Trickle Down Theory - Thursday

‘Is this really necessary?’ Gripes assistant manager T from the passenger seat, as behind me trainee F masticates slowly, the sound annoying me even though I can’t see his face in the rear view mirror.
‘Great way to get to know your patch intimately.’ I tell T, as we pull into the road in question.
‘There’s satellite navigation for that nowadays.’ Replies T caustically.
I wouldn’t mind getting to know her patch!’ Guffaws F as a young girl struts by haughtily.

‘God you lot are so crude.’ Complains negotiator S from the back seat I can see clearly. She’s the reason I almost clipped a parked car as we entered the area, but now I have to make clear, for my own sake and to avoid any future difficulty at employment tribunals, that F’s comment is not acceptable in a modern and enlightened discrimination-free workplace.

‘Shut-up,’ I reprimand the boy abruptly before adding bluntly. ‘And if that’s gum you are chewing you can lose it now.’
‘It’s nicotine gum,’ replies F defensively. ‘I’m trying to get off the weed.’
‘I don’t care if it’s edible kelp,’ I tell him, secretly rather pleased with the retort. ‘You don’t chew in view of the public and while we’re about it you don’t make offensive remarks about them either.’

‘Hypocrite.’ Hisses T as we exit the car and S flashes me the sort of smile that makes me forget the sort of double standards I’ve just employed. As a young punk rocker, I used to despise hypocrites and capitalists with equal vigour, but it’s curious how time and disappointment contrive to make you resemble that which you used to decry.

‘Back at the car in half an hour or so.’ I instruct before getting my own back on T by telling him to go one way down the road with F, while I head off the other with S. ‘I’m never sure if theses leaflets actually work.’ Posits S as we start off, clutching the handouts I fashioned earlier on the office PC. I’ve avoided the crass: We have someone urgently waiting for your home. Call Darren immediately, school of flyer, for something I feel is a little more refined and less likely to get me sued. But in the end it’s the same con-man, in a better suit.

‘It gets us out of the office and doing something positive.’ I tell S as we begin weaving up and down drives avoiding ominously barking dogs and the occasional car washer, who look at us with the barely concealed hostility of the regularly junk-mailed recipient. The footslogging is made more palatable by S’s pretty countenance as we meet at the head of each drive, in a protracted pavement fandango.

‘Is that true about the gum chewing.’ She asks, as we pause and re-assess the number of leaflets left, against the remaining homes.
‘Yep, I tell her. ‘And clean shoes, hair not too long. No visible tattoos, neat finger nails, no comedy ties and spinach-free teeth, all help. You can tell a lot about people’s foibles if you are observant enough.’

‘How did you learn all this stuff?’ Asks S, seemingly genuinely interested, although those rose-tinted glasses to tend to filter everything flatteringly for the susceptible wearer.
‘School of hard knocks,’ I tell her. ‘Every time I notice something costing us business I make a mental note to add it to the list. Facial piercing is a no-no too.’

‘People think selling is all about telling.’ I continue as we walk back to the car almost as if we’re together other than in a business sense. ‘But you need to watch and listen more than talk. One mouth, two ears.’ I tell her sagely, paraphrasing past sales courses a little but pretending it’s all my own work.

‘You should write all this stuff down.’ Trills S enthusiastically as I spy F and T fast approaching, a small yapping dog manically chasing F’s ankles for sport. ‘Maybe write a book or something.’ I laugh dryly in response, cheeks colouring.
‘No I’m serious.’ Presses S.
‘Nobody would want to read about estate agents.’ I tell her wearily.

There’s plenty I’d like to tell S, but discretion is the better part of valour.