Departure Gate - Thursday

A negotiator from one of the minor players in town comes into the office sheepishly to tell me his boss is shutting the doors. He’s spent the last three years trying to shaft me – business-wise – and now he’s asking about any jobs that might be going.

I stifle an embryonic put-down, as I remember it might be me casting around for vacancies in a few months. Just in case this guy has found a placement by then, I decide not to burn any more bridges. My past already looks like a smoking version of shattered Rhine crossings, circa 1945.

‘I can let you have a list of all the properties on our register if you like?’ offers the man with a hint of desperation. ‘You could tap the owners’ up before they switch to somebody else.’

Time was, job-hopping negotiators’ would pretty much always come with the sweetener of their just dumped boss’s stock list, but with the onset of on-line access to everyone else’s properties the value has dropped almost as fast as the units themselves.

‘You won’t be offering 1.0% sole agencies anymore if you work for a real agent.’ Snipes assistant manager T acidly. T’s clearly not forgotten the number of times the guy standing forlornly before us has turned us over by snaffling potential instructions for a cut-price service, which has ultimately proved to be a self-defeating cut-throat act.

‘Ah that was my boss, actually,’ counters the soon to be unemployed neg, shifting the blame adroitly. The last time I nosed at his window display the outfit still had tacky signs taped-up pleading they were desperate for more homes to sell, with buyers waiting. How times change.

‘I’ll just leave you my CV then shall I?’ Offers our competitor disconsolately, handing a scrap of sparse A4 to T before leaving.
‘Tosser.’ Sneers T before turning to me and asking. ‘File thirteen?’ There but for the grace of God, I think briefly, before nodding in agreement as T gleefully bins the man’s details with a flourish.
‘One less dirtbag to deal with.’ He crows. Echoing the public perception of the industry succinctly.

‘Should we target their register then?’ Questions negotiator S sweetly, turning to me with a disarming quizzical look, or maybe it was just the straining summer blouse. With our own economy drive in place I’ve opted for the air-conditioning off and the door open where possible. It has its benefits.

I inform S that the last thing we really need now are more disgruntled sellers at prices that are no longer sustainable. Then in through the open door stumbles mad Mrs Kemp. It’s fruitless saying I haven’t had her flat on my books for twelve months or more. So I just ease her out and promise we’ll be in touch.

‘That’s the problem with having the door open.’ Opines T as the ditzy old dame wanders out into the road. ‘Just invites the nutters in more readily.’ Perceived sales wisdom dictates the door is a barrier to timid enquirers, so I often remove that obstacle by propping the entrance open. But T has a point, one that’s immediately demonstrated as we spy the local police constable advancing with a purposeful step.

‘Shit, who’s he after?’ Asks lettings lush B as she zig-zags back from the ladies and spots the copper en-route. I might be thinking the same thing, as an approaching plod usually triggers run-the-gauntlet of the airport customs, feelings of guilt. You know you’ve nothing more offensive in your baggage than a wicker donkey with a straw hat, yet you still feel as if you’re packing a fully loaded condom in a body cavity.

‘Morning all.’ Announces the officer without a trace of irony, as I banish unpleasant thoughts that perhaps B has been riding his panda inappropriately and she’s the one with the latex-filled orifice.

‘No bike today?’ I ask when I realise it’s a social visit encouraged by our open door policy and the policeman shakes his head and tells a familiar tale.

Turns out he’s no longer allowed to pedal his pushbike until he takes a health and safety cycling proficiency course, and like our just departed competitor his station is slated for the chop too.

You couldn’t make it up.

Cut The Crap - Monday

Another memo from bean counter boss pings into my in-tray, I’m tempted just to delete it without reading the content once I’ve seen the subject matter. But like the promises of gargantuan girth, male pattern baldness cures, and snaps of Jessica Alba in her pants again, sometimes you’re curious to know more.

