'Agents Diary'

Introductory Offer - Wednesday

2012-02-15T21:10:00.004Z

‘Bloke wants to come and see you.’ Announces assistant manager T in lieu of a welcome back greeting, or a cup of tea.
‘What for?’ I ask warily as I take off my coat and dump my briefcase on the floor. Chances are T could have dealt with the enquiry, but if it’s a complaint he’s a past master in shrugging-off responsibility.

‘He’s selling something.’ Relies T nonchalantly, as he clicks something on his screen that is far more likely social networking than working.
I relax a little. At least they’ll have to be polite and although it doesn’t have to be reciprocal - now they want something from me - I’m mindful of when the boot is on the other foot.

‘He’s a man with a van.’ Enlightens T after some gentle probing, as I sip at the cuppa S, my buxom negotiator, has placed in front of me. Hot and steamy. Gentle probing.

‘Says he can undercut the national removal companies.’ Continues T distractedly, moving his mouse and clicking with more enthusiasm than he normally musters. Definitely social.

There was a time when local firms, be it solicitors, removal men, surveyors or undertakers all worked together for mutual benefit and a bottle of whisky at Christmas. If you got the chance to flirt with one of their secretaries at their clients’ Christmas bash even better. Now, group corporate agreements with battery-farmed conveyance clerks, panel surveyors and utility switch companies, all bring an inferior service and a kickback payment nobody – least of all the client - knows about.

‘Was he any good?’ Asks T, after the putative sofa-shifter leaves the office later and I tip his business cards in the bin.
‘We’ll never know.’ I tell T wearily. ‘Not allowed to use anyone other than group authorised suppliers. Health and safety and insurance reasons.’ I parrot unconvincingly.
‘Referral commissions then.’ Says T.
‘Yep.’

‘Are you interested in a free quote from a new cleaning company?’ Asks S when she rings my extension later. I look through my office window to the main sales floor and see one of those slightly brassy, once glamorous, peroxide-haired women of a certain age who after the last divorce decided to start their own business. She’ll hate men but have a small army of minimum wage housewives in rubber gloves at her disposal. I weaken.

‘The standard isn’t great then?’ Confirms the woman as she rubs a disdainful finger across my desk and looks at the grubby phone mouthpiece as if it’s an unwelcome flash in the park.
‘It could be better.’ I agree, respecting the fact she’s almost hiding her dislike for my gender and occupation – almost.

‘We could come alternate days for the same price you are paying and make a much better job of it.’ Promises Ms Mop with the sort of bold future service claims I have to make daily. My P&L pinching bean counter boss has reduced the current contract clean to three days a week and I often end up running the vacuum round myself after hours. False economy – if only the accountants knew.

I tell the businesswoman, who deflates almost visibly, she’ll have to send her quote to the head office black hole and wait. The truth is nobody has ever bettered the old lady who used to clean daily; washed up all the mugs, had the toilets fit to shit and took the tea towels home to wash and iron. Sacked, because she couldn’t provide suitable proof of indemnity insurance.

It’s dark outside as my internal line chimes again. I realise I’ve been picking at a spillage on my desk absent-mindedly. A spillage our old girl cleaner would never have countenanced remaining for a day, let alone three.

‘There’s a lady in the office who can offer Interior Design and makeover services for clients who are having trouble selling.’ Says S unconvincingly. It works well on the television but if they won’t drop the bloody price they’re unlikely to cough for new cushions and curtains.

‘Ask her to leave a card.’ I tell S flatly, having dismissed a free trial in my office.
I’m used to looking at the stained ceiling now.

There might even be a message there.

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Flood Of Compassion

2012-02-10T07:36:00.004Z

‘Neighbour of 34 New Street rang while you were out.’ Announces negotiator S as I come through the door chilled to the bone.
‘What did she want?’ I ask tersely. It’s an ungraceful reply, but then I’ve had two time-waster valuations back-to-back, with potential sellers thinking their homes are immune to market forces. If I hear one more delusional owner say, ‘I’m not giving it away’ they can have more than a free market appraisal to chew on…

‘Why do you assume it was a woman ringing?’ Challenges S fierily. I hesitate, sexist comment alarm jangling in my head. I don’t want another awareness course from those joyless females in Human Resources. Lettings lush B is also now looking at me, sensing a chance to take offence.

Several trite comments about certain genders having more time to look out the window, or being more aware of what their neighbours are up to, are stifled before utterance. I eventually stutter out something neutral about it being just as likely to be a man but that I took a 50/50 shot.

‘Well it was a woman as I happens.’ Says S seemingly satisfied at my discomfort, as I shrug off my coat and feel my cheeks still burning. B loses interest and returns to a many-paged signed tenancy agreement that she seems to be amending retrospectively. ‘Says she can hear the sound of running water through the walls.’ Continues S.

