Biting Recession - Friday

All the Polish builders might have headed home but at least the NHS dentist is still here. The quote for private tooth care left me grinding molars more than ever, so I queued along with the others to stay on the list. A list that’s going to disappear into the ether when the next failed IT upgrade sends several million names and addresses to a Russian hacker with halitosis and a bedsit in Omsk.

‘Off to the dentist.’ I tell negotiator S with a half-smile, not wishing to over-expose the yellowing incisors too much.
‘Just a check-up?’ She asks guilelessly. No, a painful hygienist scraping followed by another filling as it happens. Not sure what is worse - the mental or physical decay.

‘Probably.’ I hedge, with the sort of obfuscation that gets me through the day when buyers ask about structural integrity and sellers plead for reassurance we’ll get the price they want.

S smiles sweetly and dips her head back to a dwindling pile of sales in progress files. There’s little artificial about her, teeth or tits, and although I sometimes dream of biting off more than I can chew, while it remains platonic, it helps me get through the day.

‘Name please?’ Asks the heavily accented receptionist sporting the sort of gnashers that must have all the patients paying extra for those little long-reach brushes and the interdentine harps that just leave me spitting blood a little more than usual.

The woman is another face I don’t recognise so I’m hoping the Gdansk girl is still in the surgery waiting for me. They now have a television mounted in one corner of the waiting room running asinine advert loops for local businesses, at least one of which has gone bust. As the pile of yellowing magazines look about as enticing as lettings tramp B in a bar, I gaze vacantly at the screen.

Then my name is called and as I exit, a man who has been eyeing me with a cross between suspicion and derision nods as I pass.
‘The estate agent right?’
I mumble an affirmative, as he says louder than required.
‘Yeh thought I recognised you. You gazumped me two years ago.’

I’m tempted to spin on my heel and explain agents don’t gazump, the public do – or at least did – but I’m in too much pain. A chunk of bran fake is lodged in the hole, left over from breakfast despite copious scrubbing, plus I can feel the antipathy in the room full of miscreants behind me.

‘How are you?’ Asks the dentist with an unconvincing attempt at recognition. But she surprises me by remembering my profession as I lie back in the chair and her latest assistant, a rather horny looking eastern European in a swishy nylon coat, puts a bib on me and hands over a pair of comedy sunglasses.

Perhaps it’s me, but I seem to have a diminishing tolerance to dental treatment. I’ve wondered in idle moments if there’s some sort of toxic amalgam build up happening in my body. It could explain my poisonous mood every Friday when the sales stats have to be transmitted. More likely, it’s the fear of the known and a burgeoning post-traumatic shock syndrome, leaving me more and more jittery with each new excavation.

‘How’s the property market?’ Asks the dentist when I’m tilted back and exposed, with a cotton wool wodge in the gum and a metal probe hovering. I’m not best placed to answer, so I fudge a neutral reply, thinking she’ll blame the incomprehensible reply on her colleague wielding the plastic spit removal tube.

‘Are you numb yet?’ Questions the dentist, drill poised menacingly. God yes, I want to answer, but I just nod and look at the postcards of Warsaw pinned incongruously to the ceiling tiles.

And now I have a shivery ghost-over-grave moment, as I begin to drown in my own phlegm, trying desperately to breath and keep my mouth open. I’m imagining an early booking for the Swiss exit flat, until the dentist revives me instantly by instructing her comely assistant to: ‘Give him more suction.’

The price came as a bit of a blow.

Urning The Right - Monday

The phone jangles early doors. Prior to published business times I’m invariably the only one in the office, so I have a quick decision to make. Grab it on the third ring and rattle-off the corporate greeting, or make them wait until we should be open. Of course I answer it, you never know when it might be a business opportunity you are spurning. And in the real world of sales you can’t afford to work to rule.

I’m greeted by a less than convincing croaky cough in a familiar timbre and my heart sinks in direct opposition to my rising ire. It’s trainee F calling in sick again. Now I’m from the old school of entitlement to time-off for ailments. I’ve struggled in with every infection known to man and a few picked up from slightly less salubrious sources. I’ve laboured with migraines, struggled with a crumbling backbone – physically and metaphorically - and seen off SARS

I’m guessing F hasn’t had some horrendous overnight accident involving a threshing machine and his genitals – mores the pity - so I’m figuring he’s pulling a sicky. As I’ll be covering for him with no extra remuneration and doubtless skipping lunch again, I decide to have a little fun.

