Hard Times at Montevista

The Policia Local crime scene tape has gone. I didn't notice it go. B12: still, perhaps forever, known as 'The Murder House'. The house itself looks sad; the cracks in the rendering grow wide in the heat. The weeds are high and not too handsome. If you walk past, a keen ear will catch the scurry of rodent feet. Funny, though: the cement mixer is still there, probably even works. Two stacks of plastic-strapped breeze-blocks remain untouched. Maybe it would be unlucky to steal them. It's hard to believe it's over a year since the German guy, Johnny Elvis, topped poor old Dee. He's banged up in the Jail down the road at Al_____ de la T_____.

But The Murder House doesn't look as bad as the Venta. It's falling down, as if Andres had been holding it up himself, until he left for the hills and a pickled retirement. When I walked past this morning, the door on the side, leading to the kitchen, was swinging on the hinges. It might have been burglars overnight, but I doubt it. Most likely they'd have left something behind, rather than take anything. No, it might well have been someone with an appointment with some brown and a roll of tinfoil. Anything's possible. Anyway, there's nothing as sad as an abandoned luncheonette, as Darryl and John might once have said. Because it wasn't actually legal, the restaurant aspect of the Venta: there was a licence to sell tapas: the large dining-room on the side had no building permit either. How fitting, that it is slowly separating from the main building.

So, various inhabitants of the Montevista Urbanizacion are bemoaning their inability to sell their property; Frank, Astrid, others that are still here and have been moving for as long as I can remember. Each and every one blaming the Venta and The Murder House - or indeed anything – except the ridiculous price they are asking and a hugely depressed market.