Mistletoe And Whine

I’m in the bathroom, scraping through foam to bristle and thinking not for the first time how unflattering those shaving lights can be. I’ve heard countless old people being forced by family or finance to move from their homes, mutter: ‘Don’t get old son.’ It’s one of the few times I’m still given the younger man suffix nowadays.

Of course, as I’ve remarked before, the old scroats’ sage advice doesn’t leave too many palatable alternatives, and for years I’ve just discounted the oft-repeated phrase as the mutterings of a senile old fool who needs to be humoured, at least until they’ve signed the sole agency contract. But then life has a sadistic way of creeping up on you when you’re otherwise engaged.

‘Who is in there with you?’ Calls my wife through the door, as I wipe the soap from my face and check for nicks. Nothing worse than blood on the collar to ruin a salesman’s chances of closing the business, or having to sport little lumps of ruby-tinged toilet paper coagulating on your face, as trainee F has a habit of doing.

‘What are you talking about?’ I call back moodily, as I contemplate another day listening to the clock ticking, while I chase the shed facial hair around the basin with my hand.
‘No, what are you talking about?’ She replies. ‘You’re muttering to yourself again.’

‘No I’m not.’ I respond as the black and white mixture bubbles in the drain and I look forward to unscrewing the u-bend again. Extricating several years of discarded sludge surely an appropriate metaphor for my life going down the plughole.

‘You’ve been doing it for months now.’ Chides my wife as I finally exit the bathroom and scan the wardrobe with scant enthusiasm for a suitable tie to match my shirt. Now that’s another cruel irony a capricious nature inflicts upon those that stay the course. You become your parents. Of course the faint hope I had as a child that my real biological progenitors’ would swing by and rescue me, once the hospital crib mix-up had been identified, is just a distant wish now.

‘It’s just something writers do.’ I tell her defensively, as I finger an ancient paisley number that still hasn’t come back in fashion, despite the fact we’re in a similar slump to when I bought it.
‘Yes but you’re an estate agent not a writer.’ My wife reminds me abruptly.
‘That’s another reason I mutter.’ I respond truthfully.

‘What you doing for Christmas?’ Asks negotiator S as she leans over my desk in a semi-see-through blouse and places a cup of tea in front of me. And I find myself mumbling again, not really sure what verbiage I’m spouting but battling against saying something inappropriate about pulling crackers.

‘I’m not seeing my kids until the day after Boxing day.’ Announces M morosely as the conversation continues later, in the absence of any punters.
‘What are you doing for Christmas dinner?’ I ask maliciously, visions of M polishing off a whole bird on his own in front of Doctor Who, momentarily cheering me up.

M confirms he’ll be going to his local pub to eat. Now that’s a lonely place when you should be with family.
‘My mum always puts on a show.’ F says without a hint of irony - the trip to hospital from the possible overdose clearly forgotten.

‘I’ve got to go to the fiancée’s parents’ for dinner.’ Reports assistant manager T glumly with a shake of his head, as I wonder if pumping M’s stomach would help kick start his inevitable – and doomed - January diet.

‘Me and my boyfriend will be spending some quality time alone.’ Adds lettings lush B, as I catch a watery glint in M’s eye and briefly wonder about inviting him to our house, until I remember the undersized credit-crunch turkey we’ve ordered.
‘You bought him a present yet?’ Asks S, seemingly innocently. Then it kicks off.

In retrospect I shouldn’t have advised B to hang on to the receipt, some thoughts are best kept to yourself.

P.S.

Thank you to everyone who read this Blog in 2008 particularly those who took time to leave a comment.

Happy Christmas and an increasingly unlikely - prosperous New Year.

May your chosen deity be with you…..

Trip The Light Fantastic

‘Perhaps you could come back and a take a photo after dark, it really looks Christmassy.’ Suggests a seemingly sane woman, who when I first valued her house showed no outward signs of chavvy tendencies. Since then she’s been through two other agents, a couple of reluctant price drops, and seems to think she can enhance the saleability of her home by festooning the fascia with enough coloured illuminations to shame Blackpool council.

I really ought to tell her a neon Santa clambering up the tile hanging on a flashing ladder, isn’t likely to be delivering good news - or presents. And he certainly looks too prosperously well fed to be a first time buyer, unless it’s fat M the mortgage man moonlighting for extra income.

