Espresso Machine
We are moving house soon and trying to sell some stuff we don’t use. Louise put a few items on buy and sell groups on Facebook and had immediate success selling an air fryer which was, in her words, the worst birthday present I’ve ever bought for her, or anyone. In my defence, at the time of the purchase, I worked opposite a middle-aged lady who was a huge fan of air fryers and spent a lot of time, perhaps too much, telling me how great they are. I shouldn’t have let myself be so easily influenced. Besides, Louise doesn’t really like chips.
So, we got £20 for the air fryer. A cheery non-threatening lady was at our house within half an hour, the transaction was carried out and everyone was happy.
The next item listed was an espresso machine. Incidentally, this was a birthday present from Louise to me, and not something I have ever complained about. I’d hoped sipping espressos might make me feel like George Clooney but it seemed a lot of effort to make a very small drink and the machine was soon consigned to the cupboard to keep the air fryer company. Interest in this was slower but eventually, a man messaged Louise.
“How much?” he asked.
The advert said, “Espresso Machine — £20. To collect from Horsforth.”
“£20,” Louise replied, then said some unpleasant things about the man to me.
“I give £15?” he said.
“No, it’s £20.”
“Maybe. Will you come to my house?”
“Read the advert!” Louise wrote, then turned to me and said some more unpleasant things about the man.
There was plenty more back and forth. At one point, Louise was refusing to reply to “keep him waiting,” a tactic often employed by the girls I texted when I was a teenager. The deal was finally agreed, and the man said he would reluctantly come to our house and pay £20.
“Andy,” Louise said, “I’ve just looked at his profile picture and I don’t want him coming to our house.”
“Why?”
“I think he might kill us.”
“This isn’t an episode of Luther, Louise. The guy just wants a cut-price espresso machine.”
“I’m going to tell him you’ll meet him at the corner shop.”
“So, you want me to stand outside the shop, holding a fairly large machine and wait for a man who may or may not kill me?”
“Yes. Make sure you get the full £20.”
I wasn’t up for this. It turned out the man lived in Harehills, near my office, so I said I’d drop it round on my lunch break. The drama didn’t end there.
Harehills is a maze (rarely described as amazing) and it took me an age to find the man’s house. By the time I arrived, I had 12 minutes to sell the coffee machine and get back to work for a 1 pm induction appointment with a man who had assaulted his wife. I was flustered and hoped to be in and out.
I knocked on the door and was greeted with a scowl by an Eastern European woman in her fifties. She looked at the coffee machine and scowled again.
“Come inside. Show me not broken.”
For fuck’s sake.
“Sure.”
Inside, three more Eastern European women of varying ages were stood in the living room where an elderly lady was asleep on the couch and two children were charging around, one of them brandishing a plastic mallet. No sign of the man. What was his game? I was feeling anxious about my demonstration. It had been a while. Could I remember how to use the machine? It’s never nice being watched doing something. If a work colleague is stood behind me and asks for information from my computer, I can barely type my own name.
I was shown through to a small kitchen where all four ladies joined me. One of them plugged it in, handed me a bag of filter coffee, and through shaking hands I made a bad espresso. She looked at it, shook her head at her companions, then said, “No good. Try again.” They were all glaring at me. I made another, marginally better, espresso.
“Still no good,” she said again. “Where is the foam?”
“I don’t know. Do you want the machine or not?”
“No.”
“Ok, I’ll go then,” I said, unplugging the machine, forgetting it was still full of water and spilling some on the kitchen top.
At this point, Louise’s mate glided into the kitchen as if from nowhere. He was wearing a shirt and shoes.
“Hello, Mr. Andy,” he said, then shook my hand. “I see we have a problem here?”
“Yes, they don’t want it so I’m going.”
“Hmm,” he looked at me for a long time. “Bye, my friend.”
I left to more shaking heads and glares. Even the child with the mallet seemed annoyed with me. Just as I was about to get into the car, the man jogged out of the house, and said, “How about £10?”
“Fine.”
I’d been played. What an elaborate hustle. I made it back just in time for my induction meeting, a stroll in the park by comparison.
Speaking of parks (tenuous) we went to Center Parcs with Louise’s mum and sister a couple of weeks ago. My only previous trip was in 1995 when I was 9, a mixed bag of a holiday where I scored goal of the day in a football tournament, but a middle-aged man landed on my head in the rapids. This time around, no such problem and we had a brilliant time. I took my son to a toddler’s balance bike session which was entertaining. Screaming, crying, falling over and stealing bikes all before 10 am. The young woman running it, who called everyone “duck” did well to stay calm amidst the chaos. As a finale, though, she ambitiously tried to get the toddlers to cycle a “lap of honour” around the sports hall. Not one of them made it to the start line. My son was much more interested in smashing a plastic petrol pump on the floor repeatedly.
Obviously, I’m a big fan of my son but toddlers can be exhausting (who knew?) so it was lovely to have the in-laws helping out leaving Louise and me with some time to ourselves. Returning to the Subtropical Swimming Paradise after a 24-year absence, I was pleased to see my favourite water slide was still there. I sprinted up the steps, leaving Louise in my dust, and queued up behind some eight-year-olds. I was genuinely nervous when it came to my turn and took a couple of deep breaths before sitting down. The pool attendant, a teenage girl, took a look at me and said, “Sorry, sir. You’re too tall.” Devastated.
There were no draconian height restrictions on the rapids at least and I flew down at pace, expecting a hero’s welcome from Louise (who didn’t fancy it after hearing about the man who landed on my head) at the bottom. She was, however, irritated that I was acting like a child and I was met by a glare comparable to that of the Eastern European coffee machine hustlers.
One morning, I went for a jog where I discovered you can’t leave the complex. I ran down several woodland trails, deep into Sherwood forest, but kept being scuppered by a wire fence adorned with the Center Parcs logo. Everywhere I went. It’s impossible to escape. This became a bit unnerving and I started to feel like I was in the Truman Show. Finally, I gave up and headed back to our lodge, thinking there would be worse places to be imprisoned. Would you ever get sick of the Pancake House?
I also pondered the idea of using Center Parcs as a setting for a post-apocalyptic book. Granted, a significant genre shift from my previous writing. I was keen to discuss this idea when I got back but Louise’s sister had just experienced a squirrel flying out of a wheelie bin and narrowly missing her head which seemed a tough story to follow.
Overall, it was a tremendous few days and I’d certainly go again. After getting home we immediately discussed plans for our next holiday. I’m not sure if this is depressing or softens the blow. Either way, we’re going to have to save up some money. We’re selling our juicer. £20 if anyone fancies it? Home delivery not included.