‘Shit.’ I answer mind racing. ‘Did we send out a cold weather warning letter to the owners?’ All empty properties are prone to freezing pipes, but after a decade or more of mild winters you tend to forget the fact. Repossessions are routinely drained down as soon as the locks are changed and corporate relocation companies insist on a plumber shutting services off too, it’s the private, absentee owners who can sometimes slip through the net. Ultimately it’s not my responsibility, but the agent often takes the flak. There’s a letter of course, one that I’m relived to see S waving a copy of. I could kiss her.

‘In the file.’ She confirms, jiggling the evidence alluringly, before frowning and adding. ‘Only they never replied.’
‘Are they still living away?’ I ask, racking my brains for the vendors’ surname. I can remember the properties but not always the people.
‘Think so.’ Answers S, less convincingly.
‘When did we last have a viewing?’ I probe, feeling of unease rising like a burst water main.
‘While ago.’ Answers S. ‘It’s way too much money.’

‘Why do you need me exactly?’ Asks trainee F as we battle the afternoon school run traffic. It’s a question I’ve asked myself many times. The man is an imbecile, but I’ve invested so much time in him and it’s so hard to sack people now that I persevere.
‘In case we have a mopping up operation to do.’ I tell F, as some snooty woman in a giant 4 x 4 barges out of a side road ignoring conventional rights of way. Road rage is a luxury I can’t afford, as sods law dictates your next valuation will have a familiar Toyota Land Cruiser gently cooling on the drive when you turn up five minutes after giving the owner the finger…

The nosey neighbour is waiting for us. It won’t be the first time I’ve seen damp on these ageing terraced properties, New Road being close to a Property Misdescription offence, nowadays. But normally it’s damp of the rising kind.

‘Oh no.’ I groan as I shove the sticking door and come up against as soggy mass of junk mail. I can hear a pipe gushing madly overhead and a steady stream of water is leaking from the hall light fitting.
‘Don’t touch the switches.’ I shout at F, belatedly realising it would be one way to create a staff vacancy without a tribunal, but the paperwork would be endless.

‘Never thought the job would be like this.’ Proclaims F as we stand on the upstairs landing and eye a vast watery bulge in the ceiling warily. ‘It looks like a giant tit.’ Adds the gangly twerp without a hint of irony.

I’m drowning here.

Cold Comfort - Monday

2012-02-06T20:02:00.004Z

Even as I cross the icy park I know I’ll be first in the office. It’s just a question of what excuses for tardiness, or no-shows I’ll be listening to shortly. A ghostly figure sits slumped on one of the benches and for a moment I think one of the winos has frozen to death in-situ, but it turns out to be a rather sad half-melted snowman. I was told it would be childish to built one in our garden now the kids are at university. I still wanted to though.

As I pass the frozen sculpture, features gruesomely slipped like some pallid burns victim, I’m tempted to steal the knitted gloves and scarf in case we have more snow and I might actually construct my own snowman. I decide against it as several other early commuters are slip-sliding their way across the untreated paths. My reputation is already low enough, being seen robbing a child’s enjoyment would be a step too far, bad enough repossessing their parents’ houses.

‘Alright mate?’ Calls a voice tinged with Essex estuary. I look up to see one of the younger, fitter, flashier agents in town. He has a Burberry scarf round his neck that if I could catch him, punch him and remove without retribution, would look great round another cold-eyed zombie. Instead I return his greeting as neutrally as possible while trying to remain upright, as the path becomes ever more treacherous.

‘Loving this weather.’ Continues the lad in an unexpected dialogue. The scumbag is forever undercutting my fees and overpricing and I last, reluctantly, spoke to him when we were involved in a chain. Needless to say he knew nothing about the status of his vendors or their buyers, but then he’s cheap.

‘Why’s that?’ I ask, despite the more pressing need to remain upright in Oxford shoes. The soaking leather soles offer about as much grip as the aforementioned snowman’s frigid embrace.
‘Get a few pensioners falling over and a few more freezing to death.’ He laughs callously. ‘Should be a few probate sales coming our way.’ He doesn’t wait for my answer, his footwear seemingly giving more traction than mine.

‘That’s the sort of lowlife who gives your profession a bad reputation.’ Says the woman from the sandwich shop, as she too passes me, having heard the conversation. ‘We’re not all the same.’ I call after her hurriedly, in the hope of extra bacon in my next breakfast bap. The fact that I’ve often remarked to my team on a cold snap’s value in flushing out committed vendors – or at least beneficiaries – is best left to myself and discerning blog readers.

The office is as cold as a meat store when I finally get inside, having stooped to collect the post and stilled the alarm. Chances are the air conditioning engineer will finally turn up today, I think ruefully, as I see B, our lettings lush, has several messages flickering on her answering machine. I’m guessing burst pipes and failed heating systems. She’ll be in for a torrid morning, if she turns up. With her chequered love life and heavy drinking, the last thing she’ll need is more abuse before her hangover has cleared.