‘You sound grim.’ I tell the fool gravely.
‘Really?’
‘Yep, you been to the doctor yet?’
F hesitates, of course he hasn’t. In the absence of actually mangling his todger in some whirling farmyard equipment, I’m figuring he drunk too much last night and just fancied a day in bed. I’m also well aware that he can self-certificate for up to five days – an act of human resources lunacy on a par with age discrimination legislation compelling me to interview crumbly would-be negotiators smelling of liniment and urine, with as much chance of hacking it in house sales as TV’s Phil and Kirstie.

’Do you think I should?’ Ventures F, voice returning close to normality as the clown forgets to fabricate his suspect larynx.
‘Could be swine flu?’ I tell him brutally. ‘You may have to be quarantined.’
‘It’s just a bit of a sniffle actually.’ Replies F, tone oscillating plaintively.
‘Yes but you can’t be too careful,’ I continue gathering momentum, despite the seldom heeded little voice at the back of my head beginning to tell me I may have gone far enough. ‘There was that woman who died last week.’

‘I don’t think it is swine flu.’ Pleads F, looking for some sort of confirmation on his diagnosis, from me. It crosses my mind any prognosis I give after this brief telephone analysis would still be about as valid as ringing some bored call centre drone on the NHS snuffle-line.
‘Sound suspiciously like it to me.’ I continue inner voice totally ignored now. ‘You may be off for some time, I don’t fancy the paperwork if you die on company property.’

‘I think I might be okay to come in after lunch.’ Ventures F, all pretence of a sore throat evaporated.
‘You got pissed watching The Ashes in the pub didn’t you?’ I question, knowing I was enthralled all Sunday afternoon too, only without the alcohol. I was tempted mind, a sunny afternoon, England actually winning something for once and a chance to get one over an Aussie without having to order a drink from them. All rare, not to be missed opportunities. Only I had the leaden weight of responsibility for my office and my figures bearing down on me, even as the last wicket tumbled and the celebrations begun.

In sales your average is constantly monitored with ruthless multi-angle slow-motion scrutiny. Your own personal and team figures poured over by the bean counters, with all the rigour of cricketing statisticians. Inevitably, getting the finger is just a matter of time.

Yes, I’d wanted to have a drink, but I actually felt the first stirrings of a prickly throat and a clammy forehead, so it was early to bed with the wrong type of Night Nurse.

‘You’ve been caught out.’ I tell F. ‘Just take an aspirin and shift your arse.’

Currently can’t shake the vision of F having a well-deserved medicinal mix-up with some suppositories.

Our Survey Says - Monday

A grey-haired pair of mature buyers sit at assistant manager T’s desk, as I hover by the filing cabinet and do the eavesdropping thing that so infuriates my staff. I can’t help myself it’s well established, like an unbreakable habit. And if I went to the new occupational therapist whose rumoured to be available at head office – never advertise your weaknesses, except anonymously – they’d probably be diagnosing obsessive compulsive disorder, or some other trendy new complaint that in days gone by would just be covered by a simple: ‘Oh he’s just a tosser.’

‘Goodness no, we’ve bought before,’ Brays the woman boastfully, in answer to T’s qualification questioning. ‘We’ve been sitting in rented watching the market.’
‘Sold at the top, money in the bank, then been biding out time.’ Confirms the equally irksome husband. Sometimes, like people and their pets, couples just go together like fleas and collars.

Now call me old fashioned, but I still kind of believe a house is first and foremost a home not an investment vehicle. A good post-work pub discussion could last long in to Friday night, causing missed suppers and potential matrimonials, on that front. It could be argued bankers and fat mortgage consultants – ok, estate agents too – encouraging people to treat their homes like hedge funds, just because some myopically-challenged chancellor scuppered the pensions industry, was a huge contributory factor to the well documented crash. Or has it been well documented?

‘We think the market may have bottomed you see,’ continues the woman clearly, as usually the case with property, the decision maker. ‘Only every week there’s a conflicting report.’
‘Some sort of industry conspiracy if you ask me.’ Contributes her husband. ‘What’s your view?’

