garden is too big for her but the absent family don’t want her downsizing to a retirement flat while there’s a potential building plot out back, as long as she dies without racking up too many care home bills.

‘These dark nights really get me down.’ Continues the old girl. ‘I can’t get out to do the pruning and the curtains are all drawn by half-past four.’ She looks at me sadly. Please don’t say that, I think. Not again. The alternative isn’t too peachy. But she says it anyway.

‘Don’t get old will you son? It’s no fun at all.’

‘How was the last valuation?’ Asks T as I come in from the gloom, office lights blazing onto a darkened pavement.

‘Time-waster.’ I tell him flatly. ‘Just lonely.’

‘Not moving?’

‘Only in a box.’ I tell T, as F comes back from the gents’ toilet, awkward damp patch on his trousers.

‘I’ve booked a viewing on the repossession in London Road at six o’clock.’ He announces proudly. The groans echo like a bad Halloween party.

‘What?’ Pleads F.

‘The power is off you numpty.’ Spits M, along with some oat-flecked crumbs.

‘They said they couldn’t see it any other time.’ Counters F sulkily.

‘They won’t see it this time love.’ Says S gently.

‘Would they re-arrange?’ I ask F after he’s made the call.

‘No. They got pissy and said, did we want to sell it?’ Replies F.

The torch batteries were dead.

-----

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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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Ice Ice Baby - Thursday

‘You could wear a short-sleeve shirt today.’ Suggests my wife, gazing out the window at unaccustomed morning sunshine. You’d think she’d know me better by now, but they still try to mould you, however mouldy you are.

‘Short-sleeve shirts are for computer engineers and door to door salesmen.’ I tell her snootily.

‘You are sort of a door-to-door salesman.’ She retorts with a twinkle in her eye. She’s not getting me that easily, especially as I’ve already showered and don’t need to get hot under the collar…

It’s a long-running argument. I accept it might be more comfortable to wear casual sports wear on the few days we get any decent weather in this rain-lashed island, but you are just going to look like Alan Partridge or one of those dicks that run their own estate agency as if it’s their front room. Sitting there in slacks and a tank-top jumper, with some wheezing Labrador lolling on the office carpet as if it makes the whole operation homely. And don’t even start me on the knobs that wear designer polo shirts, loafers and artfully battered £200 jeans – it’s just distressing.

‘I just think you’d be more comfortable.’ She persists over breakfast, as youngest son raises his eyes to the heavens. He’s going to get a prematurely wrinkled forehead if he stays at home too long.

‘It’s not about feeling comfortable.’ I tell her absurdly as I pick at the dusty muesli she insist will help my girth and not necessitate that long-delayed move into the next waistband size, and a whole wardrobe full of new suits.

‘What is it about then?’ My wife presses. ‘You don’t want to be turning up in people’s homes hot and sweaty. I wouldn’t instruct an agent that smells of body odour.’

I take a surreptitious sniff under my shirt armpits. My son increases his frown line damage and moves a step nearer to early-application Botox. I’m fresh now, post shower and with the liberal use of under arm deodorant but come mid-afternoon, two sales fall-throughs, a duff survey and my third abortive valuation I might be a bit stale. Not stale enough to look like an antipodean bank manager though. Those television programmes where they follow families thinking of relocating to Australia or New Zealand still make me shake my head in bemusement. I shouldn’t watch them, but anything property related has a masochistic attraction. There’s always one partner driving the move on the back of some drunken gap year when they didn’t have three kids, a heavily mortgaged house to flog and limited career options. You should never go back. Bruce or Sheila have moved on and are probably bald or saggy and property prices are no longer in your favour. If you can’t make it in the UK it’s a fair bet you’ll do no better just because the sun is shining and you can barbecue nine months of the year.

‘It’s all about how you present yourself.’ I tell my wife as I gather my briefcase and pull on my jacket, already too hot, but refusing to compromise.

‘As sweaty and overheated?’ She replies, kissing me on the cheek with about as much enthusiasm as a blunt-beaked woodpecker.

‘I just know what I feel comfortable in.’ I tell her doggedly. Hoping the air con in the car doesn’t need topping up again. Is there a bigger racket than that industry? Apart from estate agency, obviously.

