Can You Feel It - Friday

‘That was a surprise wasn’t it?’ States fat mortgage man M as he arrives through the door shortly ahead of negotiator S, both with breasts heaving.

Momentarily I’m distracted by the incongruous juxtaposition of alarming and alluring body parts sported by the first two arrivals, as assistant manager T hurries in behind closely followed by a slightly wobbly B from lettings. Could be her over-high heels, or she could still be sloshed. Just as the clock hits start time imbecile trainee F scuttles through the door with a sheepish grin of apology.

‘What was?’ I ask, finally responding to M’s opening gambit, as I wonder just how to make the morning meeting stimulating yet challenging too.
‘He means the dead celebrity I think.’ Offers T as M repeats his question.

And I almost say Farrah Fawcett Major, another icon from my childhood who has shuffled off this mortal coil leaving a transient back-catalogue legacy and a pissed-off agent, but of course M means Michael Jackson.

‘I preferred his early stuff anyway,’ continues M distractedly as he eyes the biscuit tin he left on the filing cabinet last night. I preferred the dark-haired one in Charlie’s Angels, as it happens, I think wistfully as I remember those surreptitious erections on the sofa and the uncomfortable shared family experience fostered by one television per house and just three channels to choose from – coupled with raging hormones. ‘He went a bit weird towards the end.’

And instead of a rousing motivational morning meeting priming my team for another day scaling the foothills of the sales Alps - all minus oxygen and ability - we discuss the merits of the sadly deceased and deeply troubled singer.

‘I never really knew much of his music.’ Pronounces F with a gormless look, as I realise once again that I have nothing much in common with my colleagues other than a shared satellite navigation postcode. And M, B and myself real off a list of Michael Jackson’s hits to nods of recognition from T and S but mostly blank looks from F. I start to feel really old as I realise Jacko has croaked at fifty, an uncomfortably close number to mine.

‘Beat it?’ I try in desperation towards F, as a fleeting thought of applying the title to his head with the hole-punch, flits enticingly by. But F finally smiles in recognition and I’m briefly encouraged - until he informs the room he thought Alien Ant Farm penned the song.

‘He must have been about your age wasn’t he?’ Questions T brutally, as I try to duck the question and avoid S’s inquisitive gaze. My joke about not needing plastic surgery falls on fallow ground, so I grab the viewing book and attempt to change the subject. Only I can’t stop thinking about the singer’s untimely death and how life choices drag you in previously unimagined directions.

In truth I was more upset when Joe Strummer of The Clash pegged-it, occasioning another bout of soul-searching for a week or two, as I realised time had done that sneaking up on the rails trick again. Of course I never learned to play the guitar and I never wrote anything more than a few juvenile poems until this blog began, but I sure as hell didn’t set out to be a disillusioned estate agent – it sort of crept up on me, like slowly choking arteries.

‘Bloody good career move mind.’ Says M, bringing me back to the present, with a voluminous chuckle.
‘Not sure it would work for me.’ I counter to confused looks all round, just as the first off-colour text joke about Michael’s demise hits my mobile.

‘I remember the day Elvis died like it was yesterday.’ Pontificates an elderly potential vendor as I sit in his lounge later. The lunchtime news is blaring at high volume and re-runs of the King of Pop’s videos are flitting across the screen. I’m tempted to ask the old boy to turn the television off. Pitching for business against a backdrop of dancing zombies isn’t the easiest sell, I think, before reconsidering as I look again at the crumbly cadaver before me.

I press on quietly humming – Don’t Stop ‘Till You Get Enough.

Hear No Evil - Tuesday

‘What are you doing in the bathroom?’ Queries my wife, voice heavy with exasperation, if a little muffled.
It’s the sort of question you can do without at the best of times, but now I’m about to be caught out, mid-fiddle.
‘You’ve got one of those cotton buds in again, haven’t you.’ She states, rather than questions.

And despite the fact I know I shouldn’t, I give the mini-dumbbell a further, almost orgasmic twist and receive a sharp stabbing pain for my troubles. And the throbbing returns, re-doubled. The container carries all sorts of dire warning about not inserting the sticks into your inner ear canal, but why else have them? Anyway, they must know there’s a certain transient satisfaction in excavating a clinging clot of earwax, at least until you smell it.

