Clutching the solitary flip flop in my hand I tear up the rain soaked stone steps, searching for my husband around every sodden stair. Finally, on hearing a deep groan I turn the last corner to find him lying in a puddle of his own discomfort, sprawled across the floor like the world’s most unfortunate incarnation of Cinderella, grasping his swollen ankle and expressing profanities so detailed I refrain from making any Prince charming jokes until his mouth has been washed out with carbolic soap.
“I fell down the stairs and not one of you noticed” he yells up to me through the falling raindrops and then makes a feeble attempt to reintroduce his foot to its runaway soul mate. After several failed attempts he shoves the rubber shoe into his pocket and sits with arms folded, sulking on the tiles.
Trying to stifle an impending giggle I turn away and concentrate on a cobweb located just above my right eyebrow. I make a mental note to try and refrain from laughing at people who fall over even though Harry Hill appears to have made a small fortune from it.
But the harder I try and convince myself to not make light of the situation, the harder my shoulders start to shake and the stupidity of the situation finally overrides any matrimonial compassion and I throw my head back and let out a peal of laughter.
After the giggles have finally tailored off into hiccups, I uncross my legs and hold a tentative hand out to my spouse who promptly brushes my fingers away, hauls himself upright, dusts off his injured pride and hobbles down the steps to join us all in the estate agents car. Mr Veneers is trying his best to sully his dental investment with several Marlboro lights and the boy child; unaware of the events unfolding around him is tapping his foot in time to whoever happens to be flavour of the month on his iphone.
No one comments along the short journey as to why the Costa del Sol’s latest incarnation of Lord Lucan was delayed on level three for such a long time. In all honesty, looking at his petulant face, no one would dare.
The sun evaporates the remaining black clouds as we gallop steadily along the A7 from Calahonda over to our next destination, Mijas Golf. Bleached villas and Orange Blossom adorn the roadside as we climb the whitewashed village, finally stopping in front of a pretty terraced house which overlooks a sparkling communal pool set in stunning surroundings.
Entering the front door we walk/hobble straight into a dining room come kitchen which leads directly out onto a private terrace. Every picture I have seen depicting what we could actually afford in southern Spain is brought to life within this home. It has the two bedrooms we require and two bathrooms we will invariably need once the inevitable visitors start arrive and the views are simply stunning. Boy child, already bored in the pursuit of utopia sits out on the sundrenched balcony and grunts his approval as we point out various landmarks.
I lean upon a potted Palm and breathe in the tranquillity. My husband sits on a deck chair and places his hands behind his head, swollen ankle and injured pride all but a distant memory.
“Soooo…..are we ready to move onto our final property of the day?” a voice echoes above my head. I nod in agreement and we reluctantly close the door on what could be our future home.
“This last property is one that has been on the market awhile and been reduced in price for a quick sale. You will either love it or hate it. Are you all ready to go and have a look at something completely different from what we have already seen?” asks our realtor with a smile.
I nod my head in affirmation as my husband crosses his arms in realisation while my son stretches his legs in resignation as we head off into the sunset of our final destination.
To be continued…
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