As it turns out I’m just as disappointed as usual, although the bean counter stops short of asking for my credit card details and passwords, it can only be a matter of time. Cost Saving Measures as a header really should have given me a clue. But as I read the dreary prose I might be scanning an identical missive from the early nineteen-nineties, only the author, the company name, and the delivery method have changed since the last downturn.

‘Seen this dross.’ Carps assistant manager T as he tosses the identical memo on my desk in disgust. It’s all new to him of course so I stop short at telling him he really didn’t need to copy the instructions, particularly as somewhere down the spreadsheet style list it mentions unnecessary printing costs.
‘And worst of all,’ continues T showing a bit more spark than when I ask for volunteers for a leaflet drop. ‘They’re putting back all the car replacement dates. They can’t do that can they?’

It’s only when T, F, or S utter some similarly naïve comment that I realise how much older I am than the bulk of my team. Sometimes I’ll glibly mention a date or famous figure from the past and receive nothing but blank looks in return if M is out at the baker, and B is sucking on a client or a Bacardi. Unless the individual or event has been featured in The Simpsons, of course. It often seems that what little culture and world knowledge my crew have, was only obtained by osmosis via a yellow-tinged cartoon character.

‘It’s not that much of a perk anymore anyway.’ I tell T pointing at the much-delayed car list. I stop short of telling him all the model choices will be downgraded next, just as the cutbacks on advertising will inevitably arrive. I’ve been toying with taking the money and buying my own car anyway, although I’ve refrained from actually doing it, as I’m not sure an unemployed ex-agent needs a nearly-new reps motor with basic spec and a hole in the dashboard for a hands-free kit.

‘I expect you lot are feeling the pinch too, eh?’ Asks a reluctant seller later, who is being forced to move on a job re-location. His question is tinged with an underlying sense of glee. Although owners’ used to upwards only returns on their homes are reluctant to hear about price falls, they’re more than happy to listen to tales of estate agents stumbling - and better still closing down.

‘I’ve seen it all before,’ I tell him with what I judge to be the right mix of world-weariness and instruction winning experience.
‘Yeh thought you’d been around a while,’ replies the man not necessarily flatteringly, as I sub- consciously brush my greying temple with one hand. ‘All the others I’ve had round were just kids.’

‘So you’ll not be shutting your office like that other lot, as soon as I’m on the market with you?’ Asks the man after I’ve pitched the fee high, once I found out his company are picking up the moving costs. He’s referring to the latest of our competitors’ who’ve “consolidated their local network” by whitewashing the windows, ditching most of the staff, and moving the dwindling sales pipeline to the nearest still open office for a short-term boost and a long-term decline.

‘No we’re as safe as houses,’ I tell him glibly before realising I could have chosen the retort more wisely. As the guy shows me the door after uncomfortably probing why we don’t carry as much copy in the local property rag as another agent, and with a less than convincing promise to let me know, I realise I’m still learning those costly lessons.

D’oh.

Something For The Weekend - Thursday

A break in appointments and I hobble along to have my haircut. Having been selling for most of my adult life I’ve been forced into suit and tie conformity and a safe grade three back and sides, scissors on top.

Perhaps when the axe finally does fall I can experiment with a ponytail and some conspicuous tattoos – but then again maybe not. I’ve an awful lot more mellowing to do before I yearn to look like an ageing hippy. It’s only a small step from lengthy locks to hankering after a bloody windmill on the roof and solar panels.

‘Alright,’ nods the owner spotting my entry via the mirror, while he chats effortlessly to the punter in his chair. Then he adds my first name impressively. Now there’s a real skill I wish I could master, but although I can remember the properties, the names always evade me - unless they’re on a summons.

‘See you’ve put your prices up.’ Grumbles an elderly gent as he begrudgingly coughs for having his ear and nasal hairs trimmed. His pate is almost devoid of follicles. And as I wait and surreptitiously scan the tabloid red tops for birds with better breasts than S in the office, a spirited debate begins about rising costs.