Exiting the bathroom with a feeling of guilt and a disapproving look, I find the relief is indeed temporary, as now I really can’t hear out of my left ear, and it still feels as if I’ve been swimming and have some brackish, piss-flecked pool water, lodged inside the drum. Then my wife issues the sort of command I dread, announcing.
‘You’ll have to go and see the doctor.’

‘I’m sorry you feel that way.’ I apologise to an irate vendor later, who blames the economic meltdown on me personally as his overpriced home isn’t even attracting viewers, let alone offers he would consider derisory – but might welcome with open arms in six months time. Only he’ll have swapped agents by then, of course.
‘We could try trimming the price a little,’ I venture cautiously. ‘Re-advertise and try and stimulate fresh interest.

I know this suggestion will be falling on ears deafer than mine, as the parsimonious prig even argued over whether we should have a £995 ending to his price, rather than a £950 when I listed it. True to form, he confirms my thoughts by launching a rant about not wanting to give his house away, and how wretched agents pushed all the prices up and are forcing them down again. And now my diminished hearing comes in handy, as I swap the phone handset across to the impaired side while he blows himself out.

‘Just wait over there.’ Instructs the receptionist with a stifled yawn. ‘And the doctor will call you through when they’re ready.’
Gloomily, I shuffle to join a disparate band of grey haired, wan faced coughing and spluttering pensioners, a smattering of heavily pregnant mother’s-to-be and one nervous looking schoolgirl, still in her uniform. Soon to be pregnant as well, I think uncharitably, or here for a morning after pill.

‘Hello sir.’ Announces an elderly well-dressed man wearing a deerstalker-style hat. I don’t recognise him and anyway the greeting is far too courteous to come from a property-based contact. A fact confirmed, when he starts ranting about his missing wife and the fact that they’ve all killed themselves - every last one.

‘Calm down Mr Simmonds,’ Calls the receptionist disinterestedly. ‘Just wait for the doctor to call you.’

Moving seats and getting a disapproving look from the promiscuous schoolgirl as I shift towards her, I grab a dog-eared local magazine and choke back a laugh. There, two years out of date is a page display of one of our property adverts. I recognise every home and at least one of assistant manger T’s mis-framed shots. But it’s the prices that have me shaking my head, until the fluid shifts uncomfortably. And then a distant fuzzy voice calls me to room two.

As I rise uncertainly, another man, short and elderly, gazumps me and shuffles along the corridor. I follow the ancient mariner, still marvelling at the absurdly optimistic prices in the advert I was reading and the knowledge, unspoken then, but validated now, that the price increases were unsustainable.

‘Excuse me.’ I call, as the old fool in front attempts to pinch my appointment. And I explain, confidence evaporating, that it was my name called. He gives me the sort of disappointed look I see a lot nowadays, as does the youthful doctor when I tell him my profession.

I have a feeling the pain is going to last a little longer.

Closed Shop - Wednesday

H the slightly less cocky but still vertically challenged rival branch manager, rings me to see how things are. The tone in his voice is a new one, as is the experience of finding he’s in reality not the red-hot salesman circumstances and the market convinced him he was. Of course the situation is depressingly familiar to me.

Usually the little squirt only calls to crow over his sales figures but with willing and able buyers disappearing faster than mortgage man M’s lunch, he’s beginning to feel the pressure.
‘You’ve been around for like ever,’ he begins not over-flatteringly. ‘Was it this bad last time?’
And I delight in telling him it was a whole heap worse, which of course it was. Although that’s not to say it won’t match the grim reality of the early nineties if things stay as they are. The repossessions are climbing relentlessly and the office closures continue.

‘You’re not going to believe this.’ He tells me breathlessly and he reveals another long-established name on his patch has closed overnight, windows whitewashed, fascia removed, only the now rather ironic Rightmove stickers left on the door, a clue to the former tenant’s business.

I do believe it, just as I remember the process from before. A familiar foe has just shut up shop on my patch too. The company logo swiftly removed from above the door to poignantly reveal a long-forgotten independent retailer’s faded sign-written shop front, with a curious four-digit phone number. I’m briefly tempted to ring and see if some ghostly grocer answers to tell me he predicted it would end in tears – but that would be ridiculous.

