Pass It On - Monday

Look out into the office and pleasingly see every desk is occupied. Assistant manager T is deep in conversation with a vendor keen to ensure their sale goes through after the surveyor down-valued the place. T is close to re-negotiating the price and keeping the move on track.

Negotiator S has a thirty-something couple, with either bottle or genuine suntans glowing across their face, sat before her studying sales particulars. Worryingly the woman is sneezing rather too regularly, but a deal is a deal, so I figure hurrying over with a facemask for S might not be appropriate.

B in lettings is talking animatedly to a dark-skinned man who I think has come up short on a credit score, probably because his passport has only just been laminated round the corner, but if B can find a way of satisfying the guy she undoubtedly will. Even trainee F, has a pair of barely pubescent kids in front of him. They look about fifteen years too young for the average aged first time buyer, but perhaps it’s a parent-sponsored purchase. Never judge a book by its cover.

As the office empties simultaneously and mortgage man M waddles back in with completed loan forms and a bag of doughnuts, I ask for progress reports.
‘My two are definite buyers.’ Crows F excitedly. ‘ Mum and dad are subbing the deposit and they both work in the public sector.’
‘They’ll be safe for a while then.’ Posits M as he swallows a whole sugary dough-ball in one. ‘Will they do the finance with me?’ He probes greedily, a hint of jam appearing at the corner of his mouth.

Needless to say, F forgot to ask. Admonishment administered, T tells me the owner has agreed to chop their price to match the buyers’ loan requirements if he can trim a similar amount from their ongoing purchase. As it’s a deceased estate and the beneficiaries are keen for the cash, there’s a good chance of progress. I turn to S.

‘What did you glean from your two?’ I ask, keen to demonstrate to F how you should qualify an applicant. S has all the relevant details plus a lead for M to pursue, something that delights the fat man so much he briefly plunges a podgy paw back into the doughnut bag until he sees everyone looking at him accusingly.

‘The woman couldn’t stop coughing and spluttering,’ Says S with a shudder. ‘And they’d just come back from holiday.’
‘Mexico was it?’ Chuckles B from her enclave. ‘You might want to get to the chemist sharpish, in case they’ve got that swine flu.’
‘How do you get that then?’ Asks F, oblivious to the latest health scare, similar to the one that had us all sidestepping caged birds in homes a year or so back. Now it seems we need to avoid unshaven men with large sombreros, or castanet wielding senoritas with the sniffles.

‘Not from shagging pigs matey.’ Chortles M, looking at F. ‘So you’ll be alright - unless it morphs to dogs.’ Inappropriate laughter over, I tug the team back on course.

‘They were distress vultures.’ Continues S with a shudder. ‘Wanted to know which properties were repossessions and who was most desperate to sell. I don’t like that.’ And she hesitates before telling me she’s booked a run of viewings with the potential buyers later, and asking. ‘Could someone else do them?’

I’m tempted to probe what she’ll do for me in return, but as we need the sales I agree to take the appointments. The buyers’ demeanour doesn’t faze me greatly. It’s always one party or the other wanting to get one over, it just depends where you are in the cycle. I might nip to Boots and see if they have any unobtrusive facemasks first though.

Unfortunately, it turns out blue isn’t the best camouflage colour for your features unless you’re a woad-wearing ancient Briton. The radio assures me en-route that the health department have enough Tamiflu drugs stockpiled for half the country. But with estate agent pretty low down on the priority treatment list – I don’t feel a whole lot better.

Come back with an offer though. Not to be sneezed at.

Fiscal Fiasco - Wednesday

Sitting in my office with the radio on I wait for news, while reading the draft profit and loss account from last month. The figures arrived with a frosty memo from the bean counter asking for explanations on the shortfalls and action plans for the overspends. Increased cost cutting is inevitable so I’ll be upsetting the advertising rep from the local rag when I tell him our property advert will be trimmed again. He in turn will doubtless cull my bottle of cheap sherry come next Christmas – if we are both still here.

Fifty per cent of advertising is supposed to be a complete waste of money according to what little industry wisdom there is. The tricky bit is identifying which fifty per cent. Laughably, my original budget income projections were not far out from where we now are, until the bean counter and his masters – who are demanding I take ownership of the revamped numbers - threw them out as being too pessimistic. It’s a shallow victory I can doubtless contemplate at the job centre.

‘Listening out for the cricket are you?’ Asks an asinine voice and I look up irritably to see trainee F’s gurning features at my door. Despite my predilection for the noble thwack of leather upon willow, I’m briefly tempted to try the more pleasing sound of fist on face, but the thought of the paperwork makes me stay my hand.