‘So how soon can you get in?’ I ask assistant manger T, testily. His car can’t manage the icy incline outside his fiancée’s house and it’s “not his fault”. He’s far from the only one on a slippery slope. Idiot trainee F is apparently “snowed in”. My sarcastic rejoin about being unaware he was weekending in Warsaw, fell on frosty ground. Fat mortgage flogger M is nowhere to be seen. You’d spot him if he were in the office - a regular one-man eclipse.

‘Just girl power and you so far.’ Suggests negotiator S as I abandon the morning meeting due to adverse weather conditions. I’ve inappropriately thought about being trapped in close proximity to S before, but it didn’t involve a diary of appointments needing rescheduling and a half-cut slapper arguing with tenants.

‘It’s not my fault you have water coming through the ceiling.’ Shouts B aggressively, breaking my daydream. ‘You should have called the f***ing 24 hour helpline.’

Get me the number.

Damp And Delusional - Wednesday

2012-02-01T08:06:00.003Z

‘Oh crap.’ Exclaims negotiator S as she looks through the office window. ‘Here come the buyers for flat 2.’
‘How are they looking?’ I ask anxiously. Sales falling through not my favourite thing- somewhere just before being kicked in the bollocks and just after a punch in the face.
‘Not happy.’ Answers S mournfully.

‘Keep upbeat,’ I hiss in encouragement, as the middle-aged couple approach – first time buyers becoming as grey as my underpants nowadays. ‘Everything is negotiable.’ S returns to her desk and feigns activity, mouse skipping back and forth across her mat, industrious look on her face.

I watch as the pair enter the office, faces dark as thunder. They’re clutching what looks to be their surveyor’s report. S is good but then she’ll have to be, as doubtless the chartered destroyer will have picked the little ground floor conversion to pieces – that’s before their solicitor gets to dismantle the arcane lease.

‘How nice to see you both.’ Chirps S. The man looks convinced but then he’s looking at her tits – his partner isn’t so easily charmed. I sit at assistant manger T’s vacant desk and prepare to watch and listen. My staff hate me doing it - I just can’t help myself.

‘We’re not happy.’ Begins the woman, nudging her man into attention as he eventually draws his eyes to meet S’s. ‘Oh I’m sorry,’ soothes S. ‘Why is that?’ She knows. The flat is a cheap conversion by a shoddy speculator. He’s ruined countless, once sturdy family homes, by splitting them into one-bed and studio hutches with poor soundproofing and cramped square footages.

‘The place is dropping to bits.’ Rails the woman. ‘We’ve paid hundreds of pounds out only to find you are selling a flat with dodgy electrics, rotten window frames and rising damp.’ They all think we own the properties, personally paper over the cracks and cover the wet rot with filler – that’s hardly ever true…

‘We can get builder’s reports for most of these issues.’ Suggests S gently. ‘And it’s still the most competitive priced flat we have in that part of town.’ The couple hesitate momentarily. I see it and I hope S does too. They’re not pulling out yet, mostly because S has a point – two very prominent ones as it happens – they’ll be hard pushed to find another property at this price with shared garden access, off-road parking and hot and cold running walls.

‘I thought so.’ Says S, pulling several sheets of photocopied paper from the file triumphantly. ‘There’s an existing damp proof guarantee in force.’
‘Which means what?’ Demands the woman tersely. Always sell to the woman. Fact.

It probably means the company who carried out the work a few years ago have gone bust, and the 25-year guarantee has about as much value as some unexpectedly discovered Greek Drachma left over from that Corfu calamity.

‘We might be able to have the silicone injection and wall tanking carried out under the policy.’ Ventures S, as I cringe in anticipation of the calls to an obscure insurance company with more exclusions and add-on charges than a budget airline. Surely the couple should be glad to have a ready supply of mushrooms appearing in the kitchen, free gratis?

‘And the rotten windows?’ Demands the woman softening, as her near-drooling partner shows signs of hardening.
‘External work may be covered under the maintenance charges.’ Says S with more authority than I’d have mustered. As I recall, the shifty developer runs sister companies that stiff lessees for over-priced management charges on the conversions he’s carried out. It’s going to be a tough battle – but it’s achievable.

‘I’ll get all the reports and paperwork organised for you,’ charms S as she walks the couple to the door. ‘Then see how much the vendor will contribute to at least meeting you somewhere in the middle.’ The man is smiling, the woman nodding in agreement. S has done well. I just hope the owner appreciates how hard we’re working for our fee.

‘How did it go?’ I ask S as I return to the office later. Her face tells me the answer.
‘Owner won’t drop a penny. Says they’re giving it away as it is.’

Got to love the public.