Instead I tell H to think laterally – the other direction might be misconstrued – in order to winkle out deals. To gently suggest presentation improvements to struggling sellers, to reacquaint himself with his dusty register of buyers, and strive to match the punter to the pad. To get a few of the reluctant reducers to drop their lofty price demands, for their crummy loft conversions - after all it’s not rocket science. But like the owners who are in denial, H is too.

‘So you telling me you’re going to be any better than the other crummy lot?’ Snipes the disgruntled owner on my early evening valuation. He’s insisted I come after he finishes work and reluctantly I’ve acceded. Although extended opening hours, like extensive advertising, are already coming under pressure from the bean counter boss. If I remember rightly it will be increase fees, ditch the Sunday opening staff and only print ten sets of property particulars at a time.

‘Only all the others made rash promises and predictions at the beginning,’ continues the owner bringing me back to reality. ‘Then they never rang back.’
Agent hopping is another familiar returning feeling, as desperate sellers, the one’s who have real motivation to move – the job relocations, the downsizers hoping to beat the court order, and the matrimonial break-ups – swap estate agents on a mad merry-go-round of board substitutions.

Another recurring theme is the vendor’s lament about never hearing from his agent. Like the aftermath of one of man-eater B in lettings ill chosen one-night-stands, they feel used and cheapened when the follow-up phone call never comes. I’m the third agent in the last six months and from the way the man is looking at me his opinion of my profession matched the common perception, but then I’m used to rejection.

‘How much?’ Snaps Mr Angry when I tell him my suggested price reduction on the absurdly over-optimistic figure he’s been marketing at. Then another hefty hit of déjà vu hits as he repeats the same incredulous question, as I pitch for a top rate fee from the hit-them-when-they’re-down school of marketing moves.

‘I’ll be in touch.’ I conclude cheerily paperwork in hand, as I briefly contemplate tearing down the just ousted rival’s grubby board from the gatepost as I leave. Only to remember in my company’s straightened circumstances they no longer cough for sullied suit cleaning bills.

‘Just find me a way out of here.’ Pleads the owner, unwittingly echoing my own thoughts precisely.

Do Not Disturb - Friday

Walk into a shabby hotel lobby and in the absence of one of those A-boards listing room venues for the various pale-faced business executives meeting to discuss redundancy plans, I traipse across to the reception desk.

Although I’ve mentally buffed my CV, to date I’ve not physically updated it, principally because seeing almost Olympian under-achievement in stark on-screen Times New Roman will only serve to deepen the depression, but it’s clear English as a first language isn’t going to help much in the hotel and leisure business anyway.

‘No, the estate agents.’ I reiterate, after I’ve been offered the venue for a carpet company and some sort of new age beardy-weirdy seminar. Although on reflection any sort of shag pile, or even a polar bear rescue plan, will top what I’m about to endure.

‘Ok.’ Replies the woman who has a name badge seemingly devoid of vowels. ‘Second floor, you take lift.’ And she points towards a pokey corner where a dull elevator door lurks menacingly. Familiarly, I get the feeling derision for my profession crosses all EU boundaries. Either way, I take the stairs. There are some lessons to be learnt after all this time in property and not trusting poorly maintained lifts is one.

As I make the upper hall, breath shortened, dust motes dancing unsettlingly in my eyes, there’s a ping and a Star Trek-style swish, before H my vertically challenged rival manager appears from the carriage.

‘Didn’t you know there was a lift?’ He asks with a sneer as poorly disguised as the receptionist’s.
‘Don’t trust them.’ I enlighten the poison dwarf, before scanning the pale wood doors for the right number.
‘Always make thing’s hard for yourself don’t you?’ Offers H, as I begin to fantasise about that Land Of The Giants TV programme in my youth, and imagine scooping the little twerp up and stuffing him in my brief case.

‘Right shit-hole this place.’ Opines H, unfortunately from somewhere near my navel, rather than secreted in a secure Samsonite.
‘Cheaper apparently.’ I muse, as we both reach the designated door and enter.