It’s my armour, I think, as I drive in to a slowing traffic queue and see the orange flashing lights of that bastard in a JCB digger who delights in travelling at peak rush hour time. I feel protected in a suit. It gives me that 100% wool carapace to keep the public at bay. To maintain a veneer of professionalism when sometimes I’d like to just tear off my shirt and go toe-to-toe with the latest time-waster, liar, or deal-wrecker that comes across my path. Like an anonymous Blog, the two-piece mix and match from Marks and Spencer keeps me at – long-sleeved – arms length from my life stripped bare. I don’t have to show the real person as long as I remember to do my zip up after pissing.

‘Air conditioning is leaking again.’ Announces assistant manager T when I hurry through the door red faced and damp with perspiration, mid afternoon. I’m not the only thing dripping. A bin sits in the middle of the office collecting the run-off from the overhead unit. T is sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up untidily. B, the lettings lush, is in a vest top and busty S, my comely negotiator, is just about wearing a flimsy blouse. The temperature continues to rise.

And I used to think I was cool.

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Fascist Regime - Sunday

I don’t know half these people.’ I tell my wife, as we turn up at the Jubilee street party to celebrate 60 years of the Queen’s reign. In 1977 I bought The Sex Pistols, God Save The Queen, convinced anarchy would be a good thing for the UK. Now a load of royalists in 1950’s frocks they bought from one of countless charity shops in the blighted High Street, are singing rather engaging patriotic songs. Time and bags of equity in your home can soften the angriest of left-wingers.

I’m expecting some wag to buttonhole me and complain about property prices after a few glasses of punch. The old feisty attitude I wore, along with numerous lapel badges when punk rock was at its height, has been submerged for much of my working life. Hidden behind a sales’ smile and the slow leeching of establishment values into a philosophy that looks more and more flawed the farther into mortgages, pensions and savings you get sucked. I haven’t gobbed at anyone for thirty years.

Several drinks in and after three plays of a Vera Lynn compilation on the PA system, I start to loosen up. ‘This isn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be.’ I slur to my wife when she detaches herself from a gaggle of middle-aged women with dyed hair and vein-lined legs.

‘See,’ she admonishes gently. ‘These are really nice people. They’re the same as you.’

And the uncomfortable realisation I normally get in the shaving mirror, washes over me and replaces the light-headed rush of alcohol. With unwelcome clarity, I see I’m not the idealist with a full head of hair and a 32-inch waist any longer. I’m the same as them – just with better legs.

‘You’re the estate agent right?’ Questions the bloke from several doors up who washes his Audi TT as if it’s his penis. I don’t know his name and have decided he’s a knob, at least until he wants a valuation. I give a cautious affirmative and paste on the smile that used to be a snarl when I played Neat Neat Neat by The Damned, at full volume. I’m expecting some one-sided diatribe about prices and parasites, but he surprises me just as the Glen Miller album replaces Vera.

‘So what do you reckon on these solar roof panels then?’ The man asks eagerly, gleaming eyes of a zealot as bright as his motor’s metallic blue paintwork.

Now I have a tricky decision to make. One not helped by several glasses of disarmingly fruity punch and the bouncy beat of a big band I used to hate with a passion. I have to quickly remember if his roof has succumbed to the ugly panels, I’m convinced will turn out to be as big a miss-selling scandal as Endowments and Payment Protection Insurance, in time. It hasn’t. So I tell him what I think, in an uncharacteristic – in public – rush of honesty. There’s an uncomfortable silence then he laughs and says.

‘Yep, me too, I reckon they’re a bloody eyesore. Bunch of Polar Bear loving Greens with more money than sense buy them just to sop their conscience. It’ll take decades to get the money back and I’m betting the panels won’t still be working.’

‘Some nice people here.’ I slur to my wife as I start to feel semi-detached. Then the royalist versus republican argument breaks out from nowhere, as someone plays the National Anthem. While the temperature rises and storm clouds gather, a lairy bloke - who must be renting - starts to bad-mouth the Queen and I find myself reluctantly defending her. Obviously I can’t do the same for Charles, his tree hugging and his hangers on. It’s only thirty-five years since the bondage trousers and The Buzzcocks, after all.

‘That wasn’t helpful.’ Hisses my wife as the party disperses and the rain starts to fall. She has a point. I thought I’d defuse the situation by posing the Diana v Camilla question and asking who would shag Camilla?

But it got ugly.

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