Open And Closed - Friday

2012-01-27T19:11:00.004Z

‘This will be a waste of time.’ Whispers short of stature, big of ego, rival manager H, to somewhere around my nipple. We’re gathered in another joyless hotel function room with the whiff of stale beer in the carpet, flecks of spent confetti around the edges and a lopsided glitter ball hanging overhead. Pick a metaphor for my situation.

‘I don’t know who half theses tossers are.’ Bemoans H, as we sip on brutally bitter coffee that’s been stewing longer than I have and eye the pre-frozen croissants warily.
‘We’re long-serving staff now.’ I tell him without a hint of pride.
‘Long-suffering more like.’ Rejoins H. He still wins most of the plaudits and competitions, but lately I’ve detected he’s being worn down by the ceaseless pressure – something he can ill afford at just over dwarf level.

‘Morning everybody.’ Trills the course presenter in that jaunty, local radio presenter tone that makes you want to punch the perpetrator. He has a mid-Atlantic accent, somewhere I wish he was right now, and is accompanied by a glamorous twenty-something female sidekick in too-tight trouser suit, whom he introduces as the course facilitator.

‘I could facilitate her.’ Whispers H salaciously. Not without a stepladder, I think acidly, as we reluctantly head towards an unsettling circle of chairs, reminiscent of a western where the wagons are grouped, ahead of something unpleasant happening.

The glamorous girl, who probably has a degree in something I’ve never heard of, but doubtless has never been on a leaflet drop in the snow, does that irritating health and safety routine. One designed for idiots who seemingly would burn rather than find the nearest exit if it wasn’t pointed out to them.

‘If you need to use the facilities,’ Continues the girl, while the main man flashes up a blinking cursor on a projector screen - one that screams piss-poor PowerPoint presentation coming soon. ‘Please try and wait until one of our regular comfort break intermissions.’

‘Intermissions?’ I mock, as H and I sit together defensively. ‘She bringing round choc ices then?’ H is too busy regaling me, rather unpleasantly, as to how he’d like to comfort and break her, to appreciate my more homely quip. Then the course director steps forward.

‘What a bunch of wank.’ Growls H at the first refreshment stop. ‘I could be out nailing a couple of sole agencies instead of listening to all this toss about becoming friends with your vendors.’ He has a point. I’ve heard most of this pseudo psychology sales stuff a dozen times. It’s just a different presenter and a prettier assistant. ‘I don’t want to see my vendors again until they move,’ continues H frostily. ‘I’m certainly not sending the bastards a moving anniversary card.’

The group exercise has me grinding my teeth in frustration. I can think of nothing interesting to say about myself for a belated introduction, I write a Blog being a bit of a non-starter if you want to remain anonymous. And as the facilitator has slyly separated H and I, can think of nothing to say to anyone else. Of course the younger, less jaundiced attendees, throw themselves into flip charts and brainstorming ideas on to sticky yellow post-its, with gusto.

‘I need each team to nominate a presenter to report your conclusions back to the room.’ Trills the man, in a voice that sounds like a traffic and weather report rolled in to one. I’m just about to look at my feet, when I spot the facilitator with the distracting arse bringing out a tripod and video camera. Terrific there goes my no publicity request, it seems they’ll be filming this debacle for future training purposes.

H’s group is represented by one of those slightly too pushy daddy’s girls. She’s the type - with expense account clothing, a horse and a minor school private education - who prosper in estate agency, until they get pregnant. She’s good, in a slightly too earnest way, although I can see H is more interested in her figure than her conclusions, as she finishes to polite, if not effusive, applause.

‘Now who is presenting for team C?’ Asks the man who can tell but not sell.

It’s a secret.

Mind The Doors - Monday

2012-01-23T06:55:00.006Z

On the train to a meaningless meeting and I realise why I abhor public transport. I mean the concept is fine, you have to move the masses somehow and our towns are already choked with sign-written minis carrying estate agents, but like my job, planes, trains and buses would be fine if it wasn’t for the public….

‘I’m on the train.’ Superfluously announces the mid-thirties – she’d say twenty-nine – woman who boards the station after mine. I realise, as we get closer to the destination, some staring-eyed lunatic smelling of beer and body odour is going to want to sit next to me, but for the moment I have my briefcase placed strategically on the seat. The woman on the phone passes but takes the seat directly in front, as I notice with a heavy heart I’m not on one of those quiet carriages, with the no mobile phone stickers people ignore.

‘I’ll be getting off in about an hour.’ Continues the braying woman in the sort of voice that would break terrorists in a day if they piped it into their holding cell.
“Okay, the device is hidden at these co-ordinates just shut that f***ing woman up please – I couldn’t care less about the cause, I just can’t take any more of her social arrangements. Shit, I only joined so I didn’t have to shave.”

