On the depressing state of the housing market
Gad, I wrote this sub-E.L. Wisty-style piece four years ago, posted it on my other blog which nobody reads, and promptly forgot about it. With the housing market turning to toilet – resulting in the Duck family missing out on our dream nest a couple of months ago – I've given it a nice rub down, a light greasing and given it the good, hard publishing it probably doesn't deserve. So.
On a short encounter in Kensington High Street
That Kirstie Allsopp came up to me in the street the other day. All furtive like, she was, pouncing on your helpless narrator as he went about his innocent business of collecting and cataloguing phone booth Tart Cards for the British Library.
Allsopp's well known for her gift of furt, and here she was, in front of me, being furtive to the hilt. And no wonder.
Make-up smeared across her face as if it was applied by the bricklayer that does damage limitation on Amy Winehouse, Aquascutum twin-set dragged through a hedge backwards and taken roughly from behind in a stable somewhere in the Home Counties, white stilettos like they'd never gone out of fashion in 1986.
A nervous glance to check we weren't being watched and she let me have it.
"I beg your pardon?" I replied, eyes darting up and down Kensington High Street for a potential escape route, but finding none.
"Lookin' for business, love?" she continued in a voice that could turn the finest wines into paint-stripper, "Semi-detatched? Nice maisonette? Very classy. I'm not an estate agent, you know."
It was all I could do to bring myself to reply: "You filthy slattern."
"You filthy slattern," I replied, "That's what you are. Filthy. And a slattern to boot."
"Nice four bedroom fixer-upper, plenty up top if you know what I mean," the trollop continued, not put of by my outburst.
"Get away from me, you disgusting tart," I gasped, the anger boiling inside me, not interested one jot in sullying myself with her disgusting wares.
"Much sought-after location..."
"Perhaps you'd prefer Phil, if that's the bag you're into. He drives a hard bargain at the bottom end of the property market."
My look – one of barely disguised contempt – said everything that foul temptress needed to know.
"Oh," she said, crestfallen. I don't suppose a quick greasing up with this catering-size bottle of baby oil's out of the question then?"
Sickening, these celebrities. Besides, fortune smiled on me as I espied Sarah Beeny just down the road, plying her trade outside McDonalds. You should have seen the scaffolding.