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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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.

Groundhog Day - Monday

‘How are you feeling?’ Asks my wife as I hop from leg to leg and try to pull my suit trousers up. I can feel the suntan fading even before the material covers my legs until a far off two weeks next summer. It’s a good question. Like most people in sales, you fret before you go away, hoping you won’t miss too many business opportunities and your colleagues keep those plates spinning for you. Then you begin to worry in a similar vein, a few days before you return. Not sure it’s healthy.

‘I hope they haven’t mucked too much up.’ I tell my wife to a headshake of dismay.

‘What?’ I query unnecessarily, as I lurch to one side and catch a trouser leg under my bad foot, tumbling on to the bed in a distant parody of our wedding night – only without the ardour.

‘You need to learn to let them get on with it.’ Chides my better half. ‘They are a good bunch.’

She’s right – although trainee F is a borderline retard, lettings lush B an incipient alcoholic and financial consultant M a glutton for policies and pies…..but broadly, she’s right.

‘I just don’t want my figures to go to pot every time I’m on holiday.’ I tell her as I tug the trouser waistband together and find either an extra inch of gut has appeared since I last donned the strides - or the dry cleaner has shrunk the material.

‘Looks like one figure already has.’ Says my wife with a mischievous grin.

Every year it gets harder and harder to eat drink and be merry without scale-bothering side effects, and every year it gets harder and harder to go back to the office and start all over again.

‘How do I look?’ I ask my wife. It’s a question I rarely pose and she asks every time we go to a social event. Turns out her lies are even less convincing than mine. My shirt collar is nipping at my neck and the throat-constricting clasp of a temporarily unaccustomed tie is already making me feel trapped.

‘God,’ I moan in despair as I glance in the mirror and see an older, browner version of me. ‘I’ve got more chins….’

‘Than a Chinese phone book?’ Finishes my wife flatly.

There was a time when she laughed at my jokes, or at least didn’t remind me she’d heard them all before.

‘The first day back is always the worst.’ She tells me at the door as she hands me my slightly battered brief case. She’s offered to buy me one of those trendy, leather, laptop-sized man bags but it only reminds me of my school satchel and I’m still trying to forget that particular trauma. Some of those teachers would be convicted and imprisoned by today’s standards and if I ever visit that maths teacher in a sheltered home I’ll happily knot all his orange emergency pull-cords at a height he can’t grab from the floor. Try working out the algebraic equation to contact a call centre 3,000 miles away as the cord swings back and forth at a pendulum rate of 30 beats to the minute while lying in a pool of your own piss, you old sadist.

‘Chins up.’ Offers my wife, with a chuckle. I smile all the way to the car, until the sciatic pain I’ve hardly felt when relaxed and in swim shorts, spears its way down my leg like the shock from a cattle prod. Even as I fire up the engine and the battery labours after fourteen days of inactivity, my stomach is gurgling like a washing machine on its first fill-up cycle. They now know labouring in dusty coalmines was ruinous to your health, and asbestos fitters – or at least their beneficiaries – have a path to financial recompense. It’s my bet that in years to come someone will realise continually escalating sales targets and rising opening hours will be an actionable offence. It’ll be a PPI mis-selling and compensation lawyers’ bonanza all over again. You heard it here first.

At the office not much has changed – including the stock, window display and sales pipeline.

I take an indigestion tablet and lift the phone.

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Excess Baggage - Saturday

‘Now, I need an answer now!’ I yell as the hire car splutters on to a roundabout while I look the wrong way for the umpteenth time and narrowly avoid being sideswiped by an angry looking kid in a Seat.

‘I’m not sure.’ Answers my wife haltingly as the swarthy youth in the Leon gives me the finger and hurls a mouthful of Hispanic abuse at me that includes the words Loco and Gringo, plus several other colourful local phrases I didn’t find the need to learn when ordering Vino Blanco and the Menu del Dia.

All trace of the soporific, sun-warmed laid-back guy whom I thought, from glances in shop windows, looked a bit like George Clooney’s elder, slightly tubbier brother, have vanished even before we’ve arrived at the hire car drop-off point. We’re lost, my wife is getting flustered, the red fuel low warning light has just blinked on and the check-in desk has already opened.