I can only imagine, having never been in one – or wanted to – that the barbershop banter is akin to a sort of egalitarian gentlemen’s club. The owner knows pretty much everything that’s happening in town and everyone’s occupation.

So as the conversation ranges from immigrants, via petrol prices, through to mortgage costs, I know it’s only a matter of time before the inevitable comes up. As he beckons me to the just vacated chair and finds another customer griping about his increased trimming charges, he asks me how the property market is doing. Loudly.

Any half-formed gag about the barber needing to cut his tariff along with the heads he performs on is still born, as every customer - those be-caped and in the various chairs and a bench full of hirsute individuals waiting - looks at me with almost palpable dislike. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up prouder and the cutthroat razor takes on an even more ominous glint, as it lies on a towel before me.

‘Might have guessed by the suit you’re a bloody estate agent,’ begins one guy from behind me with a less than convincing good-natured laugh. ‘Your lot are doing their bit to buck the trend on rising prices!’ And the whole bogging barbershop starts to chuckle, even the mother with a grizzling child, who surely must feel as out of place as I do in this testosterone-laden and now bubbling with latent aggression, filled environment.

Then as my man buzzes with the clippers, the whole shop ignore radio two and quiz me on what I think will happen to their homes’ shrinking value. It’s like a round of blog questions. Only I’m much more exposed with just a nylon cloak, instead of the more comforting invisibility shield I’m used to. Then out comes the razor.

‘Who’s next for the chop then?’ Enquire Sweeny Todd ominously. And I almost bolt for the door until I realise he’s referring to the culling of agencies already taking place on my patch, one that will soon be more than just thinning, if it stays this bad. I give him my best guess, to a mixed response from the room. Their prejudices shaped by whom they bought and sold through, I guess.

‘Your bunch going to be okay then?’ Enquires the barber, as he shows me my nape in a hand held mirror and I strain to spot signs of a bald spot. With the bluster of a long time salesman I assure him we’ll be fine. Then the bloke in the next chair asks which firm I represent.

‘I wouldn’t want your lot to go bust,’ He says when I enlighten him, to a chorus of groans. Briefly I warm to the man before he adds. ‘You’ve got that horny bird with the big tits haven’t you?’

It’s nice to know we’re occasionally appreciated.

Going Down - Monday

My bean counter boss comes on the line and starts carping about the office performance. Presumably he hasn’t picked up a paper in the last six months, too busy scrutinising his precious spreadsheets to notice we’re on the brink of a recession.

The problem with longevity in a job, apart form your own inertia and the gradual throttling of ambition, is you’ve seen most situations before. So you assume the awkward potential vendor in front of you quibbling over fees and agency terms, is probably going to pull the plug on any deal you piece together. Better possibly to not deal with him in the first place?

It’s a corrosive attitude and ultimately self-defeating, but in this case as the bean counter grumbles on, I’m one of the few managers left who has actually lived through a property slump. I’m just not sure I’ll survive another one.

‘Have you looked at your board movement list recently?’ Whines my boss, as bulky mortgage man M waddles past my office window towards the gents, with what looks like a bowel-movement-list. I give an auto-response platitude in return, while staring at the growing blemish on the ceiling again and trying to make some sort of pattern out of the soggy piss-stained ceiling tile. Like those psychiatrists ink-spot tests - but with urine rather than Quink.

‘And your costs need trimming too,’ continues the bean counter in soporific tone as I realise I must have been staring at the ceiling for some time, because M is shuffling back past my window, gait for once a little lighter. He’s actually shifted some weight I imagine unpleasantly, as I finally make out a hooded figure with a sickle from the golden-hued bloom above me. Shit, we’re on a water meter I think, suppressing a giggle, as I imagine the profit and loss account is about to take another cog-spinning knock, if we’re having to flush M’s output far enough out to sea to keep the nearest Blue Flag award.