Perhaps the figure, surrounded by a garish flickering nativity scene, is some sort of metaphor I think, as the proud owner looks at me expectantly and I wonder if the high pitched humming in the background is her electricity meter beginning to smoke. Maybe the neon Father Christmas is actually on his way down the ladder and her remaining equity is in the big red bag.

‘I’m not sure if my camera will be good enough to capture the full….’ And I trail off, unusually lost for words. The thought of the tacky elevation in the office window leaves me temporarily speechless. Like the photos still on display showing spring blossom and that one at those clowns’ down the road still sporting last April’s freak snowfall, nothing dates a property more than a shot with a seasonal visual cue, showing you can’t shift the place.

‘Don’t worry,’ interjects the woman breezily, as an unseen timer clicks inside the hall and the next stage of the light display begins with a tinny musical chime, while electronic snow falls down the netting draped from gutter to ground. I swear all the streetlights dim, as this latest taste crime sucks several giga-watts out of the national grid. ‘I have a Canon and a tripod, I’ll just go an fetch it.’

Some poor hippy whittling pegs for a living and building a one-man hydro-electric facility in a wood, has just had twenty years of his carbon positive contribution sucked into the ether, as countless coloured bulbs pop on and off in time to Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer. It makes me feel a little better.

‘I’ll e-mail you the shot,’ enthuses the owner after I’ve belatedly realised the type of cannon I had in mind for her lights doesn’t match her 10 Mega pixel monstrosity. Fortunately our computer system is so fragile I can blame the virus scanner for blocking her print. Failing that the geeks in IT can take the hit, God knows they deserve it. By then, the festive farce will be long forgotten although I have a feeling we’ll still be trying to sell her home. I wonder how she feels about Easter bunnies?

‘Got another couple of crimbo cards.’ Assistant manager T tells me as I slope through the door, chilly breeze on my coat tails. ‘Ooh let’s see.’ Chirrups negotiator S excitedly, skipping to look at the crap corporate communications’. ‘They don’t really care if you have a good Christmas,’ I tell her tiredly, as S scans the verse avidly. ‘They just want to flog you….’ And I stoop to read the messages, wondering briefly as I squint how long before I succumb to reading glasses. ‘Advertising folders with a map nobody wants - and new style 6 mm Correx flagboards.’

‘He’s always grumpy at Christmas.’ T tells S with a look of resignation.
‘Always grumpy full stop,’ chips in M as he waddles towards the half-full tin of Quality Street eyes lust-glazed by the heady whiff of chocolate. He then coughs unconvincingly, as he reaches for the last green triangle, before letting a percussive fart fill the room.

‘At least time it better.’ Chuckles T, as we all recoil in horror while M undaunted unpeels his prize. Like some 5.1 Dolby Surround system, the echo is thrown around the empty office just as B the loose lettings lady – our in-house sub-woofer I think fleetingly – stumbles through the door dishevelled.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

Pass The Parcel - Friday

Sometimes my open door policy works against me. I’m engrossed in a set of rather grim numbers, when I’m suddenly aware of another more earthly figure at the threshold. Granted this latest set of statistics are a tad more vital than the spreadsheet the bean counter sent me, I realise, as I look up to see negotiator S tapping timidly on the frame.

‘Have you got a minute?’ She asks, and for a moment I’m tempted to tell her I’ve got a good five as long as my back doesn’t lock again. But along with the now distant memory of absurdly optimistic asking prices, you have to know when to separate fact from fantasy.

‘Door open minute, or closed?’ I ask warily as S enters. If she’s about to resign it’ll be a closed scenario, so I’m relived when she shakes her head – along with most of her upper torso - and proceeds to the edge of my desk. It doesn’t matter how many frosty memos the coven of joyless soul-suckers in personnel send to be countersigned by all staff, I think swallowing hard, you can’t expunge several hundred thousand years of sexual attraction with frosty company standing orders. Of course I’d like to give her one.

As it turns out she wants to give me one too, I realise, as a familiar theme I hoped I wouldn’t have to encounter again raises its festive face.
‘Can we have Secret Santa this year?’ Requests S persuasively, coy smile ruining my default grumpy retort, where false Christmas cheer is concerned.

Sadly this absurd recent import, like Halloween but without the disturbingly alluring teenage witches coming to the door, has mushroomed around the company much to my chagrin. Not that I’d be adverse to a Secret Santa scenario with S, I think fleetingly, as she perches disarmingly on the corner of my desk. But I’ve attended enough matrimonial sales to realise delusional middle-aged men should stay well away from nubile younger women.