Ah yes, the conspiracy theorists, don’t you just love them I think; as I realise I’ve strayed closer than I should have to T and his punters and am in danger of looking like a stalker. T solves that one in an instant by turning to me, mischief in his eyes not visible to the pair with him, and saying.
‘Well this is the office manger, if anyone knows he does.’

Obviously you are no longer allowed to hit staff members or I’d have decked trainee F months ago, and I stop short of muttering, ‘bastard,’ at T as all eyes are now on me for some sort of messianic property prediction. Needless to say I haven’t got a clue.

Surveys are notoriously conflicting and at odds with each other. Each week some headline grabbing leader pops up on our home page and declares property prices are on the up, and within days another comes out declaring the polar opposite. From past experience you can only call the top and bottom of the market a good three to six months after the event, something these chancers won’t be satisfied with because by then it will be deemed too late. I decide to waffle.

‘Yes but never mind all that sales nonsense,’ interjects the women harshly. ‘I need to know if now is a good time to buy, to not lose any money. So is it?’
If I had a pound…on second thoughts a thousand pounds…. for the number of times some tool confusing a home with a high interest no-risk bond asked that, I wouldn’t be here pandering to greedy sods who would rather speculate on bricks and mortar than get up and go to work every day.

‘Thanks for that.’ I tell T dryly when the couple have left looking for someone who’ll tell then what they want to hear, irrespective of its accuracy.
‘Well if you must stand on my shoulder listening to my conversation.’ Retorts T not unreasonably. My response, that it helps me to coach and encourage, falls on ears as deaf as the just departed amateur speculators.

‘I’ve got Mr Wilkie on line two,’ interjects negotiator S gently. ‘Wants to know if he should put his price back up after something he just heard on the radio. Says he thinks his flat is too cheap now. What should I tell him?’

The options are endless; sadly most of them ultimately involve the Job Centre. Against my better judgement, I tell Mr Wilkie whatever he wants to hear.

Love Actually - Wednesday

I’m sat at assistant manger T’s desk while he swans round the town looking at designer suits in his lunch break. I swear the credit crunch has passed that man by – although the way our commission payments have plummeted in the last eighteen months, maybe he’s just another one in denial.

‘Joining the troops then? Asks bloated mortgage man M as he sways back through the door clutching two baker’s bags full of something sugary and greasy in turn.
‘Showing solidarity.’ I tell him, in answer to why I’m sat in the outer office rather than the relative sanctuary of my office.

‘Turning into a union man then? Scoffs M, before heading off to give the same treatment to the cholesterol-risers he’s clutching.
Like the lager makers, estate agents don’t “Do” unions; if they did they’d probably be the most militant on the planet, putting up with bean counter bosses and ungrateful clients on a daily basis.

‘It’s quite nice to have you out here.’ Offers negotiator S sweetly, before nodding towards the just departed M and adding. ‘The only thing solid about him is his butt cheeks.’ For a moment I think I’m in love, until I spot a young couple looking in the window and my thoughts turn to a marginally more attainable target.

‘Look like students to me.’ Sneers B from her lettings desk. ‘I need them like a hole in the head.’
‘No, I think they might be buyers.’ I counter, as all eyes track the pair as they move from B’s letting display, to our meagre supply of affordable homes.

‘Try not to stare.’ I murmur as the young lovers hesitate on the threshold and I curse the fact M closed the door when he re-entered. Sometimes I just yearn for the simplistic thrill of a sale, despite the increasing jaundice with the job. It’s why I like being out in the office, sharing the banter and buttoning down deals. Plus the manger’s office, with the door closed and a spreadsheet open, can be the loneliest place in the world.

‘You’re welcome to them.’ Snipes B as the couple vacillate at the entrance. ‘I can do without any more time-wasters.’
‘I think it’s sweet,’ responds S. ‘You can see they are in love.’
B sticks two fingers down her throat, while I offer a silent prayer the two punters, have visited the bank of mum and dad for a healthy deposit, before venturing out, literally window shopping.