‘There’s no cricket on today.’ I tell F wearily.
‘I never really understood the game anyway.’ Ventures F, as I think much like estate agency then you dullard.
‘So,’ continues F hesitantly. ‘What are you listening to then?’
‘Darling.’ I tell the numpty, unnecessarily disingenuously, but then as the absurdly named chancellor hasn’t started lying yet, I figure some fleeting fun can be indulged in.

Needless to say F has only a tenuous grasp on current affairs – not unlike lettings slapper B – and has as far as I can ascertain has never bought a newspaper in his life. The look of confusion and incipient fear etched on the fools face as he mistakes the chancellor’s name for a term of endearment probably mirrors the look one of B’s conquests gives, upon waking. Perhaps a similar caution in private life to professional life might be advisable for her contacts? A swift credit check and some references might avoid splurging your deposit unnecessarily, without a binding commitment.

‘How’s it going?’ I ask a potential vendor as I arrive at a valuation later and spot he’s got the television on, scrolling updates running across the screen. ‘Anything for the housing market?’
‘These wastrels couldn’t run a whelk stall.’ Opines the man angrily. ‘If my budget projections were so far out, I’d be unemployed, or prosecuted for falsifying the figures. These scoundrels,’ and he hesitates looking at me unsettlingly before deciding I can take it. ‘Well no offence,’ - here comes the insult - ‘but their reputation is worse than you lot.’

There’s a theory among some in the industry that you can fiddle with the numbers, taxes and mortgage rescue packages as much as you like, but ultimately - as in the early nineties - you will just have to take the hit and wait for the correction. It’s a familiarly painful option, involving repossessions, unemployment and some sharp re-alignments. A bleak Darwinian culling of the weak to allow the fittest to survive - which is probably going to leave me extinct, unless I can lie extravagantly about my expenses. The adult channel films on Sky probably won’t get past the bean counters steely stare though.

‘Here we go,’ chuckles the man bleakly, rubbing his chin as the latest updates hit the screen. ‘You earn over £150,000 a year?’ he asks unnecessarily, as a new 50% tax rate is announced. Then we watch mutually muttering our dismay as petrol and alcohol goes up, before a glimmer of light when I realise if they delay changing my company car much longer it’ll be eventually worth £2,000 pounds if we chop in a ten year old motor.

‘So,’ begins the owner cautiously after we’ve digested £500 million to encourage building extra homes and a pitiful extension of stamp duty exemption. ‘Does that mean I’ll get more for my house now?’

Probably not.

Highway To Hell - Friday

Ship up at a town house, three storeys of confused accommodation with the lower level reserved for storage and lodgers. I lived in a 1970s built monstrosity many years ago, renting with a terminally slobbish friend. His initial cavalier charm over washing-up, cleaning cooking surfaces, and emptying the rubbish soon began to fester almost as badly as the un-emptied black sacks of mouldering foodstuff - mostly take-away trays from memory. I still get incipient panic attacks whenever I see a cooling, globule-flecked plate of sweet and sour chicken balls.

‘Shall we start here?’ Asks the potential seller, once the opening pleasantries and business card presentation is dealt with. And he leads me along a cluttered hall to the rear bedroom. As expected the space is piled high with boxes, suitcases, and a battered children’s swing to one side. The casement door to the rear looks out over an overgrown patch of weeds and a rusting kettle-style barbeque.

‘Not much of a gardener.’ Apologises the man stating the obvious, as he sweeps a hand towards the paltry patch of earth, rear gate with one panel kicked out, leading on to a pedestrian walkway behind. Where without bothering to look, I’m confident there’ll be a collection of spent extra strong lager cans, cigarette butts, used condoms and the odd discarded needle. No wonder the swing is indoors.

‘And why are you thinking of moving?’ I fish neutrally, keen for selling signals.
And the man looks at me disconsolately then coughs his last few years’ history. It’s an increasingly familiar tale. Wife threw him out, so he bought this place as a stopgap, with enough room for his children to come for weekend visits, only now they don’t come. Not surprised, I think callously, if you have to eat burgers from a rusty grill and the only playtime involves indoor swinging, or running the gauntlet of dealers and druggies out back.

‘So I just want out.’ He finishes with a resigned shrug, before adding those magic words. ‘Whatever it costs.’ Now I’m really interested, particularly as he seems to have enough equity in the place to take a bigger hit than the junkies over the fence.