I’m already feeling out of my comfort zone. No clipboard to use as a shield, the car left in a parking slot with higher rates than a central London shop unit, and a meeting to go to that will sap my will to live before the first stale pastry has been downed.

‘This is Sophie Legge,’ squeals my tormentor with what I momentarily thought was a brash announcement from the guard, until I realise it’s the woman with no sense of her impact on others. ‘What’s the name of the girl I normally see, with the dark hair.’ Continues Sophie, who I’m already starting to hate with teeth-damaging intensity. ‘Yes Abbie, is she in?’ She’s not.

Not keen on eye contact usually, as it only encourages nutters to start talking to you, I gaze across the aisle to see if my fellow travellers are as annoyed as I am to be sharing Sophie’s hair appointment details. But the two people I can see are lost in their own little, earphone-protected cocoons, either taping their fingers or tapping their touch-screens.

‘Can I see someone else?’ Whines Sophie as we enter a tunnel and I suppress a sarcastic cheer. It doesn’t matter a jot, because as soon as we are back in daylight she’s dialling again. ‘This is…’ Sophie f***ing Legge, I mime in anger, as the call continues.

Nobody but me seems to care. I’m already feeling alienated as my trusty old Samsonite looks as anachronistic as my old school Nokia. The men around me have satchels and man bags and are all sporting I-Phones, a Samsung Galaxy, or something called an HTC. One I’m able to read at the next stop, as a tubby girl in leggings brusquely asks if anyone is sitting by me, before flopping her fat arse in the space my briefcase has only just vacated.

Now I have two irritating distractions. Sophie is telling her luckless boyfriend she’s forgotten her keys and will need meeting at the station, and the twelve-stone student, is arranging her night’s social events by scrolling from Facebook, to Twitter and back while presumably ordering more take-away pizza. My newspaper makes me feel like an alien - particularly as I paid for it.

‘Hello, it’s Sophie Legge, you left me a message.’ God knows why, I mutter to myself, as porky-fingered Media Studies girl, chuckles at some inanity she’s just sent with an OMG and at least one LOL, appended.

Sophie continues a confused conversation with some unfortunate female beauty enhancement service provider, who probably offers cuticle filing, Botox injection, or dead foot skin removal by fish, as I look in vain for the old emergency pull-cord they used to have on the slam-door carriages.

Once the train has stopped and you get off, it’s tricky to throw yourself under it. So I go to the meeting.

Big mistake.

Spreading The Message - Monday

2012-01-16T19:50:00.003Z

It’s not until I’ve presented a business card and extended a hand that I realise the kids in the background should be at school. The oldest, a surly looking youth of about thirteen, looks at me with distain then shuffles up the stairs with a violent unrestrained sneeze.

It’s too late to retract my arm without causing offence so it hangs there half-heartedly as the younger child, a girl of seven or eight, snuffles round her mother’s feet while her parent slides a snotty crumpled tissue up her cardigan sleeve and takes my greeting hand limply. It’s not a pleasant experience and I can almost feel the germs swarming across the barrier, gleefully.

‘They’re off school at the moment.’ Confirms the mother superfluously. I’m sorely tempted to do the, nothing trivial I trust? line, but as I’m after her business I swallow the thought, along with several million microbes, as the woman sneezes explosively and shrugs a weak apology.

‘Thought it would be a good time to get you round to value.’ She continues, as we move into an overheated lounge where a vast plasma, spewing out daytime television at high volume, dominates one wall. I’m briefly tempted to point out this is a market appraisal not a valuation, if only to please the bean counter boss and our professional indemnity people, but I can’t be arsed. She won’t know the difference any more than any other member of the public, unless she’s planning on taking her partner to court.

‘May I ask,’ I probe gently. ‘Why you are thinking of moving?’ It’s a soft tester to check motivation and find if she has mentally committed to a home change. If she gives positive feedback I might continue to risk the viral fug that’s undoubtedly swirling round the room, almost as unpleasantly as Jeremy Kyle is.

‘Me husband’s mum is unwell.’ Replies the woman as the little girl tugs at my trouser leg with a grubby hand. They normally wait until they die before spending the inheritance, I think uncharitably, as the girl sneezes again with no attempt to cover her nose. ‘And we’re thinking of selling both places and all moving in together.’ Continues the mother, shaming me slightly, as I try to move away from the inquisitive child without making it too obvious.

Buying with an elderly in-law, just because you fancy moving up the property market without increasing your mortgage, is a not an uncommon mistake. It usually ends in tears and recrimination and sometimes litigation. I’m not about to tell her though, as I could sell two homes and possibly find them one as well, plus her snuffly child has almost certainly occasioned another pricey dry cleaning bill.

The house is in need of some loving care and attention - which doesn’t seem to be lavished on the children - but at the right price, everything sells. The daughter has taken to following me round like a love-struck snotball as we pause on the dark landing ahead of a door swathed in Indie band stickers. A deep bass line throbs in tandem with my head, as the mother knocks loudly on the door and waits.

