Friday, 8.45am
This is it then; my final day at the coal-face. TGIF – in spades; the
end of my glittering career; FREEDOM!!  Old Datchery, my solicitor
for the past thirty years, keeps telling me 'it won't be over till the
fat lady sings'.
I can hardly wait for 6 o'clock tonight, when the proud new owners of
P. Foskett Property Rentals come to collect the keys to their
kingdom.  They tell me, incidentally, that they're toying with the
idea of abbreviating the trading name to PFPR within the year. 
Good luck to 'em, I say.  While Her Ladyship and I are sunning
ourselves in some quiet corner of southern Europe, PFPR will certainly
give my more literate former clients and tenants innocent amusement,
coming up with alternative meanings:  Peter Foskett Please Return
may or may not be among them!
'What brought this about all of a sudden?'  I hear you ask. The
smart answer would be to quote the title of the memoirs I'm planning:
'A Fall from Grace.'  But to tell the truth, it was more a fall
over Gracie, my long-suffering receptionist, that set the process in
motion.  I was pie-eyed that afternoon, I don't mind admitting it
now.  I'd spent a lengthy lunch hour in the Flute and Flyswat,
just down the road, attempting to drown the bitter memories of the
latest example of betrayal by a landlord-client; the details of which
are far too tedious to relate, and too familiar to all in this
business.  When I got back to the office I was on the point of
opening the door when I heard an all-too familiar voice from
within.  It was either the mating call of a sex-starved corncrake
(unlikely in these parts), or Gladys Battersby throwing a wobbly. 
And believe me, when she does that everything within twenty feet
wobbles, her own ample carcass leading the way ! So I turned tail and
returned to my local, thanking Providence for all-day opening.
Four o'clock was striking when I finally made it back to base.  I
wasn't seeing things any too clearly by then, so you'll understand that
Gracie's lower limbs projecting from beneath her desk, whence she was
trying to retrieve the scattered contents of her waste paper basket,
kicked as a surrogate for Mrs B's backside, constituted a navigational
hazard.  I failed to avoid them, ending up sprawled on the floor
in embarrassing proximity to Gracie's prone figure.  A less than
convincingly professional impression was thus made on the couple who,
at that of all moments, stepped into the premises.
However, my luck was in.  The new arrivals were not strangers, but
Ian and Alice Atkins, who'd taken up teaching jobs in Africa with more
than a touch of missionary zeal about five years earlier.  Now
returned, they wanted to discuss regaining possession of the little
house I'd been managing for them all the while.  Conversation
turned to their future plans.  'We've had enough of teaching, and
of abroad,' said Ian.  'We want to settle back here,' explained
Alice, 'and our first task is to find a new way to earn a living. 
Any suggestions for a couple like us, with only our teaching skills and
a better than adequate command of Swahili?'  I was frankly stuck
for a reply but Gracie, coming in with a well-timed tray of tea, was
not.   'Why don't you buy Peter out?' she asked, bold as
brass. 'He's had enough of working for a living, and I've had more than
enough of him!'  As sales pitches go, hardly the most compelling
you'll ever hear, and duly laughed off by all present at the time –
except by me; I just wanted a few minutes alone with Gracie, to issue a
stern rebuke for insubordination.
But the very next morning, in they came again, the 'Innocents Abroad',
as I'd dubbed them as they'd first set off for Africa. They had been
talking over Gracie's bombshell, and now wanted to ask me if I would
indeed be interested in selling up.  With heroic restraint, I
replied that we could do worse than kick the idea around; inwardly, I
was whooping with glee.  For several years I'd been wondering how
I was ever going to get myself off my treadmill.  I couldn't
believe I'd ever find anyone interested in taking on a small,
labour-intensive business like mine, with a bottom line that would make
any accountant laugh;  it makes mine laugh, anyway.  So even
this tentative opening represented an important milestone.  And,
would you credit it, the discussions that followed revealed that the
Atkins, thanks to the timely demise of an affluent relative, had funds
enough to meet the figure I daringly proposed.  With little or no
argie-bargie, we shook hands on a deal that allowed a three month
handover period which I've largely spent downloading into my successors
as much as possible of the wisdom and tradecraft I've accumulated over
the years.  The 'Innocents Returned' have lapped it up and here we
are, on my last day. A final, celebratory lunch with Gracie and then,
roll on 6pm.

Friday 6.47pm
All done and dusted then.  I can bale out now, after that last
phone call.  I dithered about picking it up, as it wasn't really
my affair any more.  I'm glad I did though, or I'd have missed Mrs
B's final gesture.  'Oh, Mr Foskett' she burbled, in that way I'd
come to know and dread. 'Or may I call you Peter?  Anyway, I just
wanted to say cheerio and good luck.  I know we've had our little
problems from time to time (haven't we just!) but I'll really miss you,
you know.'  And then, would you believe it, the old trout broke
into song.  'Good byee. Good byee.  Wipe a little tear from
your eyee!'  She's up to the minute, our Gladys, you have to give
her that.  And as for Old Datchery, he knows a thing or two too…