‘Just orientate the map.’ I bellow ungracefully, as I wish I had actually brought the despised sat nav I tried once then discarded disdainfully when it dropped the signal, in a one-way street somewhere around Tower Bridge. I approach the next roundabout with trepidation as a 737 suddenly roars overhead, almost confirming the incipient cardiac arrest.

‘We must be near the airport.’ Ventures my wife to the sort of scream two Pratt and Whitney jet engines in full reverse thrust would struggle to match.

‘Of course we f***ing are,’ I bellow. ‘But we’re looking for where to park the sodding car - not passport control.’

In the space of a thirty minute drive I’ve turned for a sun-tanned silver fox with, an imagined, passing resemblance to a film star, into one of those boneheads who don’t know when wearing a top is appropriate, sport absurd three-quarter length shorts and have Love and Hate tattooed on their knuckles. If we don’t get to the car park soon, I’ll be barging into Catalan bars shouting loudly, ‘Big beer mate and a diet coke for the missus, yeh?’ All I’m lacking is a shaven-headed mini-me son and a four-year old daughter with pierced ears….

‘You need to help me here.’ I plead, as a Fiat 500 overtakes me with a blast on a two-tone horn and a stream of expletives, questioning my lack of Cojones.

‘I’m doing my best.’ Replies my wife, not exactly endorsing the statement by spinning the map in her hands through 360 degrees, as a Fill Up Now sign flashes urgently on the dashboard.

‘I’m sorry for shouting.’ I tell my wife contritely, as we hump the overloaded cases towards a huge queue at our designated check-in desk.

‘That’s alright.’ She answers unconvincingly. I’ve been in sales most of my life and I recognise a falsehood when I hear one. A little bit of love for me has been lost irretrievably and lies discarded on a dusty pull-in somewhere around runway 06L/24R.

‘How can it take this long to process one family?’ I rail angrily, as the queue alongside, inevitably, moves at a faster pace than our one.

‘Just calm down.’ Pleads my wife, increasing my sweaty irritation even further. I don’t like the man I’m becoming and that’s before I get back to my desk and read 350 inane e-mails.

‘Seven minutes that last bunch.’ Says a bloke in front of me, turning and tapping his, probably fake, Rolex.  He’s about my age but gratifyingly carrying more timber, with less thatching up top. Briefly I wonder what he does for a living and if he’s as stressed as I am?

‘We won’t have time to get out Duty Free cigarettes.’ Grumbles his partner, a perma-tanned woman with bleached hair and a botched facelift. I decide I don’t like them and hope they’ve just bought a dubious-titled holiday home. Ungracious, but I’m still an estate agent at the end of the holiday.

‘Would you like a brochure for your next visit?’ Asks a pretty woman, in heavily accented English as we finally ditch our suitcases and head for security. I stretch out a hand and accept the glossy publication.

‘God.’ I tell my wife glancing at the content. ‘More over-priced property.’

Welcome back.

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Inflate After Leaving Aircraft - Friday

‘How about these two?’ I suggest to my wife, holding up a couple of summer casual shirts that I maybe shouldn’t have bought last season. Her look alone confirms I won’t be shopping alone for clothes again in a hurry.

‘I’ll find something and get them ironed.’ She says, as I look at the two dodgy purchases as if for the first time and remember how the female shop assistant duped me into buying the garish-patterned tat a Hawaiian would be embarrassed to wear. She must have been on commission.

‘Don’t be late tonight.’ Cautions my wife as she studies her third or fourth list religiously and a pile of clothing, enough for a month’s expedition somewhere exotic, sits behind her while the iron ticks up to temperature. She can’t be serious. Last day before holiday is a nightmare every year. If you didn’t need a break beforehand, nine hours of trying to ensure everything in the office will run smoothly without you is enough to send you gibbering towards airport security looking deeply suspicious. And that’s before they check your occupation in the passport….

‘So that’s the list of things to take care off.’ I tell the team at my last morning meeting before leaving. T the assistant manager takes the printout, one I’ve also emailed to everyone’s inbox as a belt and braces exercise. Sales and surveys to chase, vendors to keep sweet, viewing and valuation targets to meet. The list isn’t exhaustive, but I’m pretty knackered already.