‘Can we come in Nathan?’ Pleads the mother loudly as I think just open the door you mascara-wearing freak, or you’ll be really feeling unwell. Eventually after several plaintive requests the music volume drops a notch and I quell my desire to kick the door in.

The room is swathed in dark, curtains pulled against the light like some wheezy vampire’s abode. The teenager is sprawled on a black duvet not even bothering to restrain his hacking cough. I can almost see those cartoon-like viruses, you see in medicine adverts, stalking towards me malevolently. I just know I’m going to encounter something unpleasant.

‘Why’s he have to come in here?’ Snarls the punk, who has probably never heard of Joe Strummer. Fortunately I’m used to rejection and it’s a question I was asking internally anyway - but I’m in the selling yourself business just as surely as any back-street hooker.

Felt the first prickle in the back of my throat as I locked the office door.

Storm Chaser - Tuesday

2012-01-10T19:52:00.005Z

In to the office comes a habitual looker, the type who is forever second-guessing the market but rarely commits to buying something. I’ve seen many over the years, those who bought and had their fingers burnt, others who can’t afford a home at any price but still like to dream and one’s like this irritating prig. He has been waiting to buy at the bottom of the market. He’s still waiting.

‘Not that twat.’ Hisses assistant manager T as he sees the door open. I look up from the office diary to see how T will handle him and hear the door to the gents bang. T has disappeared faster than bacon sandwiches at a breakfast meeting. The man is looking at me expectantly.

‘How are you?’ I open, making the man realise I remember him but not giving him the validation of his name – particularly the one we use.
‘On the lookout for a bargain.’ He opens sitting at a vacant desk without bidding, He won’t be getting a free coffee. Not on my watch.

‘Do you have any repossessions coming in?’ Continues the man, jabbing away at his BlackBerry as though he’s something more than a frustrated speculator with too much time on his hands. The question riles me; with its assumption homes snatched back from defaulting borrowers will be sold on the cheap. The lender has a duty in law to get the best possible price. The figure they eventually sell for is often a reflection of reality, plus if the departing occupier stripped the kitchen and bathroom out it rather limits getting top dollar – eating and bathing can be a challenge too.

‘You lot are to blame for these unrealistic prices.’ Continues the man unpleasantly as I try to hide my irritation, something I should be good at by now but my skin seems to be getting thinner with age. I’ll have to be careful not to take any more tumbles this year, or I’ll split-open like those pensioners who hit the cracked paving stone outside the office. Man do they bleed.

I make a less than spirited defence, citing market forces and supply and demand. The man scoffs at me in derision, just as fat mortgage man M comes through the door face attached to a pasty like that scene from Alien. M takes one look at my man and starts gesticulating ludely with his free hand. M tried to offer him financial advice when we first registered the guy as an applicant but needless to say he is a ‘cash’ buyer. Cash that nobody has ever seen and is probably stashed under his childhood bed in the house he lives in with his mother.

‘The market is over-valued by at least 30%.’ Proclaims the man. I’m guessing he has an account with my old friends at House Price Crash and a username like Gollum or Green Hornet, with an avatar picture to match. I wouldn’t let him near children or pretty pets. I also wouldn’t admit – publicly - he might have a point on prices as 50% of the homes in my window would come off the market if that came to pass, at least until they were repossessed.

‘You are all part of the discredited system.’ Continues the odious visitor, as I wonder how the bean counter boss would react to me banning another person from the office, although this one hasn’t tried to hit me yet – at least not physically. ‘You prop up unsustainable prices,’ continues the one-man depression. ‘And make it impossible for first-time-buyers to get on the ladder.’ I half-heartedly put forward an argument that if he was a current homeowner he might expect us to get him the best possible price not flog it for fifty grand less, just to help out a single mother. It doesn’t go well.

‘Utter tosser.’ Proclaims T as the man leaves empty-handed while T adjusts his trousers.
‘Are you taking him off the mailing list?’ Asks negotiator S who has witnessed the conversation, quietly observing and taking notes.
‘Don’t worry he’s not even on.’ Interjects T. ‘He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’

Probably…

Honest To God - Friday

2012-01-06T08:02:00.004Z

Hurrying through the park en-route to an appointment I’m accosted by one of the winos. He is obviously too drunk to read body language as he makes his pissed pitch anyway.

‘Spare some change for a cup of tea guv?’ He croaks, just a gnats away from out-and- out aggression. The possible retorts are almost too many to reel off, plus I’m in danger of being late for a valuation appointment. Even so, I’m tempted to run a few by him - once I’m out of spitting range.

‘Sorry.’ I bluster instead, as I hurry on ashamed of myself again. Bad enough I’m in a profession despised by most, but now I haven’t got the guts to tell a bullying beggar to get sober, get a job and get off that bench so someone more deserving can sit on it without feeling intimidated.