‘Is something amusing you?’ Asks my boss menacingly. And I realise perhaps my sub-conscious chortle has unwisely manifested itself audibly. I hurriedly re-assure him the situation is no laughing matter, just as incompetent trainee F bumbles through the door and trips on the threshold before skidding across the fake wood laminate, shedding property particulars like over-sized confetti at a Gulliver’s Travel style wedding.

‘You need to boost your sales agreed income or there will be real difficulty ahead.’ Drones the bean counter, as an award for stating the sodding obvious flashes through my mind for the next sales meeting. The big-me-up nonsense of grudging rounds of applause and a bottle of cheap bubbly for the winner has long since lost its allure for me, particularly as I haven’t had any champagne for a while.

With my sales pipeline evaporating faster than Gordon Brown’s popularity, about the only contract I’ll have left outstanding will be the apocryphal transaction every long-standing agent is rumoured to have on his head, from a hit man. People can really take being gazumped to heart.

‘That’s beyond a joke.’ Bellows the man as I sit in his kitchen later and tell him how much he should market his pokey nearly new flat for. ‘You’re having a laugh, tell me you’re having a laugh?’ His soon to be ex-wife fixes me with a chilly stare, as she realises she can ditch the loser she married quite easily but the teetering on negative equity home, might be with the couple till death really does part them.

‘Of course all this mess is your fault.’ Intones the man crabbily and for an absurd moment I think he’s accusing me of shafting his missus as well as his price. But of course it’s the familiar diatribe about estate agents being responsible for rising values and equally culpable for the correction now taking place. Then as I stare at the ceiling I notice they too have an interesting watermark.

Turns out the flat above leaked water almost as fast as value. I decline the instruction at the price they want and once again it borders on self-harm but feels almost cathartic. It’s not the first time either, I remember, as I start laughing out loud in the lift - until the doors open unexpectedly.

You Don't Send Me Flowers - Wednesday

Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction, and you certainly wouldn’t have chosen the monikers even in one of the bean counter’s wildest brainstorming meetings. The American financial institutions currently rocking from the other side of the pond’s housing crisis, are apparently Freddie Mac – the name I’m convinced that flasher in the park used to be called – and Fannie Mae.

One of head office’s beloved focus group gatherings would have balked at calling a supposedly respected lending organisation something as ridiculous as those two. Incidentally I could have saved the company a great deal of time and money by telling them, ahead of one of the groups expensively obtained findings, that the public disliked estate agents. Duh. Talk about self-flagellation, even Mr Mosley would have been embarrassed by that stingingly obvious conclusion.

But on reflection there was that major re-brand a few years back that sidelined reasonably respected industry names and brought them together under the umbrella name already used by a lingerie company. One I just happened to be familiar with from my wife’s Freemans catalogue.

‘Fannie Mae?’ chuckles big-bellied mortgage peddler M as we discuss the meltdown while lettings floozy B staggers through the door dishevelled again, and I only just stop myself from uttering: ‘Instead of, fanny almost certainly will.’

‘Ridiculous name,’ continues M, jowls rippling like a just-dropped blancmange. ‘No substance at all!’
I should point out that a certain UK lender having predicated their marketing with a logo featuring trusted well-known city headwear, not that long ago, turned out to be built on something more akin to sand than a secure aggregate foundation. But than if your most popular product is know in the industry as a liar loan…….

Instead, a florist’s van bumps the kerb outside and we watch as a spotty youth walks languidly to the back and removes a big bouquet of flowers.
‘Can’t be coming here can he?’ Asks M incredulously as B looks up from her desk more in hope than expectation.

A crueller man might have crushed her by pointing out you need to know the recipients name before sending roses, so I decide to write about it instead. Anonymity can sometimes work in your favour.

‘Nope he’s definitely coming in,’ concludes M as I wonder whether the boy is hoping to bribe one of us to sell him something a first time buyer can actually afford. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been offered a backhander. But instead of pansies all he really needs is patience, if prices continue wilting.