The other managers are gathered around a tightly drawn table, flip chart to one side, making small talk as the bean counter boss fiddles with his laptop VGA connector. Gloomily I gaze at the portable display screen a minion is erecting with difficulty, and I silently yearn for those old fashioned laminate projectors that at least limited the number of slides a verbally challenged presenter could inflict.

One cup of bitter stewed coffee and a stale Danish pastry later, the screen comes to life and a litany of failure begins scrolling to the assembly. We all know the numbers; our commission-heavy salary depends on them. So this monthly group flagellation by PowerPoint doesn’t add anything to the debate.

Thoroughly demoralised by the bean counter’s charmless delivery I begin gazing out of the window and idly wondering if I could grab one of the fire reel hoses and abseil out, Die Hard style, leaving the others to burn. Until I realise someone is talking to me.

‘Well?’ Demands the bean counter, finger no longer on his touch-pad, pointing accusingly at me. ‘Do you want to get us started?’
Blankly I stare back, and all I can think is I haven’t any matches, until my next-door neighbour whispers.
‘Market report!’

Now here’s another unwanted dilemma. Does the bean counter want fact or fiction? Is he after what you might tell a seller, or a buyer? Or should I just take a chance and jump.

Round the table we go with a mixture of blind optimism, stark reality and at least one Hans Christian Anderson style fairy tale of stabilised and gently rising prices. My pitch, needless to say, leans towards the brothers Grimm, before we move onto cost saving and consolidation plans.

‘Do you reckon the cabinet do this sort of thing?’ I ask a sympathetic ear as we leave. After all if offices are expected to consolidate their register and staff then close because we got the sums horribly wrong, surely you don’t need two comedian’s living at number ten and eleven?

I stop off at the reception briefly - but apparently they have no vacancies.

Up Up And Away - Tuesday

‘And of course you must look in the roof.’ Enthuses the elderly lady as I try to feign interest in poking around a cobweb-strewn void, while she enthusiastically pops open the hatch with one of those pole and hook arrangements and encourages me to unfold the sliding ladder.

It’s a common male/female divider, which if some American academic pointed it out would probably cost him his lecturing job on campus. But I’ve yet to find a woman – my wife included – who actually goes in their loft. Instead they happily instruct the hapless husband to salt away decades worth of no longer needed tat, from cots to Zimmer frames, in the mistaken belief it will some day come in handy.

‘My husband boarded it all out himself before he passed away,’ calls the lady proudly as my head disappears into the dark cavity and I grope for the light switch. Just stopping short of asking if hubbie’s demise was from falling backwards through an open hatch – like one surveyor I heard about – or by shoving his foot through the roof plaster and expiring from dehydration, while his wife was out shopping for more junk.

‘I expect it’s quite hot up there.’ Calls the owner helpfully as beads of sweat bubble-up on my forehead and I barrel into my first clingy cobweb, while the uneven chipboard rocks alarmingly beneath my feet.

I’m only humouring her by roasting amongst the roof trusses because I’ve identified she’s as hot to leave as I am. With a dead husband no longer a stumbling block I think - as I narrowly avoid tripping over an artificial Christmas tree - and a proposed move to be nearer her daughter, I’ve recognised a top-drawer sales opportunity. If I can get back down the precarious steps without stumbling I’ll try for a maximum fee, maximum length sole agency agreement.

Fees are a contentious point with owners, most thinking we don’t do enough to justify the large cheques their solicitor issues on completion to the agent. But then those that move are effectively subsidising all the time-wasters and might-movers that people the market, whether it’s boom or bust.

‘Can you see a cardboard box marked wedding photos?’ Asks the lady from below, revealing her true reason for encouraging me up there in the first place. Reluctantly I grope further towards the gable-end, where a mound of dusty cartons sporting long-defunct product names on the side, are piled high. The meagre light bulb, that might be one of those useless energy saving jobs if it hadn’t been in-situ since just after the war, isn’t helping matters. But as I’ve now identified another sales-lever I’m determined to continue.

