Dring-dring, Dring-dring . . . or the digital equivalent . . . ‘The house is yours. You can buy it. But you have to come fast to the office now. . . RIGHT NOW’ and the agent, or I presume it was the agent, hangs up. I’m still studying my phone when she rings back: ‘And bring the money’. Or the Spanish equivalent.
Unfortunately I was in the middle of a feature on Google Glass and neurodata. But the next day the house was miraculously still available. What’s more we had the opportunity to see inside it, which seemed like a wise idea – not upstairs, because there are no stairs anymore. It was a bit of a mess. Cosmetic, apparently. Presumably the previous buyer had taken a look inside and backed out – literally – but they hadn’t shown up with the deposit, hence the house was up for grabs again. The views are spectacular, at least. Herded along, still slightly ambivalent, we paid a small wad of euros to Unicaja, the bank that owns it in order to take the property off the market while we checked the paperwork, got Manolo – a builder on the side – to give it a once over, appointed a lawyer, set up a foreign exchange account, guessed the costs of putting in new doors, windows, and a kitchen, and decided whether we really, really, wanted this displaced Greek fisherman’s cottage, given that it’s smaller than we need, has no garden, and is in the wrong place. Our furniture and possessions have been in boxes now for 18 months, and I really want my books. So on balance we thought we did.
The day after giving the bank a yes, a message arrived from Molino via Manolo to say the owners of the Perfect Farm would be open to discussing an offer.