The rain is travelling horizontally into my face as I battle towards the car park. Sometimes I wish I could jettison my man of the people credentials and not be compelled to, occasionally, do the crappy unwanted jobs. A viewing with a time-waster in a monsoon didn’t get many volunteers, so magnanimously I volunteered, just to prove I’m not above these things. I’m an idiot.
‘Nice day for it.’ I say to a young girl forlornly shoving a pushchair through the puddles. She looks like she should be at school, but clearly bunked-off the lesson on contraception. And they wonder why there’s not enough affordable housing - try finishing the Girl Guides’ badges before giving birth, maybe?
The drenched teenage mum just scowls at me suspiciously. It clearly wasn’t the charm school she periodically attended.
‘I meant the rain.’ I say as she passes me, wheels on the buggy veering away from my path. I get a soggy scowl in return. Perhaps she knows I’m an estate agent? Either that or has me pinned as a weirdo, loser type - about the same now I come to think of it…
As I wait, kerbside, to cross the road to the bleak-looking park I hear an engine revving. Instinctively I step back just as a sign-written Mini, sweeps towards some standing water. The cascade of oily airborne puddle, rises like a surfer’s wave and dumps several gallons at my feet.
‘Bastard!’ I yell as the car sweeps past, a smarmy-looking face at the condensation streaked window, grinning malevolently. I’ll pull a couple of his For Sale boards down later. Probably…
Halfway across the park I loose my footing and slide like a geriatric Bambi towards a park bench. My back wrenches audibly and a sharp stinging pain radiates down one leg. I should have pulled rank and sent trainee F.
‘F***ing shoes.’ I shout angrily, just as an old lady, bent double, shuffles in to my peripheral vision.
‘What was that love?’ She asks, rain dripping from her whiskery chin.
‘Just cursing the weather.’ I say with a sheepish grin. Fortunately she appears half deaf, so the actual curse seems to have passed her by, which is what I do before she decides to stop and talk. Thats the supermarket checkout operator’s job.
Another malicious gust of wind whips up spent leaves and possibly the odd syringe, as I pass the bleak toilets block with those unhelpful ultraviolet lights that might make it difficult to find an unblown vein to shoot-up, but also guarantee you’ll miss the urinal and piss on your already soggy shoes.
I can feel the milk of human kindness curdling by the time I reach the car park and start searching vainly for where I left the motor. Water is trickling down my neck, the clipboard in one hand is as slippery as an A4 eel, and the leather soles on my favourite brogues are drawing up moisture as eagerly as a desiccated dromedary at an oasis. Then my mobile rings.
‘What the f**k now?’ I bellow into the storm clouds, another swear box penalty despatched cheaply into the ether. The office number is flashing insistently at me. If those tosspots have cancelled the viewing I might actually combust - it it wasn’t for the unfavourable ignition conditions…
I stab a damp digit at the screen and get negotiator S’s dulcet tones. My blood pressure falls slightly.
‘Are you at your car yet?’ She asks softly. I stare around the rainswept tarmac, spaces too tight together for half of the lumbering Chelsea tractors sat there, while the yummy-mummies shop. The only chance of the four-wheel drive ever being engaged on 95% of the vehicles, will be if this weather lasts for another month
‘I’m just about to find it.’ I say, irritation rising. My hand instinctively goes for my trouser pocket as I imagine another forlorn walk round the pride of Germany’s motor industry, blipping the remote angrily while trying to spot some hazard lights winking in recognition. Last time it was the wrong car park.
‘You’ll need your keys - that are in my hand.’ Says S apologetically.
F**k. F**k. F**k.
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