‘Oh you’re just saying that,’ blushes the woman shyly, as I shamelessly complement her on her wedding dress in the faded print, ten minutes later. Yes of course I’m just saying that, I think, taking a sip of the scalding tea, as she adds needlessly that all brides look beautiful on their big day. She clearly hasn’t met the couple mortgage man M just stitched into a high-rate, interest only, thirty-year loan. Stitched-in was the only way the enormous woman surely stayed into her straining wedding frock, although if interest rates climb unexpectedly, a crash diet might be on the cards.

‘Of course you get what you pay for with commission rates,’ I tell the lady as she questions the percentage. I’m pretty sure she didn’t wheel her husband’s corpse (once the fire brigade extricated him from the roof joists) around successive undertakers for a cheaper quote, so I’m confident she’ll pay what I’m asking.

‘I don’t want a for sale board.’ She counters when I suggest an ideal planting-point by the front gate. I’m keen to overcome the objection as a flag with our name and number outside her house, is the cheapest form of advertising I can source. The twenty-four hour salesman line falls on deaf ears, as does the drive-by casual buyer attractor, as she points out we’re in a cul-de-sac.

‘No board then?’ Snipes assistant manager T when I return to the office ‘Just find the hot box and start calling people.’ I tell him loftily.

X Marks The Spot - Thursday

‘You voting today?’ Asks gargantuan mortgage man M, as I hurry through the door stressed and irritable.
‘Not sure if I can be bothered,’ I tell the fat finance fiddler, scurrying towards the office diary to check my next appointment. ‘They’re all as bad as each other.’
‘Got to exercise your democratic prerogative.’ Opines M as I think you don’t exercise anything else, do you big fella?

‘What’s it all about?’ Asks trainee F with that empty look that seems more and more to be pleading: punch me now and put me out of my misery.
‘Life in general?’ Asks B from lettings with a faraway look, unless she’s just pissed again. ‘Or voting in another parasite who’ll be lining their own pockets at our expense?’
It gives estate agents an unusual opportunity to indulge in some good old-fashioned German schadenfreude, when another profession is deemed to be lower on the evolutionary scale than ours. It won’t last.

‘No, voting and all that.’ Continues F as we all look at him in bemusement, until he adds. ‘I’ve never done it.’
‘That’s why the country is going down the pan.’ Sneers M, before waddling conspicuously towards the toilets, while I curse the fact I didn’t dash straight into the gents as soon as I returned.

‘So will the other lot change stamp duty and everything?’ Queries F as we take it in turns to educate him on the importance of the democratic process. ‘Make life easier for us?’
‘Unlikely,’ predicts B. ‘But they might bring some taxes down though.’
Not alcohol duty love, I ponder briefly, as M returns not noticeably lighter.

‘Who do you recommend voting for?’ Asks negotiator S, wrong-footing me briefly.
‘You don’t ask people that.’ Guffaws M disparagingly and momentarily I’m tempted to tell her just to spite the blubber-mountain. But I soon think better of it. For once F rides to my rescue by positing: ‘I should ask my Mum who she recommends.’

‘Monster raving loony party probably.’ Chuckles assistant manager T to titters all round.
‘She’s not mad, just a character.’ Defends F valiantly before adding. ‘Anyway she’s had it tough, been a single Mum for ages.’
F’s last step-dad flew the coop a while back and ever since his mother seems to be battier than normal. You can’t run from genetics.

‘That’s half the problem.’ Begins M to groans all round, and I sense a rant we can all do without, coming. And as M pontificates about spongers and immigrants who don’t pay in, but milk the system, I begin to worry we’re moving into Human Resources territory.

‘They are the ones with the fraudulent mortgage applications and the hooky passports.’ Foams M, warming to his theme so much, I can see dark patches of sweat blooming unpleasantly under his chubby arms. ‘We should send them all home.’
No prizes for guessing who you’ll be voting for, I think, wondering if I should censure his rabid comments, but S does the job comprehensively for me instead.

‘That’s utter bollocks.’ She snarls, colour rising in her cheeks, breasts heaving magnificently. You’ve got my backing girl, I think shallowly, as she continues. ‘You might just as well deport all the fat people!’