‘It won’t last,’ continues B in her acidy vein. ‘It never does.’ I’ve a feeling another one of her Internet sourced divorcees has just dumped her again, but it might just be the time of the month.
‘Love can last can’t it?’ Says S looking at me pleadingly for confirmation. It might be her charming naivety, or more likely those traffic-stopping tits, but I find myself muttering. ‘Of course it can.’ just as the buyers finally gain enough courage to push the door open.

There’s a thin line between leaving a customer too long unattended and pouncing on them in seeming desperation, as soon as they enter the premises. After a suitable pause, I make eye contact and rise to greet the young pair, conscious of the fact both S and M are watching my performance with all the intensity of those Strictly Come Dancing judges.

Position of the pair established – God bless those baby boomer parents with equity to release, in order to finally fledge reluctant twenty-something’s – I harvest the requisite contact details, mentally ticking off the possible earning opportunities as I go.

I’m conscious I’m being monitored and in a rather juvenile way, I’m determined to give a good show. They say every salesman is a frustrated actor.

Fifteen minutes on, there’s a trio of viewings booked for later, a mortgage lead for M and an intro to our tame conveyancing solicitor – the local one who does lunch, not the corporate battery-farm we’re supposed to use. You can leech the life out of the man, but somewhere deep inside is the rebel who pogoed to The Stranglers.

‘Now watch them buy something from me this afternoon.’ I crow as the pair exit.

They didn’t show up.

Driving Down Standards - Friday

To the new car dealership as the company motor needs attention in the absence of a replacement on the horizon. There’s more chance of a straight answer from the Prime Minister than a morale-lifting thumb through the glossy brochures. I thought the joke about hanging on until the ageing fleet could be chopped in en-mass using the taxpayer-funded scrappage scheme was vaguely amusing, until the qualification date began to creep relentlessly closer.

‘Do you want me to hang on and give you a lift back to the office then?’ Asks trainee F whom I’ve brought along as the relief driver, on the basis he’ll do less damage on the queen’s highway than he can sat in my office missing sales opportunities.

‘Just let me see if they can sort out the MOT while I wait.’ I tell F less than optimistically. The chances are the vehicle will be marooned in the workshop for a lot longer than my patience will last pacing the customer waiting area like a caged primate, but it’s worth a shot.

‘Cool.’ Gushes F, as I make to reprimand him for the juvenile language but he’s off, trance like, across the showroom to drool over the sort of model that will never appear on our company car list. I watch as the gangly buffoon gravitates towards the gleaming motor as if on some sort of invisible fishing wire. And I gaze with rising amusement as I spot the supercilious looking salesman with a ridiculous garish tie and matching top pocket, look over his half-moon glasses with undisguised distaste, as F crosses the invisible threshold between lowly service punters and the hallowed sales area.

I constantly gripe-on about not erecting barriers between the public and us – enough dislike and mistrust there to start with. It’s why if weather and roadwork’s permit I’ll have the office door open to encourage punters to come on in. The price for easy access means the odd drunk – B in lettings excluded – stumbles across the threshold, and you need to be a little more creative with your, “I give privately, thank you”, rebuttals to charity tin-shakers, but on balance it works.

‘Can I help you?’ Sniffs the salesman towards F, more as a challenge than a welcome. Two basic errors I think vaguely amused. Closed question and the arrogant arse hasn’t lifted his own conceited cheeks from the chair, such is his instant qualification of F as a complete and utter time waster. He’s right of course - but that’s not the point.

‘Next?’ Calls a disinterested female voice and I abandon my F observation and turn towards the service desk, where a mid-twenties girl with badly coloured blonde hair, is looking at me as if I’ve just squatted and curled-out something unspeakable on the highly polished tiled floor.

Like all those slightly pretentious estate agents who had corporate makeovers a few years back and ended up with offices resembling a cross between a coffee shop and an internet café, this dealership has spent tens of thousands on prissy consultants in roll-necked sweaters, to colour co-ordinate the waiting area like some aborted television makeover show. The low-slung primary coloured chairs look about as comfortable as mounting a cheese-grater, and flashy plasma screen displays are hung on the walls running depressing daytime television. Mogadon for the masses.

My booking explained to the receptionist I’m given a raised eyebrow to interpret as to the wisdom of waiting and watching Jeremy Kyle while they test the exhaust for toxic emissions. I’ve some of my own I’d like to vent, but F is back at my side.