‘How may I help?’ I ask, heading the florist off at the door in case it’s some scam requiring payment before posy, or worse still one of our competitor’s taking the piss again. That wreath one of my fellow managers received when it was rumoured his office was closing a few years back, sticks long in the memory. But it’s a genuine gift to a genuine recipient, as I discover when the delivery boy reads out S’s name.

‘Read the card.’ Urges M, as I place the cellophane-wrapped flowers on her desk with an absurd and inappropriate pang of jealousy. I point out the little envelope pinned to the bouquet is sealed, but M is already in the kitchen putting the kettle on.

‘Steaming it open,’ enlightens B, as she joins me to look at the offering and I realise belatedly the fat man isn’t about to make his first communal cuppa since last Christmas. ‘Won’t be from her boyfriend though,’ continues B sourly. ‘He’s already shagging her.’
Sometimes you can have too much information. Then S bounces pneumatically through the door.

Turns out it’s a couple whose house completed last week and were so pleased with S’s persistence in holding the sale together, that they felt she needed rewarding over and above the usually much-begrudged commission. She deserves them, I think, as S coos over the flowers and B stumbles to find our not exactly over-used vase.

‘I thought they might have been from someone else at first,’ announces S ambiguously, her face slightly flushed. Then she asks me if I’d like a smell.

God knows how I forgot about my hay fever, but I’ve only just stopped sneezing.

Last Out Get The Lights - Friday

‘I can’t keep going if costs keep spiralling like this.’ Bemoans assistant manager T as he spots a headline in my paper threatening a full blown recession, then skip reads the content with the mayfly-like attention span of the Nintendo generation. ‘My commission is going to be pants next month.’ And he turns to me as if my longevity makes me a guru, rather than just grey. ‘What are head office going to do about that?’

Consolidate the office network, close marginal offices, cut back on newspaper advertising, chop out part-time staff and cull full-time numbers until we’re dependent on answer-phones to cover the shortfall, I think, with grim recall of the early nineties.

‘You lot need to sell more and feed me more leads too, or we’ll all starve.’ Grumbles over-sized mortgage man M as he balloons his way past the gathering and out the office door en-route to the pie shop.
‘Fat twat.’ Snarls T with unfamiliar venom.
‘I’m alright,’ slurs B from her lettings desk unpleasantly. ‘I’ve got potential tenants’ desperate for property. If it stays this way I reckon you’ll soon all be under me.’

If the thought of M returning with a gristle and pastry moustache wedged to his face isn’t unappetising enough, the prospect of any position under B positively turns my stomach.

‘Says here,’ interjects negotiator S returning me to the newspaper article and fleetingly raising the much more pleasing thought of spending economically straightened time with her. Lights off, heating wound back for economy and a duvet, dance improbably through my brain. ‘That more than two quarters of negative GDP data constitutes a recession. What’s GDP exactly?’

A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing, and as if to confirm it trainee F pipes up enthusiastically.
‘Wait, we did this at business studies,’ he begins brightly, before faltering under the withering collective gaze of the sales force.

‘Gross domestic product.’ I finally tell him after the prolonged silence – one that can be a useful sales tool in negotiating situations – becomes almost physically painful to watch, as F’s weak-chinned features fashion a frown uncomfortably close to gurning. All he needs is a toilet seat over his head, and God knows I’ve been tempted from time to time. A classy way to resign I’ve thought, until I remember my mortgage payments.

‘If my mortgage payments go up again I’m going to be forced to sell.’ Says my afternoon valuation. He’s a taxi driver labouring under the double whammy of spiralling fuel costs and punters suddenly returning to bus, bike and shoe leather.

It won’t be that easy for the cab driver to shift his flat though, as he’s up against plenty of new units not dissimilar, with developers panicking and offering familiar incentives from holidays, to cars, through to chunky discounts if the buyer keeps quiet about the price chop.