‘Just relax and have a great time.’ Says negotiator S sweetly. My wife said something similar last night, but I was too stressed to start the holiday early. It never helps that one of the countless television stations satellite services afford, is invariably running a scare programme the week before you go anywhere, called something like: Terror in The Skies, Air Crash Investigation or Three minutes and 35,000 Feet To Live…

‘I just find the nearest airport bar and down a couple of Gin and tonics when I travel,’ informs lettings lush B unhelpfully. I’m supposed to be driving the hire car at the other end, so that is not a great option. B’s other vacation-time recreational activity is – allegedly - shagging every Spanish waiter she can find. Not sure my wife would approve of that either, no matter how many tips it might save us.

‘Off somewhere nice?’ Asks the dusky lady in Boots the chemist, as I go to the counter. I’m clutching copious medicinal supplies, together with several gallons of sun tan lotion, after beach treatment and enough insect repellent to fend off more MPs than can usually be found in The Commons at question time.

I tell her the destination as I pile my purchases on the counter. She’s pretty, but too young for me. I’m still relieved I decided to pass on the intriguing battery-powered ring-shaped device placed alongside the prophylactics, one that apparently gives vibrating pleasure to both partners, but might cause a stir at the X-ray desk. I’m not going through that rubber-gloves indignity again. Anyway with my back I can hardly lift the cases, let alone touch my toes.

‘He’s not back until after the weekend.’ Says the solicitor’s secretary I ring with the clock ticking and my list growing, not diminishing. This is the third conveyancing clown I’ve rung in as many minutes. One was ‘in court.’ A lie. The other was, ‘with clients,’ equally improbable. All three won’t be getting any lawyer-free buyers introduced to them for a while. I’ve a memory like an elephant where snubs are concerned.

‘Bean counter, on line three.’ Announces trainee F, late in the day. I’ve told him not to announce my boss like that. Granted it’s my nickname for the little figure-fiddler but F is more likely to forget to put him on hold.

‘Everything under control?’ Begins the bean counter in a lethally loaded question. If they can cope without me it’s not the best signal to send. On the other hand, if I’ve not left the office on an even keel he’ll be even more pedantic approving future holiday dates. I take a chance.

What could possibly go wrong?

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Back To Life Back To Reality - Tuesday

Walking across the park nothing much has changed. The detritus of last night’s takeaway meals look broadly the same. A scattering of branded boxes, some fox-stripped chicken bones and a selection of high-strength lager cans are strewn amongst the meagre flowerbeds. A lone council employee is over the far side in his dayglow jacket, poking disconsolately at the debris with one of those long-handled pickers that give the illusion you’re at arms length from a rubbish job.

‘Spare some cash for a cuppa?’ Pleads a scarecrow-like figure slumped on one of the benches, in a vast army greatcoat glistening with dew. The unshaven man has that look of despair in his eyes, the look I tend to wear on a Friday afternoon when the weekly stats are due and I’m still trying to piece together a deal that might save me from transmitting negative figures.

‘Sorry. No change.’ I tell the unshaven man curtly. It’s not exactly true in relation to the pound coins in my pocket but I’m guessing it’s spot-on when I get back to the office. The man mutters something unflattering behind my back and I only just restrain myself from spinning and giving him the Daily Mail readers’ rant about getting a job and taking some responsibility for a being washed-up failure, but I realise it’s too close to home.

‘Hello.’ Calls a familiar voice I don’t want to hear. ‘Been somewhere hot?’ I paste on my public persona smile and turn to see the hobbling banker. He looks like shit.

‘Holiday.’ I tell him with a thin smile. I can feel my skin starting to flake and I’m guessing the tan will be gone before the credit card bill arrives and I wonder just what I bought from an unknown shop, with such a poor exchange rate.

‘Alright for some.’ Rejoins the loan peddler. ‘I can’t afford to get away.’

Neither can I mate, particularly with a mortgage from your pension-plumped bosses, I think sourly. That’s why I’m heading back to the office hoping against hope they’ve had a decent few days while I’ve been away.