‘Oh and of course there’s the garage.’ The guy tells me, as we edge back along the hall and he opens the fire door to the space where nobody parks their car. Sure enough in the absence of a motor, the void is cluttered with the detritus of a failed relationship. A sagging sofa, a chest of drawers and two children’s bicycles, both with telltale flat tyres. Then I spot the gleaming motorbike.

‘That’s what I plan on doing.’ Confirms the man underscoring the fact that he’ll be selling, no matter how deflated his price. ‘Go travelling on the bike, see a bit of the world before I die.’ And he tells me how he’s been made redundant and with the tax-free lump sum, he’s about to burn rubber and leave as soon as possible. Mentally I carve another five grand of my suggested asking price.

The man is a middle-aged cliché, I think, as I follow him up the steep stairs that mean elderly retirees who believe a town house a good idea, will soon be re-selling once the arthritis starts to grate. All he needs now is a guitar in the lounge, I ponder, as we make the room, kitchen at rear, and I spot the acoustic sat alongside a pile of motor magazines.

I flashback nearly thirty years as I see the grubby unwashed sink full of dishes, and I’m sure I detect a whiff of special chow mein in the air, unless he’s using that Lynx deodorant my youngest wears.

‘There’s nothing left here for me.’ Opines the man, once I’ve checked out his unmade bed and grubby bathroom, bog lid up, basin sporting a shaving foam tidemark.
‘I’m going to have a bit of me time and worry about the consequences when the money runs out. That’ll show the bitch.’ And I wonder if he’ll swallow a further £5k trim.

Driving back, I pass the bike dealer and finally the guitar shop. Current thinking is there’s less chance of dying on a Telecaster than a Triumph.

Back Home - Tuesday

Half way through the Easter break I finally stop thinking about work and that double-deal exchange of contracts I’ve been sweating on for weeks. A day later I begin to fret about returning and the problems I’ll find.

‘Just try and relax will you?’ Pleads my wife as I tire of the sunshine and an ill-chosen airport book that only makes me think I could do better, if only I was a minor celebrity with a pro-active publicist.
‘I’m off for a walk.’ I tell her wiping the sun-cream tainted sweat from my brow and plodding past a brace of fat Germans both of whom – husband and wife - shouldn’t be sunbathing topless with tits that saggy.
‘Don’t go on your laptop,’ She cautions, as I hop on the baking flagstones. ‘You’ll just depress yourself.’

So in the absence of a chance to check my e-mails, or polish the book draft that might only ever be read by me, I exit stage left just as my wife suggests unhelpfully:
‘Why not chat to a few people? You might actually meet someone you like.’

Still laughing at her absurdly optimistic suggestion, I don the dark glasses disguise and pass a phalanx of horizontal chavs, slowly broiling in the midday sun. Each giving off a pungent whiff of Piz Buin, subtly overlaid with notes of FCUK aftershave, topped by the reek of cheap lager.

To confirm my preferred anonymous status, one of the fat-bellied thugs calls out abruptly, ‘Oi Pedro, three large beers over here, ta.’ as I pass. An absurdly self-destructive impulse to shout: ‘That’s tres grande cerveza por favor senor, you meathead.’ Is only just stilled as I realise returning to the office with a red face and a black eye, isn’t going to help my immediate employment prospects.

As I wander across the road from the hotel I pass five identikit bars offering roast beef lunches and gassy English keg beer, as if it’s a benefit not an embarrassment. Wall-to-wall Premiership football is being illegally beamed to those in need of Yorkshire pudding and Yorkshire bitter, but despite a latent desire to know the scores, I plod on.

After years of selling I can effect a chummy persona and talk about dodgy offside decisions if I have to, but come halftime the chat will inevitably turn to the dreaded, ‘and what do you do?’ question. Short of telling the enquirer, in shiny replica team shirt, a complete porky, or for some real opprobrium pretending I’m a city banker, I prefer to keep walking.

Then as the parade of concrete shops ends, I find the vacant estate agency unit. The one’s I’ve spotted earlier in the holiday have been empty too, with desperate hand-written notices trumpeting special offers and big price reductions, but although the only occupants were morose looking staff in short sleeved shirts, at least they were still open.

Another unwelcome glimpse into my future occurs as I gaze through the smeary window, past the empty wire-hung displays, to see a grubby fake marble floor and a brace of curling cables stretching forlornly from a wall socket. If I thought the UK property market was grim I was mistaken compared to Spain, where if the bank doesn’t snatch-back your home, the local authority repossess the garden that never actually belonged to you.

