Loan To Value - Thursday

‘Long time no see.’ Calls a familiar voice, as I battle through the lunchtime workers, clutching my low-calorie meal deal. I can walk on and feign deafness, or turn and manufacture delight at the recognition. Neither is a great option. I’ve only just agonised over another thankless decision - albeit a culinary one - that left me feeling empty, and that’s before I tear open the joyless packet of reduced-fat chicken/no mayo sandwich. I’ll be starving again by mid-afternoon. I stop and wait. The Boots bag with my lunch inside feels like my head, almost lighter than air. Either one could float off at any moment.

‘Thought it was you.’ Continues the disembodied voice, as I stare at the oncoming tide of barely-washed humanity with the distaste my flavour-free lunch is going to provide, once I shake off whoever wants to talk to me. Then I spot the rolling gait and the florid face. It’s the hobbling banker. I thought they’d operated on his hip, so either the other one is failing, or he’s been uncomfortably shafted recently. It would make a pleasant reversal of roles. He stops and flashes the sort of insincere grin I trained myself out of – after several days in front of the shaving mirror – soon after I started in sales. It’s a wonder he shifted so many worthless Payment Protection Policies with a smile like that – but then the public can be pretty gullible. Fortunately.

‘You got a couple of minutes?’ He asks, nodding towards a bench just vacated by a pair of whiskery, equally unsteady, Tennent’s Super lager drinkers. I look conspicuously at my watch, something you should never do in a sales pitch, but then I don’t want to share my brief re-fuelling stop with a charisma-free moneylender, and anyway I’ve a feeling he’s the one pushing product. I nod and we hurry, as fast as two middle-aged men with medical history can manage, towards the seat. I may not be that agile any longer and the back condition can only worsen, but I still ensure hop-along banker-boy gets the bench-end spattered with dried pigeon shit. I search for the small victories.

‘How’s it going?’ Ask the man, perching uncomfortably on the only exposed bit of timber that isn’t mottled white and black with droppings. The culprits are just rats with wings as far as I’m concerned, and the ancient woman who feeds them is the same mad old bird who comes in to the office every few months looking for a bungalow she and her husband can afford. She’s on benefits and he’s dead, so not a lot I can do. If I’m feeling mischievous I occasionally refer her to S, our lettings lush.

‘Not bad.’ I answer neutrally. Never give away your position lightly. I wait, silence being a strong weapon. Frankly, unless he’s got some corporate freebie tickets to handout for a major sporting event, I’d actually rather eat the, seemingly helium-filled, bag of not-really-crisps but so much better for you baked nibbles, which came with the meal deal.

‘Did I tell you I have a new boss?’ Says the man mournfully.

‘Yes.’ I say abruptly, thinking The Samaritans’ phone number is in the last un-vandalised phone box in town. Just go there instead, pal.

‘And that she’s a f***ing woman?’  He continues, with unreconstructed venom. I suppress an unhelpful giggle as the wannabe writer in me thinks, the punctuation in that last sentence changes everything. I nod, not daring to risk anything more for fear of a laugh escaping.

‘She’s on my back every day.’ He says with anguish, as I try to picture that position without clutching my hand to my mouth. And to think I was feeling down earlier. This is fantastic. Go on ask me for some referral business.

‘I tell you, I need to jump through hoops to satisfy her.’ Informs my entertainment for the day. I might have to feign a sneeze in a moment. I’m almost ready to weep with mirth.

‘You seem happier.’ Says S, my negotiator, ten minutes later.

You can bank on it.

----

Free for five days only from 5th -10th December, download the 'Agents Diary' A Year In The Life ebook, all formats supported: Kindle,PC, Android. Mac, via Amazon. Think of it as a gift...

UK Readers: http://amzn.to/ttGZ4j

US Readers: http://amzn.to/vXpFJf  Now available in Canada and Australia too.

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. 

------



Afford your next holiday buy buying wisely - the property ebook here:

http://amzn.to/ttGZ4j