‘I just don’t get bungalows,’ says idiot trainee F as I
swing the car into a 1960’s built low-rise development. ‘They seem like a waste
of space.’
That’s pretty much what I said about him at my last
one-to-one with the bean counter boss.
‘It depends on your age profile.’ I tell F, as I glance
down at my precariously balanced clipboard for the address and nearly mount the
pavement. An elderly lady with one of those pull along shopping trolleys looks
up alarmed. I give her a cheery wave. You never know, I could be valuing her
home soon when she can no longer make the bus stop. Failing that I can tell the
beneficiaries we were on nodding terms.
‘What do you mean?’ Asks F, a question he must form
several dozen times a day.
‘I mean as you age, your property requirements change.’ I
tell him spotting the number I’m looking for and sweeping across to park
outside.
‘I want a house with a big garden.’ Says F with more
certainty than he shows when I ask him how many applicant calls he’s made that
day?
‘I wouldn’t want nothing upstairs.’ Continues F. I stifle
an ill-mannered laugh. Not even I’m going to convert that particular open goal.
‘Sleeping downstairs would just be weird.’ Rambles F, as
we clamber out of the car and head towards a rusty wrought iron gate and I refuse
another tap-in. A weed-strewn crazy paving path leads towards a quarry-tiled
porch and a wide expanse of obscured glass either side of a plain front door,
with weathered paintwork. These are the signs confidence tricksters look for
when casing homes for vulnerable inhabitants. Luckily I just want 2.0% plus VAT
and a sole agency.
‘What do we know about the owner?’ I ask F, handing him
the valuation form and straightening my tie. He glances at the information and
hesitates. Hitting him round the head, hammer to starter motor style, is no
longer an option since we opened a Human Resources department.
‘Well?’ I prompt testily.
‘Her name and address,’ begins F, before adding,
‘Obviously.’ I detect the hint of a flinch even before I snatch the form back.
‘She’s a widow, she’s been here since 1979, she doesn’t
have any outstanding loans, her daughter lives fifty miles away and she came
out of hospital last month.’ I rattle off machine-gun like. My buxom negotiator
S took the enquiry and she’s good at extracting information. I like to think
I’ve taught her a thing or two.
F smiles vacantly.
I sigh and once again wonder why I bother trying to
educate an imbecile if a decade’s worth of professionally trained teachers
couldn’t manage.
‘She needs to move, for health reasons, she will probably
go out of area to be nearer her family and by the look of the garden will be
contemplating something easier to maintain. Sheltered housing probably.’
‘Wow.’ Announces
F, as if I’m some sort of dopey man’s David Blaine.
‘She’s motivated.’ I tell F, in conclusion. And I ring
the bell.
‘I don’t really want to move my loves.’ Coos the old
girl, fifty mind-numbingly dull minutes later, as she pours milk into the cups
on the pre-prepared tea tray. I’m wasting my time, but on the upside I have
spotted chocolate biscuits.
‘It’s my daughter nagging me to get something smaller,
something closer to her house.’ Continues the old lady, as her trembling hand
sloshes weak tea in the general direction of the three cups. No need to dunk now.
‘It’s since I had my fall.’
Not on the
stairs, I’m guessing.
‘Only, I’m happy where I am. Did I tell you Norman and I
moved here thirty-four years ago?’ Yes. Three times. ‘I’ve a photo of him
somewhere, would you like to see it?’ No.
‘That went well.’ Announces F, as we climb back in the
car and I feel the pressing need for a piss.
‘She’s only coming out of there feet first, unless they
can get her sectioned.’ I tell F grumpily as I see four missed calls from the
office on my mobile. With 1 in 3 sales destined to fall through, the odds on it
being good news aren’t too peachy.
It’s not.
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