‘Somewhere nice?’ Enquires the banker, pleasingly struggling to keep up with my slightly brisker now, pace. Just another flyblown island where they’ve over-borrowed and overspend on property projects I feel like saying, but I just give him the destination instead.

‘Get a good exchange rate?’ He asks as we cross the road together and I see the office fascia looming ominously. Not for the pottery pieces my wife insisted on buying which were in pieces when we opened the suitcase. I give a neutral answer. You never know when you might need a loan, or another holiday - this time a payment one.

Nobody is in the office yet, as expected. I scan the window display looking hopefully for a batch of new, realistically priced, sole agencies and maybe a couple of freshly appended sold stc stickers. It looks exactly the same. Even the dead wasp is still slowly desiccating on the windowsill on top of those glossy corporate brochures extolling our group virtues. Brochures that no potential seller reads when all they want is a high price and a cheap fee. As office manager you like to think you’re the best salesman, so paradoxically and against my financial benefit, I’m almost glad they haven’t done too well in my absence, but then again... Sighing, I stoop to unlock the door. The alarm starts to sound as I wonder if they’d miss me if that dream of becoming a writer - or more likely the lottery numbers coming up - ever came to pass? Probably not. I’ve seen colleagues exit for varied reasons: greener grass, mewling maternity and nervous breakdowns. You’re quickly replaced.

Codes punched in, I notice a light bulb out in the window display and growl in disapproval. And yes, I spotted the weeds growing outside the office hadn’t been tugged up. Firing up my terminal I find my password no longer works. About the only thing that has happened judging by the manual copy of the stats I peruse instead.

And another piece of me dies inside.

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On A Jet Plane - Saturday

Rain is lashing against the bedroom window. I’ve been awake forever despite the fact we’ll still be at the airport several hours before the flight crew. My mind has moved from fretting about contracts, offers and weekly statistics to the unconvincing laws of aeronautics. Laws that allow several hundred tons of metal, stuffed full of pasty Britons, to leave terra firma and break through the blanket of grey drizzle swamping this green and pleasant land to finally see some f***ing sunshine.

‘Get off that computer.’ Urges my wife. ‘Surely nobody wants to read your Blog that badly?’ She has a point, but then you don’t write for anybody else and you certainly don’t write for the money now that everyone wants free content.

‘Have you seen my list?’ She continues, hint of panic in her voice. I want to ask which one? She’s been compiling them for weeks now and they are probably more extensive than the pilots’ pre take-off one. There’s the things to check checklist, the clothes list, the wash kit list, the electronics and accessories list, the items to unplug in the house list and there’s a master list somewhere, in case she forgets one of the lists. I’m just listless.

‘I’m sure we’ve forgotten something.’ She frets as I pull into the airport car park. ‘All we really need are tickets, passports and cash.’ I tell her. And even the Euros I kept waiting for a better rate on, might be superfluous by the time we land the other end. I’ve kept a few Drachma somewhere in the back of my clothes drawer. I spotted them when I was searching for those flight socks that are supposed to restrict deep vein thrombosis but I’m guessing won’t be a lot of help if we fly into a mountain.

‘How can they justify that much for a weeks parking?’ I grumble as we stand in the snaking check-in queue and I scan our fellow travellers, trying to guess who’ll end up on our hotel coach and whom I’d actually want to speak to. ‘It’s a captive audience.’ Says my wife, moving forward two feet and setting her bag down again. ‘Yes but I only want to park there for seven days not buy the bloody freehold.’ I tell her loudly. Several people in the queue look at me sternly and decide they don’t want to be on my airport transport either.

‘Did you pack the bag yourself? Quizzes the woman at the check-in gracelessly. I want to spew some sarcasm. It’s taken forty minutes already and my back is aching even before I’m crammed into a seat with legroom that would challenge Snow White’s seven travelling companions. But I know not to rile officials after that run in with the Trading Standards Office.

Travel has become an ordeal that leaves you needing another holiday. All thanks to a few extremists who use their chosen god - one that has kept a pretty low profile for the last two thousand years despite those superpowers you’d want to show off - to justify terrorism. I hate playground bullies even after all these years.

