We had bought two eight-foot long silk sofas in Florida and
they were the last items to be loaded on the removal van in Canford Cliffs.
This meant they were the first out at our new abode. When the removal men had
struggled up three flights of stairs and staggered into the flat sweating and
muttering under their breath, they took one look at threadbare carpet running
through the flat and the paper peeling from the walls, and
their pity for us came through on their faces.
I took the decision to change my car while there was plenty
of money around. Rovers,
especially the big ones, had the inherent problem that their value collapsed
like a panda falling out of a tree, and I wanted a car that both held it’s
value and lasted well. I found a dealer with a four year-old diesel Mercedes
with 50,000 miles on the clock and did a part-exchange deal with him, settling
the difference by cheque. And, yes, I did manage to sign the cheque. Most of
the taxis you see at international airports are Mercedes, and with good reason.
They are built to last, they don’t break down, they hold their value and the
diesels are economical to run. Now I didn't have to worry about mortgage
payments, or payments on a car.
When we had unpacked the boxes and put everything away, I began
to take stock of what needed doing to bring the flat up to snuff. The imitation
fireplace in the lounge was already in a skip ready to be carted away.
I didn’t mind spending money on the flat, in fact I couldn’t
think of a better way of using our money. I would far rather invest it in the
property we were living in than put it in the bank, where interest rates were
derisory, or invest it in the stock market. I’d been there, done that, and
didn’t plan to go there again thank you very much. I knew that whatever I did
to the flat would be rewarded many times over as it gained in value. I had renovated several of the properties in the area and had always
made money on them
Bournemouth was no longer just a home for retired people of
means. It now had a thriving university and a plethora of colleges teaching
English to foreign students, and the town was full of bright young people. And
bright young people like to play, especially at night. As a result, nightlife
of quality, style and varied taste had sprouted, bringing people from as far afield
as London.
Unfortunately, this had a downside for us. The main road
from Bournemouth to Poole ran by our bedroom window and in the early hours of
Saturday and Sunday morning, when the bars and clubs had finally spewed out
their occupants, Liz and I were regularly woken from our slumber by groups of
young people staggering by after a night of binge drinking, talking, arguing
and yelling with no consideration for people who might be sleeping.
And cars and motorbikes would stop at the island, rev up their engines and
hurtle off in the direction of Poole. Motorcyclists were the worst. They would
pull wheelies to impress the girl riding pillion, and we could still hear the
roars of their engines when they were halfway to Poole.
Extract from my books WILL YOU TELL HER, OR SHALL I? A true
story. My story. The story of how I lived with the ten-year terminal illness of
my wife. Available on www.booksthepublishersmissed.com
Twitter: Maximillian19
FB: facebook.com/Booksthepublishersmissedcom
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