If You Took A Holiday - Monday

‘You need to get up.’ Urges my wife’s voice through a sleepy fug. Now that causes some confusion to my jet-lagged brain, as I wonder what day it is and if the instruction is some encouragement for early morning action?

‘The Germans will have bagged all the sunbeds anyway.’ I tell her drowsily, once I’ve realised you only get pre-breakfasts sex, before the first wedding anniversary.

‘What are you talking about?’ Replies my wife curtly. And an unpleasant realisation hits me just as I realise there is no embryonic sunrise-warmth colour-washing the walls. Instead that inane couple from the local radio breakfast show are jabbering the usual nonsense, urging any loser with no life and a mobile phone to ring in and talk to them. Anyone.

‘We’re not on holiday any more are we?’ I state rhetorically, as I glance at the bedside clock and realise I’m late already and that it’s dark outside.

‘You can’t have forgotten the flight from hell.’ Says my wife nudging me in the direction of the en-suite, with one leg.

As I stand unsteadily and empty my bladder, something it proved hard to do on a plane journey where the sole aim of the cabin crew seemed to be to flog over-priced drinks and perfumes while blocking your route to the toilets, I realise it’s Monday. And I’m due back at work.

‘That week went too fast.’ I tell my wife, after a hasty shave where I managed to scrape off two days worth of sunbathing, then nick myself on the neck in a place where it will probably still be bleeding when my shirt collar needs to be buttoned.

‘Tell me about it.’ She says with a yawn, padding off in her dressing gown to put the kettle on. She could read the Blog, but doesn’t show much interest in truth.

‘Can I have some honey in my tea?’ I call, as I gaze in disinterest at the array of ties I’d rather not wear.

‘Diet starts today.’ Comes the reply in the negative.

That’s the problem with holidays and an all-inclusive package. You need a lot of self-restraint. I mean, if you want to dispel the convenient notion that your morbid obesity can somehow be blamed on genetics, just take a look at where the biffers head for once the breakfast buffet opens. It’s not the fresh fruit counter.

‘I’m exhausted before I start.’ I tell my wife over a soggy bowl of bran, with that opaque fully-skimmed milk I’ve avoided for the last seven days.

‘It didn’t help the holiday operators dumped us at the airport  three and a half hours before our flight.’ She reminds me.

If looks could kill, the airhead rep on the microphone, who gaily informed us as we trooped off the coach, that the queues would be extra long for check-in, would be getting gushy memorials on her Facebook page by now.

Quite apart from their woeful plumbing arrangements and a propensity to avoid paying taxes, you can see why the Greek economy is going down the pan. The charming service we enjoyed at the hotel evaporated faster than gob on a hotplate, once we entered the airport. Surly doesn’t even begin to cover it. Those grumpy security staff and sullen passport control people will empty your goodwill, faster than a Transylvanian hooker.

I’d been feeling quite upbeat after a week of limitless food and alcohol. With only one lapse, where I foolishly looked in a Greek realtor’s window. But four hours with a screaming kid two seats behind and an intransigent woman in front who kept trying to recline her seat, despite my knees being wedged so deep into the seat-back pocket I was nearly taking her up the arse with one patella, took its toll. 

‘Try to have a good day.’ Urges my wife, as I do the customary peck on the doorstep. Then I’m passing the same faces in the traffic congestion again and suddenly I’m walking towards the office. Two  more fantasies dashed - it hasn’t burnt down and the window display hadn’t changed much either.

Think I’ll go to the travel agent at lunchtime.

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Hungry For Business - Tuesday

‘Could you do a viewing at lunchtime?’ Asks negotiator S as I come back in the office stomach already rumbling. The bran and suspect dried fruit offering I had at breakfast, in solidarity with my wife’s family diet, has proved an inadequate substitute for a full English.

I move towards the viewing book, before spotting S’s reproachful look. I shouldn’t be cherry-picking the viewings, not a great example to the staff. Treat them as you’d like to be treated yourself I think, as another unhelpful image of S treating me, as I’d like to be indulged flits through my mind.

The silence has gone on too long and as I’ve often told S, as well as the other team members, silence is a powerful tool in selling. Make your pitch then shut up. People always feel compelled to fill a conversational void. I’m paused halfway towards my target and she’s waiting, knowing, looking. Looking pretty good, as it happens. I crumble.

‘No problem. Where is it?’

She tells me, with the hint of a triumphal smile.

‘You’re kidding?’ I grumble, stepping to the diary and confirming the worst with my own eyes. It’s a grotty converted flat in a shabby part of town, currently let to a couple of scruffy students – although I suspect there are more than two occupants most nights. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had sub-let the couch and the carpet. The landlord wants to sell when the tenancy expires, but the current occupiers have no interest in helping him - or us.

‘Have you told the tenants?’ I say cursing this wretchedly misplaced socialist attitude towards my colleagues. A dictatorship works best in sales. I should have ordered someone else over the parapet and stayed at the back like a First World War General, sipping red wine and screwing the locals.

‘They are going to be out so it’s ok to use the keys.’ Says S a trifle smugly. I scan the other appointments, short of re-arranging the diary in an obvious ploy to avoid the smelly socks and unwashed dishes I need to go. I take a sulky walk to the key-cupboard grab, a set of the details and the viewers contact details. I won’t need the rape alarm, I think absurdly, seeing the spare unit alongside the other dozens of sets of keys, but I might need the flea-spray. I’m already starting to itch.

‘Oh it’s a bit dark and dingy.’ Says the girlfriend of the slightly effeminate, posh-vowel city boy alongside her. He has that weak-chinned overfed and overeducated look of someone used to privilege and spending his parents’ money. If he works for one of Daddy’s friends, as he’s unemployable anywhere else, I suspect they’re not paying enough if this dump is all he can afford for his weekend shag-pad.

‘The communal areas are due a spruce-up.’ I tell the woman with a smile I hope isn’t as sickly on my face as it feels looking out. They’ve been due a redecoration for at least three years but the residents are in dispute with the freeholder. He wants to appoint his own building company to do the work, then doubtless stiff the sinking fund with an over-inflated invoice. No change there then.

Dodging a couple of grubby prams, both empty this time, and a rusty bicycle, I reach the landing just as the light-timer pops off and we’re plunged into semi-darkness. Hurriedly I stab the button and the greasy landing light wheezes back to a low-energy, low wattage puddle – it’s certainly not a pool – of light. My stomach rumbles like a Tube Train passing under the foundations.

I tap the door than work the flimsy lock.

‘I’m really not sure about this one already.’ Trills the girlfriend with the double-barrelled surname. God, if he ever does marry her they’ll need a whole page in the phone book to themselves.

‘It’s nicer inside.’ I say then remembering how quick people are to sue now with all the no-win-no-fee shark solicitors around, I add. ‘Or will be once you’ve decorated to your own taste.’

‘Did they like it?’ Asks S on my return.

 Not a lot.

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