The fact is I didn’t pack my bag, my wife did. But I lie like every other bloke in the line. I really find it hard to touch my toes nowadays and bending over to the snap of a latex glove, while some officious oddball with an attitude - and a tube of lube - isn’t going to make four hours on a saggy seat squab any more comfortable.

‘Priority boarders to the gate now.’ Announces the tannoy as I sit reeking of several different after shaves, none of which I bought. I smell like the camp barman pulling over-priced pints for nervous flyers in the mock English pub. Even I won’t drink before lunchtime. I’m not a chartered surveyor.

‘How come they go before us?’ I gripe to my wife. I’ve already seen the disabled passengers pass and suspect some are just too fat and lazy to walk.

‘They pay more to get what they want.’ She answers.

It’s the same in the property market. Time to go.

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Nine Lives - Wednesday

‘Couple of messages in the book for you.’ Announces negotiator S as I come through the office door weary, vaguely conscious I’m feeling and smelling stale.

‘Anything good?’ I ask more in hope than expectation. The business being predicated on steps forward and back, and the hope you’ll have actually made progress during each working week.

‘Not really.’ Answers S with a smile and a compensatory shrug. She’s an asset - and more desirable than some of the over-priced tat alongside her in the window.

As I sit at assistant manager T’s vacant desk, I read the tasks that await me. A chain is wobbling with a seller threatening to pull out unless completion dates match their holiday requirements. A buyer has a survey that they want to discuss – read demand a reduction – after damp and roof spread has been indicated, and a vendor wants to see me and discuss why her home is not selling.

‘Why does she want me to go round?’ I moan.

‘Who?’ Asks S, putting aside a pile of sales files, one not as big as I’d like with my targets.

‘Mrs White-Young.’ I reply, referring to the woman who wants a personal visit to tell her to drop the price to the level I recommended five months ago.

‘You know what she’s like.’ Says S with a rueful look. ‘Maybe she just fancies you?’

The wrong one’s always do, I think, as I click on the activity report and feedback for Mrs White-Young’s house.

I definitely don’t fancy Mrs W-Y. She’s the sort of desperate divorcee who has been through more than one husband and only retains their house and their surname each time. I felt uncomfortable when I was there the first time. Against my better judgement and short of properties to market, I foolishly allowed her to instruct me at a price I knew was unachievable even before I made the front gate.

‘It’s the right location. If you can get her to see sense.’ Encourages S as I gather up my briefcase and comparables, later. She’s right, far better to have a run-down property in a good area than the best one in a grotty one. But only if the price reflects the work required and only if there aren’t better homes, more attractively priced, available elsewhere. The supply and demand curve never lies.

‘Haven’t seen much of you recently.’ Begins Mrs White-Young acidly, as I offer my hand having negotiated the overgrown front garden and managed not to snag my suit trouser on any of the wildly rambling rose bushes trying to snare unwanted callers, or her next unsuspecting husband.

She ushers me though a cluttered hall with faded paintwork and I smell the stench of cat even before we make the scruffy sitting room. The smelly hairball sees me immediately and slides from the hair-encrusted couch and starts to wind its way round my legs. It’s all I can do not to kick the purring feline away, as I feel my suit gaining several pounds of moulting fur and the first prickle of an allergic reaction rising in my throat.

‘So you can see we’ve extensively marketed your home.’ I tell Mrs W-Y as her pet torments me – they always know – by trying to jump into my lap, despite my efforts to fend it off with my clipboard and the owner’s half-hearted attempts to stop her.

‘Now leave the man alone.’ Chivvies Mrs W-Y as her cat leaps up beside me while a line about two annoying pussies whirrs unhelpfully in my head. ‘I know why it hasn’t sold.’ She continues, before pausing dramatically.

The clock ticks noisily while the moggy eying me seductively, vibrates like an idling six cylinder car. I run through my data internally: Three local paper adverts, several hundred on-line views, twelve actual, real-time, real people visits, constant availability on four different web portals, one low offer she should really have taken - all not to be sneezed at.

‘It’s because you are sending round the wrong type of people,’ Mrs W-Y eventually elucidates, as my nose starts to leak. ‘It’s too cheap. We need to put the price up.’

Not a cat in hell’s chance.

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