“Hi, Daniel. I’m looking at the property you have over on Foundry Road on the edge of Asbury Park. Is it possible to arrange a viewing?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Could we say two thirty?”
“That’s fine by me. I’ll meet you there on the dot.”
After a brief chat and a warm handshake, Daniel returns to his desk and I walk out into the street.
It’s eleven am and I decide it would be a good idea to head over to the Asbury Park area by lunchtime to see if it fits in with the plans I’ve been hatching over the past few days, but first I need to buy myself a mobile phone. The last one I had was the property of the local police force so I could be on call twenty-four hours a day.
I walk down to the Phone Superstore located on the High Street and I’m greeted by a young guy who shows me the latest models. Finally, I decide on the new Samsung.
“Your best option is our special eighteen-month contract deal,” states Mr Salesman.
I call him this because he never introduced himself and doesn’t have a name badge. We head over to the counter and I pull out my Coutts & Co credit card.
Getting to the Asbury Park estate from the centre of town is not easy. By car or taxi, it’s a twenty-five-minute journey as you have to go around the River Stern. The 104 bus takes around forty-five minutes. These are only scheduled for once every two hours, but there is an alternative.
The 42 bus goes to Pickstone and takes about ten minutes. I can cross over the pedestrian-only footbridge across the River Stern and then it’s a ten-minute walk along Trentbridge Road to Foundry Road and the Asbury Park estate.
As I’m in no hurry, I decide to take the 42. The bus stop is located outside the main post office on St Andrews Street and I’ve joined the short queue at the bus stop.
After a ten-minute wait, I can see the bus approaching. It’s a green single-decker and it’s on time, which is nice. I pay the one pound twenty fare to Pickstone High Street and sit about halfway along on the driver’s side of the bus.
My fellow passengers are a mixed bunch. Two elderly ladies, probably in their seventies, are sitting in the nearest double seat to the front of the bus, chatting away. There’s a young mother in her mid-twenties sitting next to her buggy on the seat facing sideways, with what looks like a one-year-old baby in a pushchair, and a girl of around five, sitting next to her, holding her hand.
On the back row are two young men dressed in Superdry sweatshirts and jeans. They seem to only be around thirteen and are probably playing truant from school.
Sitting in the row behind me is a man who looks to be in his forties, he’s very overweight and short. In the row opposite is an attractive young lady, probably around eighteen, who spends all her time texting.
We set off and I soon understand why we’re not in the company of the winner of the ‘Driver of the Year’ award. He doesn’t wait for people to sit down before he races off. One lady nearly falls over as he pulls away the instant she’s paid her fare.
Ten minutes later and I’m outside a betting shop on Pickstone High Street. As I look around I see several more that are part of the high street. I have to be careful because around eight years ago I had a serious gambling addiction which got so bad I started getting into debt. If my superiors had found out I probably would have been thrown out of the police force because it opens you up to temptations such as taking bribes or doing favours for villains. Luckily, it didn’t quite get to that stage.
After two years of betting on virtually anything that moved my wife Miriam gave me an ultimatum: either I go to Gamblers Anonymous or she would leave me. I started off with a newcomer’s session and then attended regular main meetings. I’ve been ‘clean’ for the past four years but I’ll never be totally cured. As long as I avoid betting shops and casinos I can stay on top of it. And luckily, being homeless I wasn’t tempted by all the adverts on TV for online gambling.
So having £168 million in the bank, I’ll need to be extra careful.
I decide to take my mind off the subject. I’m feeling a little hungry – this sensation is one I had forgotten about, one which has only returned since my change of fortune. When you are homeless you learn not to think about regular meals, it’s as though your hunger system gradually turns itself off.
I soon notice the reason for my sudden urge to eat. Across the street I can see – smell actually – a local branch of Greggs, the bakers. I cross over and walk through the front door. I study the menu displayed on the wall and order a cup of tea and a toasted cheese sandwich. I pay, and the person behind the counter serving me hands me the cup of tea and tells me he will bring the sandwich over to my table when it’s ready.
After a couple of minutes, the man comes over with a medium sized plate with a toasted cheese sandwich and places it on the table in front of me. The sandwich is hot and quite tasty. It goes down well with the cup of tea and three sugars.
Ten minutes later and I’ve finished. The restaurant is starting to get busy and the other tables are now being used so I vacate so someone else can make use of it.
Upon leaving, I turn right and walk along the high street to not only get a feel for the area, but also to
