Bonnie and Clyde

A sweeter, nicer octogenarian couple you could not have hoped to meet.

Silver Grey haired and a bit creaky on their pins but with minds as active and engaged as someone a quarter of their age. I had arranged the appointment to survey their property for a prospective buyer myself. We had hit it off well in the telephone conversation to agree a date and time for me to call. Exceptional manners and courtesy were apparently highly valued and I made a mental note to make sure that, on the day of my visit, my shoes would be well polished and I was groomed and tidy. We ended the phone call with pleasantries, a few points of humour and the prospect of copious cups of tea and lashings of sandwiches and cakes. In the run-up to the appointment I imagined the old couple preparing for my visit by refreshing the wc rim block, replenishing the lavender drawer liners, re-stocking the toilet rolls under the knitted doll covers, replacing the old and worn doylie covers on the dining table, relentlessly boiling up the antimacassars and activating a power sapping array of plug in air fresheners.

Their property, a bungalow, was in Skegness, not quite the Cannes of Lincolnshire but nevertheless a pleasant place to retire to. Wide windswept sandy beaches, wide open skies and on the fringes of some beautiful countryside glimpsed above the roofs of acre upon acre of static holiday caravans and the Butlins Holiday Camp. I speculated that the couple had taken up a hard earned retirement, perhaps 20 years before ,with a move from perhaps the sprawling and foreboding industrial cities of the English Midlands or emerging from the dark satanic mills of the South Yorkshire manufacturing and mining areas. I imagined their mutual excitement about a fresh start and the possibility of seasonal stays from their children , granchildren and family friends who would no doubt see a trip to the coast as a good excuse for a visit.

The bungalow was in a cul de sac of very, very similar looking properties. Brick and tiled exteriors, neat manicured lawns and borders to all and always a compact Japanese car on the driveways. I could see failing eyesite and early stages of senility amongst the residents as a potential source of confusion for pulling up outside and even entering the wrong property.

I was welcomed into their home like a long lost son. The couple had more than lived up to my speculations and imaginings. I made a point of subtly showing off my clean shoes and this was met by a favourable reception and an immediate sit down, slap up light tea. I made polite remarks about the nice intricate doylie's and that there must be a large fragrant field of lavender close by given the overpowering scent in the room. We traded condensed life-stories and I gracefully commented on their framed photos of what were, frankly, quite ugly and chubby grandkids. I was loathe to break up our cosy and intimate love-in but I had to remind myself that I was there to do a good thorough inspection for my client.

The outside of the bungalow was of conventional appearance and in well maintained order.

The inside of the bungalow was a completely different entity.

The first window I opened as a basic test of operation fell out of the frame and into the flower bed.

On tapping around the inner surface of the outer walls there was a distinct metallic resonance.

The floors were weak and springy.

In the roof space there was a strong theme of grey in large boarded sheets.

Between the grey sheets was a mass of tangled and distorted mesh.

My diagnosis; The bungalow was a bricked around chicken wire rendered former asbestos prefab.

I quizzed the couple on what they knew about the place as I was now very suspicious about their motivations in buttering me up. It was on their part a very calculated, measured and cynical diversionary tactic. Now confronted they feigned deafness, frailty and complete ignorance of everything to do with the bungalow. I had rumbled them and they did not like it. Their active and engaged minds had been wholly misused for the purposes of financial gain. I did not want to stay there any longer. In fact driving out of the cul de sac I was mightily relieved to have got away without mishap or worse. I did not find out what happened to the couple or whether if fact they did dupe anyone into purchasing their glorified asbestos packed chicken wired seaside retreat.

In quieter moments I have toyed with the idea that they were the kingpins of a massive nationwide scam perpetrated by a gang of retirees exasperated by the diminishing returns of savings and investments and, lets face it, desperate for a bit of a thrill and a buzz that could not be attained even by faulty wiring on a stannah stair lift or a bath hoist that has no earth bonding.