‘Just a few coppers.’ Persists the man with the sort of tenacity T, my laid back assistant manager, fails to find. I want to tell the unshaven wastrel I know he won’t spend any cash he extorts on Earl Grey and a Rich Tea biscuit, but a punch-up before fighting over fees and asking price, isn’t going to enhance my chances of winning. I feel bruised enough as it is. He’ll be waiting for me on the way back anyway.

As I run through my proposed presentation and wonder how high I’ll have to pump the suggested selling price to fight off the other value-inflators and not disappoint the owner, I spot another local character coming towards me, satchel over one shoulder, can in hand.

‘Big Issue pal?’ Intones the guy with barely a glance at me. He’s not even at his normal spot yet, but to give him credit he’s trying. Got the wrong man though.

‘I’ve no change.’ I mutter, trying not to catch his eye, but he looks up to see me and can’t hide his distain. ‘Oh the estate agent,’ He says with a shrug of acceptance. ‘You lot don’t help anyone but yourselves.’

Bloody cheek, I think, as I hurry on towards the car park where the charges have just gone up again. The local council seem intent on creating a retail wasteland in the high street, with whitewashed windows punctuated only by charity shops - and estate agents. And now, the Big Issue seller thinks he’s better than me, even though I’m forever helping undeserving people to find homes. I’m not happy.

‘How’s business?’ Asks a familiar voice, one I don’t want to hear. It’s the hobbling banker labouring down the steps. I can’t remember if he’s had one hip done and still needs the other resurfacing, or not. I certainly don’t care, particularly as he’s about to make me late.

‘Can’t grumble.’ I lie, on more than one level. He stops, possibly for a breather but more likely for a conversation I don’t have the time or inclination for.
‘Do you reckon the market is steadying?’ He quizzes as he palpably wobbles. ‘Only we’ve been told to put a positive spin on everything.’ He doesn’t look convinced, but like me he’s been around long enough to recognise bullshit, even when it’s wrapped in a focus group wrapper and presented in PowerPoint.

‘We should have lunch some time soon.’ Suggests the banker half-heartedly. If he ever ends up jobless and drinking he’ll need to work on his sales skills if he expects to be kept in extra strong lager and tobacco for free.

‘Yes that would be good.’ I fib for the fourth time in quick succession, conspicuously looking at my watch. Something no good salesman should do on a presentation, but in this case I haven’t got there yet. Anyway, the banks don’t pay the sort of entertaining expenses they used to and this guy could bore for the mining industry.

‘I want at least twenty thousand more than that.’ Sneers the lady owner when I finally commit on proposed price. ‘The other agents assured me they could get that, are you saying you can’t?’

Heaven can wait.

Only Way Is Up - Tuesday

2012-01-03T20:11:00.005Z

‘Have a good one.’ Urges my wife as we peck on the doorstep and I head off to work. She’s nothing if not optimistic, which she needs to be because after so many years in sales I’m the exact opposite. They say attraction works like that, but any magnetism I may have once possessed seems to be more than a little tarnished and my suddenly constricted waistband doesn’t help my mood. It seems the dry cleaners have shrunk my suit…

‘Don’t forget the diet starts today.’ Calls the missus as I lower the car window and muster an unenthusiastic wave. If experience tells me anything, it’s the fact I’ll need to be comfort eating by tea break if this return from the Christmas break runs true to form.

I’m first in to the office, so that prediction is a shoe-in. Then as I check the answer-phone messages and look at the now rather tawdry festive lights in the high street - one daisy chain of which had become detached from its lamppost and is drooping like I was on New Year’s day – I listen to a brace of owners withdrawing their homes from the market, one buyer pulling out because their girlfriend has left them and a couple, whose sale has been agreed for three months, cancelling the deal because there is “nothing on the market as nice as their house”.

‘Happy New Year.’ Announces assistant manager T unenthusiastically and I parrot the expected return for the first of many times during the day. T is nearly twenty years younger than me, but the lustre is coming off. He too, has felt the setbacks every salesperson has to live with. He’s aware our office targets have risen again and our figures achieved have all just re-set to a big spherical number.

‘Do you reckon we have a hope in hell of hitting these numbers?’ T asks, as the kettle rolls to a boil and nobody else arrives in the office. I should give an upbeat response, urging T to have a positive mental attitude and to help me lead the line from the front. But the truth is I’ve missed more goals than a misfiring Premiership striker, and I don’t have the safety net of weekly wages more than most workers annual salary, or the willowy girlfriend, the penthouse apartment, the baby Bentley….