A brief ego boost, as someone seemingly unobtainable shows interest in what’s in your sack, before the cold reality of the actual sack and a chilly December in rented accommodation watching someone else’s For Sale board go up outside your house.

‘Do we have to?’ I whine. ‘It’s all a bit contrived isn’t it?’
‘But it’s fun.’ S replies with a smile. ‘And we’ll limit it to £5 maximum if you like.’
‘Are we drawing straws for who we buy for?’ I ask, wondering what I could purchase for S for a fiver and fleetingly thinking of a trip to M & S’s lingerie department. No, too much room for error and not enough cash I conclude, as I reluctantly concede to the plan not wishing to appear more Scrooge-like than normal.

‘Surprised you agreed again this year.’ Says fat boy M the mortgage peddler, as we draw lots and I groan inwardly when I pull borderline sex addict B from lettings – and not in a good way. Perhaps five quid would suffice for her, I think, as there can’t be that much material cost in a thong. Can it get any worse I think, before trainee F giggles insanely then looks directly at me, scrap of paper clutched in his hand.

Fantastic, now an imbecile with about as much intelligence as a fledgling culture in a petri dish is choosing my preposterous present. At least for five quid the item probably won’t run to battery power again.

‘I see some survey from the RICS reckons house-hunters are on the rise.’ Chuckles assistant manager T from his flat screen, once we’ve all been allocated someone to buy for. ‘Where do they get this stuff from?’

T has a point. Those on the front line, rarely recognise the bulk of the data that floods the media just because someone is keen for copy. This ought to the sort of December present I’d actually like to receive, but with the only sign of movement on the high street the queue of vultures stripping the Woolworths corpse before it dies, I’m less than ecstatic.

So I head for the pick’n’mix to see just what five pounds will buy.

Weakest Link - Tuesday

As the traditional December slump started months ago we’re sat in a deathly quiet office, phones stilled again, with just the background mumbling of morbidly obese mortgage man M’s sonorous tones, leaking from his office. He has a timid looking rake-thin couple ensconced, as he tries to convince them now is a good time to take one of his sub-prime loans, coupled to some tasty insurance cover.

‘He’ll have them for breakfast.’ Suggests B from her letting desk, as she nods towards M’s lair and the anorexic couple. There’s precious little to feed on, I think, as the malnourished male nods in time to M’s finely honed advice – basically whoever will lend them the dosh, coupled with the meatiest life products he can flog.

‘A famous war politician was re-elected.’ I offer to the room, to blank stares all round. Then F the tragic trainee lifts a timid hand and asks hesitantly. ‘Was it Margaret Thatcher?’
God, sometimes I feel like a kindergarten teacher.

‘No,’ I snap. ‘You are miles out.’
‘Was it the year you were born?’ Sneers B unkindly, she knows more than she’s letting on – no pun intended, but let’s run with it.
‘Nope. Not even close.’ I tell her, thinking you’re not that much younger than me love, under all the slap.

Guessing the year interest rates were last this low is turning out to be a mistake, I think, as I see movement from M’s office as the weight watchers begin to leave.
‘A famous rock star turned human rights campaigner was born.’ I offer like some poor man’s Anne Robinson. ‘He was in a lightweight punk-cum- new wave band.’ I coach, on more familiar ground now.
‘Was it Bono?’ Asks assistant manager T cautiously.

‘Jesus.’ I let slip involuntarily, just as M appears and points the underfed duo towards the door. I’m hoping they didn’t hear my unprofessional lapse or if they did they’re not happy-clappy door knockers’. Although on reflection the man upstairs, or his aforementioned son, might be a better bet than M for a miracle loan.

‘What you doing?’ Asks M, as his punters walk to the exit without him and T responds to my violent head nodding and grabs the door to let them out. I’m sure M does it just to rile me, unless he can’t expend that much energy without an en-route food stop.

Once the couple have left and M has informed the group they were over-extended on car loans and credit cards already, he hazards a guess that’s only four years out.

‘Ok, this might help,’ I suggest pompously, glancing at the crib notes I lifted from Wikipedia earlier. ‘The Prime Minister was born in this year.’
‘1940?’ Asks negotiator S with a shrug and a wobble.
‘Nah, that fool is younger than he looks.’ Scowls M. ‘Although if I could catch him he wouldn’t be having too many more birthdays, the way he’s screwed us over.’