‘He was a bit rude.’ Whimpers F, indicating the still seated salesman. ‘I might have had fifty grand to spend.’
‘Books and covers.’ I tell him enigmatically.

The wasted money someone has splashed on the surroundings fascinates me, while the primary sales interface – the staff- are probably languishing on minimum wage. A sophisticated coffee maker and a sandwich and snack vending machine sit side-by-side, and a phalanx of screens with Play Station style controllers sit idle waiting for bored children to frag aliens.

‘No substitute for a skilled human.’ I tell F nodding towards the door.
‘Shall I drive?’ He asks enthusiastically.
‘Hell no, I said skilled.’

Repo Man - Monday

The repossession notice always regurgitates an unpleasant reflux of mixed emotions in me. The unwelcome sight of another family who overstretched financially, in the naïve belief that property was the only one-way bet outside of a sporting bribe syndicate, doesn’t add much to the already shabby opinion the public has of my chosen profession – in this case it’s not enhanced by the fact that M our mortgage man tucked them into the secondary lender liar loan only twenty-four months ago.

‘Do you think they’ll still be there?’ Queries trainee F querulously, as we arrive outside the somehow now discredited block of maisonettes. The home we are repossessing identified by a long-established overflow leak, the streaked brickwork resembling a mossy tearstain.

The about to be ex-owners are usually long gone to rented, family, or council accommodation, if they have enough kids to qualify. But just occasionally they’ll still be there, deep in denial, and on one memorable occasion brandishing a lump hammer.

The bailiff greets us with the resigned air of a man who’s seen it all before, which he has, as I remember him when we were both sporting narrower ties and waistbands seventeen years ago, when the last downturn really bit.

‘Ready?’ Asks the bailiff as he checks his watch and paperwork and prepares to bang on the peeling front door, as the locksmith stoops beside me then rather ominously withdraws his own chunky hammer from a tool bag.

Several echoing bangs on the tarnished fox door knocker later, and in the absence of a reply the court appointed official gives the go ahead and the cordless drill whirs, turbine-like, into action.

There’s no doubt the ousted owners are long gone, I realise, as we fight through the junk mail behind the just liberated lock and survey the wreckage. It’s not unheard of but this one involves a level of impotent-rage and dexterity, you can only grudgingly admire.

‘What happened?’ Asks F incredulously as the bailiff and I exchange knowing glances. Every light switch has been removed leaving ominous looking wiring exposed from the plaster. Every socket and overhead fitting has also been stripped bare. Then as we move into the lounge, a raggedy hole indicates where the now appropriately named random stone fireplace used to sit.

‘Not too pleased to be leaving then?’ Jokes the locksmith as he hands me a set of shiny new front door keys and moves to secure the kitchen door. Only it’s not really a kitchen any more. Each unit, base and eye level has been removed and the only indication of a sink are the stubby white waste pipe and twin copper hot and cold feeds thrusting through the concrete floor.

‘Scope for improvement, suit DIY enthusiast?’ Quips the mortice lock mirth maker, as he replaces the rear door mechanism with practiced dexterity.
‘Pretty comprehensive job,’ agrees the bailiff as we move back to the bare lounge and stop in our tracks.

Eventually I ask F if he can spot anything missing, as this is a new one even for me. To be fair to the fool he manages to list; radiators, skirting and those curvy bits round the doorframes – architraves – before I’m forced to ask him where the bedrooms are.

Now I dislike surveyors with a passion. Their nervy valuations jeopardising hard to come by sales, as they try to second-guess litigious hindsight-driven scrutiny by lenders snatch-back teams somewhere in the future. But they do carry stepladders in their car.

‘First time for everything, I guess.’ Speculates the bailiff as we climb the void where the stairs used to be. The bathroom is as long gone as the borrower and a brutal gap in each bedroom indicates where the incoming owner might care to site their new built in wardrobes. The hole where the hot water cylinder sat is so cavernous that in times gone by I’d have been tempted to write it up as a third bedroom/box room.

‘How do I make an offer?’ Queries the locksmith as he leaves.
He’ll need a safe occupation, so with things as they are he’s as good a buyer as any, I reckon.