The nights draw in, the kids are back in school, the leaves become golden and the last of the summer wine is partaken from bottles in metal buckets in pub gardens. September. Like spending a day in a stately home; marvelling at the surroundings yet slightly bored and itching for a bit of life. It never happens, not unless pretending to be posh with the elderly middle-class room guides turns you on.
I remember a visit to Anglesea Abbey. Everyone spoke like they were permanently 'upstairs' at Downton. The effeminate twenties American whose house this was rose from his grave and even the most timorous of lower-middle class guest cast off their pastel coat and became Lady Mary. 'House' became 'Hice'. A nice pot of tea for two with scones and cream and jam became 'High Tea'. It's funny, the way that people in this supposed 'classless society' still react to the upper classes, as though belonging is the be-all. Don't make 'em think you're living in a bungalow in Bungay. Don't show 'em the coarseness of your manner, or the living hell of pretence. Just act all posh and the world could be yours.
It's like a certain former newsagent I know. Fair enough, Tel would rather die than betray his London roots and his accent is thicker than the clotted cream on an Anglesea Abbey scone, but even he gets the old class itch now and then. Take his holiday, which starts tomorrow when they get the 7.45 am flight to Spain and then pick up the Merc he's hired for the fortnight. It's Marbella. The Spanish Clacton, albeit with nicer weather and a lack of amusement arcades and sticks of rock. But wait; it's the 'local' bit of Marbella according to Tel. The bit unaffected by all-inclusive hotels with pools, building sites, stony beaches, fat English tourists in pastel vests, shorts revealing their varicose veins and the sunburn. We voted to leave Europe. I bet they've thanked their lucky stars since. People who, sixty years ago, would have seen Skegness as a treat, now pool and slouch around Spanish resorts, moaning about 'ow 'ot it is' and looking for a nice cuppa or an English beer they can drink without it 'givin' me the squits'.
But to Terry, it's the unspoilt bit he's heading for, the bit where only the best Brits bother, the bit that doesn't have all night bars and cheap sombreros and loo holders shaped like Senoritas. He'll be watching the England game on Tuesday in a Spanish taverna, sinking Estrella, eating the tapas, soaking up the old currant bun. I argued the above point with him on Friday as we sat eating curry, the sitar music twanging on low in the backround. "Yeah but yer don' want the squits when yer over there, waste'o'time that is, 'ad tha' meself, spendin' all day in the 'otel room bog, gettin' the rim of the seat marked on yer 'arris". He sniffed and looked pointedly at me, as though the argument was won.
He's spent a fruitful week seeing his brother-in-law, Tony, in Chelmsford, his brand spanking new townhouse completed, decorated by the builders in greys and whites and more greys. The furniture came from John Lewis. The spare bed was 'bleedin' luxury' according to Tel, who also mentioned with a bit of pride that Tony had installed two Laze-E-Boy reclining leather armchairs in his lounge. 'Like sittin' in the air' said Tel. "Comforts own" he added, in case I hadn't got the picture.
Since his divorce was finalised, Tony has thrown himself into work with a zeal that Tel found disconcerting. "'E's fifty-free, aint a spring chicken no more, an' 'e's gawt all the money 'e'll ever need, dunno why e's still lookin' to make more?". He looked pained at the thought. Tony always was a grafter though. Mrs Tel once told me a tale that, when he finally started making serious money from building and development in the eighties, he bought a new Porsche. Their mother told him off for it. "Whadd'you need that bleedin' Kraut toot for?" she said; Mrs Tel reminiscing about his extravagances. "Fing is" Mrs Tel continued, "by the time 'e was firty, he 'ad a new Merc, a new Beamer and 'e'd paid 'is morgage off. 'E was earnin' 'undred and fifty grand a year in 1995. 'E's always 'ad the knack".
Tel said that Tony now saw his kids on weekends and Thursday evenings. Sandy, his ex-wife, is dating a bloke she met in the gym. "Nuffink serious, accordin' to Tone. She's still a good-lookin' gal is that wife of 'is". The last bit was said with resignation. Tel's always liked Sandy.
They talked Tony into spending the weekend with them, so he could take them to Stansted for the flight on Monday. Hence we had our weekly meet up and curry on Friday. I spent yesterday walking in Walton-on-the-Naze. I caught the train so I could watch the England v Bulgaria game and have a few drinks in the pub in Walton. I met an old friend there and we got drunk and laughed about him being my best man at my wedding, and how he never liked my former wife. Could have said something at the time, I remonstrated, and he mulled this over and said 'Wouldn't have mattered though if I had, would it?" and I agreed and we got back on what her mother looked like at the reception, pissed up on cava and the dregs from the champers, dancing with anything male and under thirty she could find.
Tel texted me this afternoon, mainly to ask if I fancied a bottle of Tequila or a bottle of Brandy from the duty-free. I said Brandy, and thanked him. 'No prbs, b about on the 21st wen were back' he replied. The former shop opened to customers on Saturday. It was open this morning as well. I went and had a coffee in there, feeling guilty because I'd always told Tel I wouldn't bother. Nice coffee. Americano. The owner, a middle-aged woman with carefully tinted hair and an air of motherliness, welcomed me with a loyalty card which entitles me to get the tenth drink free. I'm not sure I'll use it, but still, it was a nice gesture. The shop smelt of fresh paint and flowers. She's done away with the downstairs toilet. She's also opened up the back room as an overflow seating area. She's aiming for the afternoon tea market. Let's hope they don't mind their P's and Q's like they did at Anglesea Abbey.
Ho hum. Another largely footie free weekend spent in good company and without a bet in sight. I hope the posh bit of Marbella's ready for the invasion. They'd better have plenty of steaks and beer......
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