I suspect the P.M can rest easy on that particular bloated terrorist threat, unless he manoeuvres at the speed of an oil tanker. Interestingly enough, the new base rate is not unlike a bulk carrier, I ponder, as M edges towards the kitchen and the last doughnut. It’s going to take a long while to change course – especially with a pirate at the helm - and I’ve a feeling we’ll just have to hit rock bottom, before re-floating naturally.

‘I suppose it’s too late for you to write me an Accident Sickness and Redundancy policy and backdate it?’ I ask M only half in jest, after I’ve revealed the subject year to universal apathy.
‘More than my job’s worth.’ Chortles M, giant jowls wobbling unappetisingly.
I decide not to enlighten M as to his true employment value, particularly as I too seem to be heading for all three triggers on the unwritten policy – only I know from experience the exclusion clauses would undoubtedly prevent me from any parachute payments.

Like the super-tanker analogy, I guess I’ll just have to go with the tide.

The answer?

1951 – oh and Bob Geldof.

Two For One - Thursday

‘God you can tell there’s a credit crunch on can’t you?’ Moans mortgage man M as we stand in small downbeat groups in an unfamiliar hotel room. He sweeps a podgy paw towards the scant collection of supermarket own brand biscuits, as I sip tentatively on a ghastly stewed brew of bitter coffee, before adding glumly. ‘There are no bloody bacon sandwiches.’

‘At least it’ll please her.’ I tell M nodding towards the slightly quirky female manager of a nearby branch. The woman always used to pull the “meat is murder” card when the pig butties came round and retire outside the room - like the few remaining smokers - if she couldn’t have some sort of ghastly Tofu extraction in a roll.

‘Maybe she’d not as weird as we thought,’ concedes H my vertically challenged rival manager, from somewhere around my navel. ‘She was twittering on about low-energy light bulbs and solar panels for years before we had those ridiculous EPC’s.’

H might have a point, I reluctantly agree. The payback on wind turbines and unsightly electric silicone inserts in your roof used to be measured in decades, so I just scoffed and left all the appliances on standby. But now the wind of change is funnelling coldly along every high street in Britain, perhaps I should reconsider. But then again, it would take a hurricane to generate enough power to brighten up my immediate prospects.

EPC’s (Energy Performance Certificates) are still not understood, or taken in to consideration by the majority of house purchasers, any more then the buyers of washing machines. That could of course be down to the dearth of punters as much as a typical British reaction to anything imposed by central government, I think, as H and M continue the eco-argument.

‘Load of bollocks if you ask me.’ Posits M, which conveniently enough might be what we’re about to partake of I think wryly, as the door opens and a brace of Warsaw waitresses enter the musty room carrying dodgy looking sausages, in unnaturally white rolls. ‘Any vegetarian options?’ Asks the hippy girl forlornly, to groans all round, before my bean counter boss, petrified of the slightest hint of a discrimination claim, breaks away from his laptop and orders a round of cheese and pickle.

‘I think we might need to play the green card a bit more.’ Suggests H as he chomps down on his second hot dog and I resist the urge to tell him the only way he’ll be growing, is sideways.
‘Yes, I suppose those that are left this time next year might be sporting ponytails and facial hair.’ I offer morosely, as M nods towards the cheese-chewing eco-lady and says.
‘At least she’ll have a head start.’

The food and the venue are as cheap as my boss, part of his drive to save money, I realise as the meeting reconvenes and he flashes up another piss-poor PowerPoint slide. The assembled mangers and mortgage consultants are already feeling demoralised, having heard about the latest cuts to the car list. And the moth-eaten surroundings; drab stained furnishings, threadbare carpets and low-cost eastern European staff, are hardly adding to the fog of despair descending on proceedings.
Having been here before, I know it’s going to get a whole lot worse.

‘And now for our January sale campaign.’ Announces the bean counter to complete silence, other than M’s rhythmically masticating jaws. My stomach churns uncomfortably as the head office advertising bromides and window stickers are passed reluctantly round. It might be the lukewarm gristle and offal offering I’ve just unadvisedly troughed but I’ve a feeling it’s more down to the clumsy campaign unveiling before me.

I know prices need to get real, I’ve known that for a long time, but experience tells me punters balk at centralised directives that seem to talk down the market. Better to selectively target individual sellers who need to move and can understand the argument of changeover figures, rather than now long distant price-peaks about as reachable as Everest.

I should say something, I ponder, as the expensively procured material is circulated with about as much enthusiasm as a hound owner clutching a turd in a bag. Instead I have another warm-dog.