The silence lasts long enough for everyone to hear the clock ticking, before M whines towards me.
‘She can’t say that can she?’
‘I think you find she just did,’ I tell M trying hard not to grin. ‘Now let’s try and sell something before we’re all kicked out of our home.’
I still haven’t forgotten how M sold his matrimonial house through another agent when his wife gave him the finger - shortly before that bloke with the BMW did the same to her.

‘Will you be voting today?’ Asks an earnest looking individual with ruddy cheeks and a rosette, as I battle through the crowds to get my lunchtime sandwich. And a malevolent inner voice tells me to stop for once. The amateur takes this as a buying signal and hands me a propaganda leaflet, face alight with expectation.

Asking him his party’s policy on obese people was a trifle unkind, but I get pleasure where I can.

Train In Vain - Monday

‘And switch that mobile off.’ Instructs my wife, as I set out on a sporting adventure with my drinking buddy, skittish and excited as a schoolboy. We have two tickets to one of the big events in the city, no driving involved, and wallets full of cash. Plus the sun is out.

My mood is further enhanced when a group of giggly girls sit across the train carriage from us, and momentarily I imagine one of them is giving me the eye, until I catch sight of my reflection in the window and see a greying middle-aged misanthrope looking back grouchily. I only just stop short of asking the mirror image what he thinks he’s staring at?

Then the young women across the aisle start texting and calling on their mobiles manically and I realise even if they were remotely interested in me, I couldn’t bear to share the same room for more than five minutes, despite the skimpy shorts and sleeveless tops.

‘Shall I tell them?’ Mutters my mate nodding towards the blue window sticker, informing all passengers this is a designated quiet coach with no mobiles, or MP3 players to be used. I’m thinking, good on you pal, until he follows up with: ‘Just to get the conversation going.’ Fortunately we hit a tunnel and he too spies himself in the glass and thinks better of it, particularly as the twittering opposite stops with the simultaneous loss of signal.

A scrum of supporters awaits us at the next station, a location that is seemingly sponsored by a local estate agent, their company name and logo sitting below the designation of the stop. Not sure who should be most embarrassed by the linking of names, but on balance - unless the wrong leaves are on the line - I’m thinking travellers dislike property purveyors a tad more than fat controllers.

‘Come on you lot,’ grumbles a testy sounding voice over the tannoy, as I spot the scramble for access and resolve, should I ever come to power, to ban replica team shirts on anyone over the age of forty. ‘There’s twenty doors on this train, sort yourselves out.’

A communal muttering of disbelief runs around the carriage at the surly announcement, as I say loud enough for all. ‘His customer services course left a little to be desired.’ I’m rewarded with a rolling chuckle and nods of agreement, before the newly boarded passengers spill into our coach and start searching for seats women haven’t left their bags on.

Two stops along, the train heaving with sweaty oafs, I begin to warm to the announcer as a kindred spirit, as he cajoles the latest platform full of nylon-shirted logo-wearing dummies to. ‘Hurry up and use some of the other doors you people, this isn’t a sheep dog trial!’

‘Scratch public announcer from the list of alternative careers,’ I tell my mate wryly, as a fat man in a Chelsea shirt pushes his belly in my face and takes a phone call above my head. ‘That bloke on the speaker sounds as fed-up with the public as I am.’ Meanwhile, the LED readout on the ceiling interrupts a scrolling message informing passengers of the next stop, with an entreaty asking the guard to contact the driver.

I’m briefly distracted, pondering just what the driver wants, and why he can’t communicate with the guard more effectively? Possibly the mobile network overloaded by morons announcing to all: “I’m on the train”. Then I tune into the conversation Mr Lampard is having.

‘How much?’ he shouts in anger. ‘Are they having a laugh? We’ve only just reduced, I’m not giving it away.’ And he catches my eye and shakes his head before muttering. ‘Bloody estate agents eh?’ To a now appreciative carriage, seemingly enjoying his gag more than my earlier one.

‘Leave it,’ cautions my mate with a restraining arm, as he spots my anger flaring and our stop approaching. ‘Time to go.’
‘Tell them they can take a walk,’ bellows the insulted seller as I ease past his vast stomach, wondering briefly about the wisdom of telling him if he cut down on his food bills, he could afford to take a bigger chop on the asking price.

We lost.