Most days, I drive past a lovely but rather run down house, which is being extensively renovated. I could not afford this house even when it was a complete wreck. I read about it when it was for sale a few months ago in one of the local ‘property porn’ publications which I consume frequently but furtively. I know its wrong to look at these magazines, but I just get drawn in, even though I always end up feeling ashamed of myself afterwards. I have also found recently that I need more specialist material to get the sort of thrill that I had when I first started flicking through them out of curiosity.
Anyway, I have been watching the progress of this renovation, and the house is nearly complete. The builders on the project are a group of burly middle-aged men who had decided to remove their T-shirts today and reveal the full glory of their bowling ball bellies to the outside world – or maybe I’ve got it wrong and they are all seven months pregnant.
As I drove along in a very slow moving line of traffic, with the car window down, I had a chance to marvel at the new roof, ogle the freshly painted windows, and lust after the side and attic conversions. I don’t think I was drooling. Well, not excessively.
My fantasies were rudely interrupted when one of the builders, obviously a stranger to the salad bar, shouted at me from the scaffolding: ‘Getting an eyeful, love?’ and winked.
There really was no suitable response. I either had to let him continue the sublime self-delusion that he is something of a demi-god, whose rotund, hairy torso is worthy of worship, or confess my sad, carnal property lust.
I opted for the middle ground, and told him I was just admiring his bay window.
Tonight, I am drinking a glass of Tesco Finest Howcroft Estate Shiraz (£7.99). H is more of a
I am hoping it will help to dispel the deepening concern that I am now of an age where builders on scaffolding think I am lusting after them, rather than the other way round. Perhaps attack is the best form of defence. Tomorrow I shall drive past the house and yell at the assorted builders’ bums: ‘Look at the arse on that – you could park your bike in there!’
Maybe I should just have another glass of