The builder might conceivably still have a 15-20% margin left to play with but this guy has come off a fixed discount term and the meter is running. Negative equity is a distinct possibility and if things get any stickier he’ll have more chance of finding a buyer at the price he needs, than I have of finding him on a rainy night out.

‘This country is going down the pan.’ Proclaims my final valuation of the day. The guy is a civil servant, a misnomer in my experience, and he confirms my just-suppressed prejudice by saying. ‘We’re on strike next week and if we don’t get a sensible increase to cover the ridiculous cost of living rises, I’m emigrating.’

Not in a hurry matey, I think, as I remember several other owners on my register who’ve been trying to bail out for months now. Then as we walk into his pocket-handkerchief garden, I notice another impediment to a swift deal. There’s barbed wire spiralling across the top of the boundary fence like some Berlin wall throwback.

Neighbourly dispute are about as poisonous as it gets and a definite deal-breaker. ‘Next doors cat shits in my garden.’ Confirms the owner, as he follows my gaze. ‘Should I take it down if I want a quick sale?’

My answer is immaterial. Either way he’s in deep doo-doo.

Happy Eater - Tuesday

Reluctantly I attend a family and assorted partners, nieces, and nephews type gathering. Of course I’ve wriggled and grumped through a raft of spurious excuses before being told by my wife, rather abruptly I thought, that I’m going anyway.

There’s something about mixing with the public all day long professionally that brings on the closet recluse gene, in my make up. By the time I’ve had a week of fall- throughs, f**k-ups, wankers and wasters, I’d really rather slump in front of the sport with the call screening facility on my phone, than navigate the grinning grilled hell of a Jolly Harvester, or Bovine-eater chain.

And of course I can’t help myself from criticising not only the god-awful food but the gormless staff too. If I ever persuade the suspected lesbian clan in personnel to sanction trainee F’s mercy killing, I’d be able to assuage my faint feelings of guilt by arranging a meet-and-greet job for him on the door. The reference might prove a bit of a hurdle though, now that like property details, you can be sued for being economical with the truth.

‘This is going to be a laugh a minute.’ I whisper grumpily to my wife as the barely pubescent waiter shows us to our just-wiped table and enquires if we’ve eaten with the chain before? I’m tempted to tell him no, or we’d clearly not be here, but sadly it’s not true. So instead I try to manoeuvre my table position to avoid sitting next to the crushing bore that always insists on quizzing me on the market over the botulism basted beef, but he’s too quick for me.

‘Before we start,’ stammers the lad with the over-sized menus (the giant card possibly the culinary equivalent of a prick in a Porsche, compensating for shortfalls elsewhere?). ‘I’m afraid we’ve a few problems in the kitchen today.’ My groan is the loudest around the table, but then I get a lot of away-from-the-bedroom practice.

‘At least they offered some free wine to compensate.’ Trills my wife once we’ve debated whether we should leave and find another soulless lunch venue able to accommodate close to a dozen at short notice, then decided against, and all ordered from a much-shortened list of options.

‘So how’s the market old chap?’ Begins the arsehole I wanted to avoid. ‘I expect you lot are in for a tough time!’ As it happens not as tough as the steak is likely to be I think gloomily, as I wonder just what exactly the family member this twat is with, sees in him. In the absence of an answer and as he presses again for insider information on a possible buy-to-let deal, I toss the car keys to my wife and hit the free merlot.

Incipient salmonella poisoning notwithstanding the low point, apart from the children’s piped ice cream dish that resembled a white curled turd (which marketing genius thought a frozen desert looking like a polar bears pooh was going to look appetising in a dish?), is my trip to the toilet.

Back and bladder are the main reasons for venturing away from the table, that and to escape the constant carping of the fool alongside me, but even as I stumble through the door, narrowly dodging the yellow wet floor caution sign and a startled looking downtrodden cleaning lady making a hasty exit, I realise my tormentor has followed me.
‘I’m thinking of attending one of those make money out of property seminars.’ Burbles the man, suddenly and uncomfortably positioned at the urinal alongside me. ‘What do you reckon?’

