Summer In The City

‘Which tie do you reckon is suitable?’ I ask my wife, staring blankly at the 100-plus selection in the wardrobe door. Some of them should have been jettisoned but you never know when paisley will be back in fashion….

‘There isn’t a suitable one in this heat.’ Responds my wife, sweeping her hand towards the wide-open windows. Already the temperature is climbing and that’s after another hot and sweaty night - which involved no close contact whatsoever.

‘I have to wear a tie.’ I tell her stubbornly. ‘This weather can’t last.’ The British summer isn’t exactly renowned for day after day of unbroken sunshine. Already the lawn has turned the colour of straw. I nearly dusted off the hose and sprinkler last evening, until I remembered the water meter.

‘It’s set fair for another week they say.’ She replies smugly. ‘Something to do with a Gulf Stream.’

‘That’s an executive plane.’ I tell her tartly, while thinking it might just be an ocean current too. Never have internet access and Wikipedia when you need it – although the students who keep winning the pub quiz seem to manage.

‘Are you sure?’ She responds, fingering a gaudy slice of silk I bought at a station-side Tie Rack, half-pissed after a corporate bash. Of course I’m not sure, but I’m in sales and I know if you say something with enough conviction 9 out of 10 people will believe you.

‘You’re thinking of the Jet Stream.’ I say knowledgably, fingers crossed behind my back.

‘Now that sounds like an aeroplane.’ Says my wife damning more statistics, before spinning the little automated tie holder I screwed to the inside of the wardrobe door more years ago than I care to remember. The gadget groans and grinds to a halt as the batteries finally expire. I know how they feel.

‘I don’t know why you have to be so stubborn.’ Continues my wife, as I munch disinterestedly on the rabbit food muesli combo she’s decreed we’ll be eating for the next three months, as we try to shift the poundage we gained in just a fortnight of rest and relaxation.

She’s just reminded me how “cool” the continental realtors appeared when I was looking in agency windows on holiday. Only I’m British and we don’t do shorts convincingly, other than for sport. And there’s very few with a UK passport that can look anything other than a twat with a jumper draped over their shoulders of an evening.

‘You’re going to be hot.’ Announces my wife as I peck her on the cheek. It’s a phrase I haven’t heard in a while – at home, or in my one-to-one appraisals with the bean counter boss.

‘It’s the lightest weight suit I have.’ I respond, trying in vain to wedge my fingers into the trouser waistband. I’m sure the dry cleaners shrink clothes, no mater what the marketing blurb claims…

By the time I’m half way down the dual carriageway, I’m plucking at the over-tight shirt neck and loosening my tie knot, despite having the air-conditioning wound to a frosty maximum. The sun is in my eyes and I’m silently cursing the fiery red ball, even as the lisping idiot local radio presenter gleefully informs me of temperatures matching the Mediterranean. Perhaps the khaki shorts, polo top and sock-less deck shoes wasn’t such a silly idea.

‘Jesus it’s hot in here.’ Grumbles assistant manager T as he comes in and looks suspiciously at the air-con unit in the ceiling. The wastepaper bin underneath, half-full of stagnant water, gives a clue even as idiot trainee stumbles in. I’m not explaining Legionnaires’ disease to him again – he’d never even heard of Beau Geste….

‘We should be like the Spanish estate agents.’ Says Lettings lush B when she arrives in sleeveless blouse. I detect a familiar female theme even as I see the thermometer nudging 25 degrees centigrade.

‘What?’ I snap. ‘Price at 30% more than market value and have faded photos in the window instead of snow-covered shots. Or should I suggest to some of our vendors we advertise their homes with, Distress Sale. Offers Needed?’

B looks at me disdainfully. Here it comes.

‘Someone’s hot under the collar.’

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Moving On - Saturday

‘The house feels empty again.’ Sighs my wife as we load the car with bag after bag of carefully ironed and folded clothes, more shoes than I’ve ever owned and an expensive collection of electronic equipment. The youngest son has gone on ahead to his second year University house, the next step to property independence after the hotel-like safety of first year halls. My life is flashing by in a blur. Soon I’ll be stopping complete strangers in the street and asking them to guess my age.

‘We’ll get used to it.’ I tell her as the sun catches her face and tears glint viscously. I’d cry if they never leave home, I think fleeting, until I realise I miss both boys when they’re away. I just don’t want them staying in their rooms, like some I see, until their fortieth birthday approaches. You’ve got to move on, even if it’s to an overpriced flat share with only one toilet.

‘The house seems so big with just the two of us.’ She continues in a downbeat tone. I’m supposed to be the depressive one. That comes with the territory dealing with home moves for longer than I care to remember. I don’t do jollying up very well.

‘That’s because there’ll be a lot more room by the time we’ve humped all this kit several hundred miles.’ I tell her trying for a laugh as I indicate the fruits of her three weeks of pressing, packing and list making. The boy won’t need to use the launderette or an iron until the end of the first term if he ekes things out carefully and does the underpants inside out thing beloved of students with an aversion to washing machines.

We drive in silence for an hour and a half as I strain to find something meaningful to say, and to see out of the back window. I just hope she’s not thinking of talking about downsizing the property. That’s the slippery slope to yearning after bungalows, a Spanish apartment for three months of the year, then a sheltered development with pull cords for when you are lying in a pool of urine wondering what day it is. The final one too reminiscent of many deceased estate flats I’ve seen – and my last boys’ night out.

‘It’s the circle of life.’ I tell her breaking the silence with something so trite I expect a Disney character to splat against the front bumper. I’m already pretty sure I did a hedgehog a while back, now I’m just hoping I won’t develop a slow puncture. This is deflating enough as it is.

‘What’s that even mean?’ Asks my wife with what I might term a prickly response, if it wasn’t for the unwanted vision of a slow moving mammal splattered down my offside paintwork. Might have to break another company standing order and whack the motor through a carwash. I’m already trying to calculate how to creatively account the private mileage form so I might as well go the whole…. Hog.

We pass the infamous Little Chef we stopped at on our first year trip to an emptier house and a fuller fridge. I accelerate on. Things are gloomy and another trip back to seventies dining hell I can do without. Fortunately the red and white battered building is single story, or they’d have cholesterol-clogged jumpers hitting the car park every lunchtime.

‘You have the map.’ I bellow at my wife as some arse in a giant four-by-four sounds his horn in anger and tries to enter my exhaust pipe. I’m straddling two lanes, just in case, and the lights are about to change before I know which exit I’m taking. The satellite navigation our son leant us dropped the signal as soon as we hit the built up area and now we’re into familiar territory inside the car and Indian territory outside.

‘So you meant the other left.’ I shout sarcastically, as I look for somewhere to do an illegal u-turn and realise with a sinking feeling I’ve been driving in a Bus Lane for the last fifty yards. Somewhere a camera is doubtless recording my meltdown for the record.

Smile.

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