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.

Not Needed On Journey - Holiday Monday

The car is groaning on the springs again. I keep asking for the company to change it but it seems to have developed a mechanical empathy with me – I haven’t given it a pet name or anything, I’m not that weird, but I might miss its quirky character when they finally chop it in for something smaller, cheaper and sign-written with a company logo.

‘Don’t pick an argument with anybody will you.’ States my wife as the turning for the municipal dump approaches. I know the public opinion of estate agents isn’t stratospheric, but you’d like to think your missus would value you a little higher. After all we spend our lives listening to people wanting more than they’re worth…

‘They are just so aggressive and dictatorial.’ I tell her grumpily. ‘I mean where’s the customer service?’

‘They work for the council.’ She tells me. Fair point. No competition, heavily unionised and don’t need to make a profit was never the best motivator for a financially lean, successful operation.

‘Here we go.’ I announce as I turn into the depot and see they’ve added a further four or five skips since my last rubbish ordeal here. The boundaries have high, razor wire- topped fences and stark warning notices, referencing health and safety rules, items unsuitable for disposal and charges that will be levied for anyone trying to dispose of commercial waste, are everywhere. No wonder every country lane I go down is littered with fly-tipped tyres, washing machines and fridge-freezers.

‘How many public servants does it take to watch you struggle with heavy items?’ I ask facetiously, as I spot at least a dozen surly attendants in hi-visibility jackets following our approach with what can only be described as suspicion.

‘The trash Taliban have us in their sights.’ I tell my wife as I walk to the rear of the car and wonder what to dump first? It’s a wonder the dour-faced garbage guardians aren’t issued with Kalashnikov rifles.

‘Let’s hope they don’t realise you’re an estate agent.’ Says my wife as we both look at the opposition for sale boards I have in the car.

‘Do I look like one?’ I ask, gesturing towards my grubby gardening clothes.

‘Maybe an on-line only operation.’ She says chuckling.

Not funny. Plus they’re a false economy.

‘What you got there squire?’ Demands one of the two wardens standing by the steps of the general waste container. None of his colleagues have made any attempt to assist the people warily unloading their cars, despite me spotting at least two unaccompanied females and one old boy of pension able age struggling with an ancient typewriter.

We wait at the top of the steps like errant schoolchildren as our waste is picked over discourteously.

‘That’s for the wooden recycling bin.’ Instructs the more senior of the fascists, pulling out a worthless, pine compact disc rack. ‘And that’s for metals and that’s garden waste.’ He instructs, leaving my wife holding a sagging bin liner that she is told she must keep back, as she struggles to empty the remaining contents into the skip below.

‘Pompous pillocks.’ Says my wife angrily as we return to the car and I spot the polypropylene for sale boards of my rivals.

‘Welcome to my world, finally.’ I tell her with a wry laugh, as I wonder if there’s a deep hedgerow on the way home with a convenient lay-by alongside.

‘Old cathode ray televisions?’ I ask wearily, as my wife dumps the timber element of the for sale boards in the appropriate skip. I’m clutching my eldest son’s VHS/Television combi that a, no longer with us, relative bought him seemingly only yesterday. Everything goes back to the ground eventually - it’s just some items take longer to rot down.

‘You okay?’ Asks my wife as we drive away, the polypropylene advertising boards still in the back of the car. It’s no wonder women make such good estate agents. She knows.

‘It’s a bit sad round the back there.’ I tell her referring to the technological graveyard where, with a lump in my throat, I left my boy’s faded-blue 14-inch television set, along with my once prized Sony stereo VHS player.

‘Beer?’

She knows.

--------

You know too...

http://amzn.to/ttGZ4j

US Readers: http://amzn.to/vXpFJf