I reckon you’d be wasting your money, I think, as I shake and zip as swiftly as possible without causing another painful snagging incident. You’d need balls the size of an elephant at the moment, I muse, as the hand dryer fails to start. And although the guy may be a big prick, the visual evidence contradicts this, so I reluctantly tell him to keep his powder dry.

‘That wasn’t too bad.’ Announces my wife, as she drives me home. And I tell her it was like the albino ice cream – shit.
‘The trouble with you, is you’ll never be happy.’ She replies haughtily.

Worryingly, I’m beginning to think she might be right.

Calling Time - Friday

Assistant manger T taps at my office door face like a lemon. As I beckon him in and brace myself for bad news, he thumps down in the chair opposite me and tosses a buff envelope fresh from the DX mail system.

‘Problem?’ I ask needlessly. The property market is beset with problems. It’s the reason most agents burn out before they reach the advanced, grey and grumpy age I’ve achieved. Inertia or stupidity, probably both, have left me still feeling sick every time a sale falls through and increasingly, like a strung-out junky, needing the brief euphoric hit of a fresh sale agreed to keep me going.

‘Bloody pen pushers at head office.’ Whinges T with a familiar refrain. And he shows me his scrappy expenses claim form, parking tickets, corner store coffee receipts and a questionable business lunch try-on, clipped to the much-scrutinised A4 sheet.

Needless to say, the basket meal with a “solicitor” has been disallowed but what’s really irking T is £1.50 for a missing parking ticket has also been deducted. The bean counter has scrawled something illegible across the paperwork, but I can guess the intent. Worse still, I counter-signed the claim and it seems, neglected to check each individual scrap of paper fastidiously enough.

‘Haven’t they got anything better to do?’ Gripes T, before I can reprimand him for involving me in the fraudulent claim. With margins shrinking, the bean counter is in his element looking to identify ever more devious ways to trim costs, and don’t even start me on the private mileage/business mileage, monthly dispute.

Perhaps I should up my exit strategy options from tunnel or redundancy, and finally take the jump before I’m pushed. I hear politicians’ expenses are a tad more flexible, although an ex-estate agent is possibly not going to garner too may votes.

‘Mystery shopper alert.’ Announces S nervously, as she pops her head – closely followed by her chest – around the door. That answers T’s question about having nothing better to do, I think, as I offer an apologetic shrug and give him the downgraded claim form back.

Nothing poisons morale more than some out-sourced smart-arse paid by a head office - who happily cough thousands for undercover snoopers to criticise over-stretched staff, yet won’t pay a £1.50 parking expense without detailed documentation – to criticise their efforts.

Like all closed-room, away from the coalface management ideas, the trainer masquerading as a genuine punter seemed like a sound business decision. But then so probably, did the four-wheeled company advertising logo on agents’ cars, until it turned into a convenient template for disaffected punters to run keys down paintwork.

Taped phone calls to a harassed trainee, who is facing the vitriol of an angry buyer wanting to pick their keys up before funds have been transferred, and has three other lines ringing, isn’t about to endear the company to employees.

Listening to the call in a hotel room a few months later, while a smarmy consultant paid to pick-holes - a sort of semi-detached surveyor – points out how many opportunities were missed while the staff member was wrestling tug-of-war style with keys the not-quite-yet-owner wanted, isn’t a fair reflection in my opinion.

‘I think I’ve got the mystery shopper on line two.’ Whispers T twenty minutes later, after the details and characteristics of the snooper have been flashed round the office network, somewhat negating the spontaneity of the exercise.

With all lines on hold and me coaching frantically with improvised sign language, T asks for and almost books a valuation. Then introduces fat man M’s mortgage service and gallantly presses for an appointment. Blanked again, and with me animatedly signalling, T now tries for a conveyancing service intro before limply raising our hopeless Home Information Pack service.

