I thought there might be a catch but I’m a curious sort of person. I enjoy venturing into uncharted territory and I like being immersed in cultures radically different from my own.

It began when my wife received one of those intrusive phone calls, the sort where a shrill voice on the other end insists that this is not a sales pitch. The caller was from an organisation called Resort Systems. “We’re conducting a survey about the sorts of holidays people enjoy,” she shrieked. My wife responded to the six-minute survey and then got on with the rest of her life.

A week later I took a call. “Congratulations Sir” said the woman. “You and your wife have been selected for three free two-night accommodation packages available from a range of four and five star hotels around Australia.” The voice was fast, shrill and decidedly up-beat. I couldn’t understand a word she had said and I asked her to repeat it. It was the words free accommodation and five star that got me. “Why us?” I asked “You’ve been selected because your wife took the time to answer the survey.” she spoke a little slower this time. “What’s the catch?” I asked recalling the last accommodation prize I won. It was a weekend for two at a B&B somewhere along the Great Ocean Road. We spent the entire weekend trying to escape the clutches of the profoundly boring proprietor who was desperately lonely and never stopped talking. “There’s no catch sir.” she replied. “This package is absolutely free and it’s valid for six months. You can select from hundreds of places, including Mietta’s at Queenscliff.” That got me. The thought of an indulgent weekend at Mietta’s was highly seductive (I later learnt that when my wife answered the survey she stated that I have a predilection for 5 star hotels whereas she prefers camping). I gave the woman my postal address and asked her to send the package out. “We don’t do that,” she said. “You must collect the package after you and your wife have attended our ninety minute presentation on time-share holiday properties.”

I was outraged. Ninety minutes is a long time. My wife and I have precious little time to share with each other let alone with a bunch of hyped up marketing types. But my outrage gave way to curiosity. I did a mental cost/benefit analysis. Surely three weekends away at such salubrious places as Mietta’s must be worth more than ninety minutes of suffering sales pitch? Besides, I have no idea what time-share is. Perhaps my prejudices were getting in the way of a life changing experience.

My wife was skeptical and extremely reluctant. I finally won her support by promising to shout a weekend at Mietta’s, irrespective of whether or not we ‘get our prize’.

Along with eleven other ‘specially selected’ couples, we turned up on a Sunday afternoon to a non-descript office in an equally non-descript suburb. We were greeted by over enthusiastic ‘sales consultants’. Sporting solarium tans and false smiles they ask each couple ‘How are we today?’

After a cup of coffee and a scone with cream, we are ushered into a bland conference room with small round tables and three chairs at each table. The ubiquitous ‘consultant’ occupies the third chair. Loud vacuous gymnasium type music is pumped through speakers. Glossy photographs of palm-beached holiday locations dominate the walls. Our consultant (I’ll call her Debbie but that’s not her real name) asks us questions about holidays and accommodation. I struggle to hear above the awful music. We offer minimal answers. I keep check my watch. Only seventy-eight minutes to go!

Enter Dave, the main presenter. He turns off the music and I swear I see him lock the exit doors. He then moves into warm up mode. He’s behaving like one of those people at a TV studio whose job it is to prime the audience to the point where they will applaud (and probably sign) anything. Dave is a former schoolteacher who left because he wanted to make ‘real’ money. The twenty-four potential customers are slow to respond. But with the help of his stooges in the audience who laugh uproariously at his unfunny jokes, Dave works the room. He asks questions about what we do on holidays and how much we spend. He asks us to calculate how many weeks holiday each of us has in us before we depart this planet (that was depressing!). We sit at the back of the room avoiding his gaze. Only sixty minutes to go!

Dave solicits some riveting answers to his questions. One man says he goes on holidays to relax! A woman claims that she likes to sleep. Someone else confesses to enjoying a swim! I silently regret my sacrifice. No free weekend away can be worth this suffering!

After whipping up some enthusiasm Dave launches into a sales spiel that would win awards at an Amway convention. My eyes glaze over at his barrage of nonsensical facts about the benefits of time-share against the pitfalls of other types of holidays. After thirty minutes he stops, pumps up the music and announces that the sales consultants will now sit with us and explain the rest. Only thirty minutes remaining!

And so Debbie came back. This time she’s on autopilot as she pours through glossy brochures and reads her prepared sales pitch. We ask questions that are clearly off her radar. “I’ll have to get Dave to talk with you about that” she answers. “No” we plead. “It’s really not that important.” Occasionally Debbie would desert us and disappear behind a screen. Was she reporting back to Dave on our progress (or lack of it)? I kept looking for concealed cameras and microphones. Dave did visit our table. “How are we doing?’ he asks with just a hint of resentment that we might be time wasters. Sensing our lack of enthusiasm he produces a list of people who have succumbed to time-share. The names are grouped according to occupation. Accountants and consultants seem to dominate. Once Dave learns our occupations he attempts to reassure us by revealing the names of others in the same profession. When this fails to move us the man from Resort Systems attempts his last resort. He names newsreaders, sporting personalities, QC’s and other so called luminaries that we had never heard of. “Lots of famous people belong to time share,” he says, as if to reclaim some ground. Only twenty minutes left.

Dave lets Debbie do the final bit. She takes us on a tour of the room to look at all the glossy photographs on the wall. “You can exchange your time share for any of these places” says Debbie who then shows us photographs of anorexic looking receptionists in corporate clobber handling customer queries. “Our staff are friendly,” she says.

Finally we are ushered back to the table. Debbie is going to give us the climax. She scribbles some figures on a sheet of paper and informs us that for around $15000 we can own a unit of time-share, which entitles us to one week per year in any resort around the world for the rest of our lives. I concede this may appeal to some. But all I wanted was our free weekend at Mietta’s. Debbie extends her hand “Have I got a sale?” she asks. We give her the bad news and are promptly escorted to the reception. I notice we are the first to leave. Other couples have gone beyond ninety minutes and are into penalty time. At reception we are presented with our ‘free’ accommodation vouchers

One should always read the small print. Bookings must be made in writing (not by phone fax or online) at least 21 days in advance There is a booking fee of $10. In most instances the rooms will only be offered ‘free’ if an agreed amount of money is spent of food and beverage. And to add insult to injury, at places such as Mietta’s the vouchers cannot be redeemed on weekends!

It looks like we’ll be sharing our time away at our own expense.

© Peter Davis