‘I bought you a drink,’ announces my wife when I return to the pool, indicating a plastic beaker full of gassy lemonade. ‘Only everything is so expensive here now.’
Yep, with the euro riding high against the pound, I think, as I rub some cream into her back and wonder if my waist wobbles like that too after half a week of all you can eat buffet gluttony, it’s no wonder ex-patriot baby boomers are feeling the pinch as badly as my waistband.

A heat-induced dream ensues, as my face tightens in the sunshine and a surreal vision of negotiator S swims into view. Just as she clambers from the pool, rivulets of water tracking her curvaceous frame mouth-wateringly, I gaze upwards to see trainee F’s grinning face on her shoulders. Fortunately my scream was mistaken for anger as the fat Kraut bombed too close to the edge and soaked me.

Time to leave.

Cast In The Furnace - Friday

Trudging to the sandwich shop at lunchtime, I see the same blank faces I spy in the traffic jam every morning. Each participant carving out their soul-sapping routine to re-fuel, pick up a paper, or just snatch fifteen minutes away from a headset or terminal.

Was it always like this? I wonder, as some yellow-jacketed charity chugger attempts to shame me into revealing my bank account details, by brandishing a photograph of a chain-smoking beagle, or some other exploited creature. Perhaps in simpler times, a blacksmith, or wheelwright, became just as disenchanted after the ten thousandth hoof, or the umpteenth buckled coach rig, I think, as I brush of the persistent animal porn worrier, with a curt.
‘No thanks mate I’m, actually an estate agent.’

That went well, I tell myself; as I march on, then risk a look back to see the standing order collector, staring at me with the same sort of blank-eyed confusion the dog on twenty a day was wearing. Momentarily I fell better, until I see the shot-hipped banker shuffling towards me, intent on conversation.

‘How’s it going?’ He asks plaintively, with the sort of doomed to depression inquisitiveness Custer’s last standing cavalry member might have delivered, should the beleaguered general have enquired about the chances of reinforcements arriving soon.
‘Grim, ‘ I tell him bluntly, before adding an unwise. ‘The Indian’s are circling and there’s no way out of here.’

‘Not sure what you mean by that.’ Announces the not-allowed-to-advance moneylender, with a confused shrug. ‘But we’re into a redundancy counselling period and another round of re-structuring.’
‘How much do you think it would cost to set up a Blacksmiths business?’ I ask as an unsuccessful vendor I’ve not spoken to for a while walks past, and I shamefully manoeuvre behind the banker so they don’t spot me.

Apparently I need to draw up a business plan, with the first three years profit and loss forecasts, costs analysis and budget projections. So with my maths acumen I decide to concentrate on the three-for-two slimline meal deals instead, particularly after the banker discloses I’m probably in the bad risk category. Nice to know I’m in good company for once.

To avoid the animal rights harassment I take the long way back to the office and the slow erosion of the familiar route, like some rain-carved gully through a cobbled courtyard, is lifted by a change of environment, until I notice the new agent in town.

‘You’re not going to believe this,’ I bluster to the office as I hurry through the door, still amazed that anyone could be stupid enough to launch a fresh business venture – other than insolvency consultancy – in this economic climate. ‘Some numpties have just opened up an agency office down the road.’

‘Hah!’ Splutters bloated mortgage man M, spraying puff pastry across the carpet like confetti at a wedding. ‘Fat chance in this market.’ And he waddles back to his office, straining at the thigh trouser material rubbing alarmingly together and in danger of some sort of massive static electricity burst, or perhaps a spontaneous combustion that would take several reams of health and safety accident report forms to explain.

‘Maybe they know something we don’t.’ Ventures trainee F, rubbing his chin.
‘Not difficult in your case.’ Bats back B from her lettings desk spitefully, although accurately
‘Perhaps they are offering a decent management service?’ Suggests assistant manager T, looking at B pointedly.

And a spirited discourse kicks off; as I meander to the storage cupboard, rescue the industrial “Henry” Hoover and start to vacuum up M’s crumbs.
‘That’s what I like to see.’ Laughs negotiator S as she breezes through the door and spies my exertions. ‘A man in touch with his feminine side.’

‘They’ll be gone inside twelve months.’ Predicts T as the debate about the new competitor in town continues.
‘You ever thought of opening up on your own?’ S asks me inquisitively.
‘I do every morning actually.’ I joke to groans all round, before speculating I’ve left it too long. Stuck in the same old rut.

Apparently the demand for cottage industry metalworkers isn’t too strong, so I’m here for a bit longer.

P.S.

Away for Easter working on final draft for the book - back soon.

S.A.