‘Was it the mystery shopper?’ I press as T dejectedly holsters the phone. ‘They’re supposed to identify themselves at the end of the call.’ But T shakes his head and then repeats the callers parting comment.

Paraphrased and minus the expletive it was something along the lines of: Forget it mate. You lot are way too pushy. I just wanted to see some property details.

An expensive lesson if anyone were listening.

No Picnic - Tuesday

Cabin fever strikes at the weekend and in the absence of any comments on the Blog to respond to, I decide to risk a trip out.

Now one of the few fashion trends from the eighties that deserved a re-run are those big Ray Ban sunglasses that are thankfully now back in vogue. Obviously I kept mine anyway, as they hide the face so much more effectively than those slimmed-down nineties shades, which allowed members of the public to identify you when out with the family.

I haven’t a whole heap of sympathy for celebrity moaners who court fame then complain when they’re spotted with spots and unsuitable leggings, but I can empathise with the desire for a little anonymity those wraparound sunglasses provide. Particularly after that time some irate punter tagged me in the park en-famile, and hollered at full decibel: ‘Oi you’re that f***er who gazumped me!’

I was faced with the unpalatable choice of lumping the prat, or pointing out pedantically that technically his insult was erroneous, as it was the vendor who decided to dump him. As it happens I was soon fully engaged explaining to my youngest the origin of the F-word that was so intriguing him.

‘You’re not wearing those ridiculous sunglasses are you?’ Grumbles my wife as we pay for the privilege of parking in our own much-taxed borough and prepare for a stroll in the park.
‘They’re back in fashion actually.’ I tell her sniffily, as I don the disguise and scan the surrounding area warily for familiar faces.
‘Not at your age.’ She concludes witheringly, before heading for greenery.

‘We should have brought a picnic.’ She announces wistfully when I finally catch up. All around couples and families are throwing Frisbees and balls, attempting to launch buy once then throw-away-in-tangled-disgust kites, and watching surreptitiously as their dog shits in the grass, hoping nobody spots they’re the owner and shames them into bagging the dirt in one of the meagre collection bins. Now there’s a job even crappier than mine.

‘I m not big on picnics.’ I remind her.
‘Another childhood hang-up?’ She questions caustically as some old-enough-to-know-better man in too-tight shorts and a vest, wobbles by on roller blades.

She has a point. Most foibles and phobias can be traced back to those who famously f**k you up. Curled sandwiches and warm coke in the back of a car not my favourite memory. Or my sister’s come to think of it. A prodigiously fragile traveller she contrived, rather gamely I thought, to throw up in a shoe on one lengthy journey. Unfortunately it was my mother’s footwear and we were en-route to a wedding – not one of hers as far as I can recall. But it was still messy.

‘Your mother?’ Asks my wife saliently, as I stare into the near-distance.
‘She had a few issues.’ I admit ruefully.
‘More than the Daily telegraph.’ Quips my wife as she indicates a free bench and heads for an ice cream stall.
‘Can I use that in the Blog?’ I call to her departing back, to a less than effusive reply. Then as I turn back, some oddball man with hairy ears and one of those ridiculous extending tape-measure style dog leads, plonks himself next to me.

Now what on God’s earth does he think, makes me seem amenable to a seating companion? I think sourly. And despite my sunglass force field I can feel him staring at me and wanting to engage in conversation. I speak to people I dislike most working days, so I’m not about to chat to some hirsute-lugged weirdo, particularly when I’ve F at work for that.

‘Have you seen a German Shepherd?’ he asks, as I catch a glimpse of my wife juggling two dripping cones and scowling at the lack of space beside me. I’m sorely tempted to launch into a sarcastic ramble about having spotted a distinctly Teutonic-looking character with a feathered hat, crook and lederhosen, at the far end of the park, until I realise I recognise the semi-vagrant.

‘Why the hurry to leave?’ Asks my wife as I usher her back to the car.
‘Failed estate agent.’ I tell her. She’ll soon learn to recognise the type if the market doesn’t improve.