‘You look a bit down.’ Says negotiator S as she breezes through the door perkier than puppies, which is kind of appropriate given the top she reveals once her coat is off. ‘Just the traditional pause before I start again.’ I tell her flatly, before realising my mood isn’t going to encourage the team and adding the oft repeated: ‘I’ll keep asking for the business though. Remember it takes ten no answers to get a yes.’

S smiles and heads for the kitchen, as I decide I can’t afford to ask even once, given the non-harassment company rules. Plus, I may have a repossession later in the week but I’d like to keep my own house.

‘Happy New Year.’ Says mountainous mortgage man M as he sways through the door with difficulty. He’s clutching a baker’s bag of something greasy and I can smell the aroma of fatty pastry even as I bat back the unconvincing reply. My stomach rumbles and the trousers cut in around my waist in admonishing reply.

‘Let’s hope it’s a good one.’ Chimes lettings lush B when she comes through the door She’s possibly still pissed, or it could be the unsuitable heels making her wobble. I’m about to add the next, “without any tears” line, when F the idiot trainee bangs through the door and my eyes start to prickle. His tie is askew, one side of his collar is up, the other down and his flies are at half-mast again. Then the bean counter boss rings.

‘Got to get off to a flyer this year.’ He proclaims. ‘Those numbers won’t do themselves.’ He’s the master of the vacuous statement and he probably has it in PowerPoint on his laptop. Then he turns the knife by telling me H, my rival manager, has already done two deals this morning.

I’m less than zero.

Present And Correct - Friday

2011-12-23T07:47:00.005Z

‘Alright mate?’ Calls a masculine voice amongst the pre-Christmas shopping throng. Straight away I’m on my guard. I’m not signing up to any direct debit scams to help destitute Bolivian donkeys at any time of year – so they can forget the season of goodwill if it’s another charity-chugger. Equally, the chances of it actually being a mate of mine - and one of them emigrated - I could count on one gloved hand. Can only be a matter of times until I’ll need mittens.

‘How’s it going?’ Persists the voice as I struggle to focus amongst the teeming retail lemmings, all buying tat that will be exchanged or re-gifted before the decorations come down. Then I see the oily-operator and, as suspected, he’s no friend of mine. It’s the much younger, much chavvier manager of a rival firm of estate agents. I don’t like him.

‘Fine.’ I say neutrally pasting on a smile even I can tell is unconvincing, from the tonsil side. I’m not in a hurry this time of year as the office diary has more empty spaces than the Ikea car park on Christmas day. I still don’t want to stop and chat to someone who has spent the last three-hundred-and-fifty-odd days trying to close me down, though.

‘Me too,’ continues the man as I try not to sneer at his absurd tie and shirt combo, or envy the waist size I can only recall from the redundant suits still in the wardrobe – just in case. ‘We’ve had another cracker of a year.’ Continues Billy Liar as I try not to laugh in derision, primarily because he looks as though he spends as much time in the gym as I do in the fridge. Another punch-up in the high street is so undignified and those closed-circuit cameras miss nothing.

I’m supposed to be blowing the princely sum of £5 on the Secret Santa recipient I plucked from the draw. This year I have S my buxom negotiator to cater for and I’ve already lingered inappropriately outside the Ann Summers shop, wondering how I’d gauge her bra size and how much more I’d have to pay to get anything with enough cantilevering to keep her upright. I can’t recycle the chocolate willy B the libidinous lush from lettings bought me last year – I’ve read the memo on unacceptable behaviour from human resources, plus I gobbled it down in a moment of weakness some time in February.

‘We’ve altered the company record books too.’ I find myself saying absurdly, all though as I see his face fall just a little, I realise - just as I spot the hot chestnut salesman - that there’s an unintended kernel of truth in the boast.

‘Yeh. I reckon we’ll be having another stonking year next time.’ Crows the lad unconvincingly, as the phoney sales figure inflation escalates like some cold war arms’ race.
‘Got to go. A run of appointment later.’ I fib, moving past the steaming nut salesman’s stall. ‘Yeh, I’ve got to crack on,’ replies the fabricator who habitually adds 10% to all his valuations. ‘I’m rammed right through ‘till Christmas Eve.’

‘Twat.’ I mutter as I dodge a fat woman counterbalanced by podgy fistfuls of Debenhams’ bags, heading towards McDonalds purposefully. I think I hear a retort that also ends in a guttural T letter, but it’s lost amongst the hubbub of noise and the lilting sounds of Oh Come All Ye Faithful, from the Salvation Army band. Terrific, now I’ll have to make a detour to avoid another earnestly proffered collecting tin. The, I already give privately response is beginning to get suspicious looks after the Pudsey bear fiasco.

‘Oh I’m glad I’ve seen you.’ Calls a woman’s voice, as I jettison all thoughts of any non-scratchy lingerie for a fiver and turn to see one of my vendors approaching. I know her house, can’t remember her name.

‘Why is my property not selling?’ She demands with no hint of cheer. I could tell her. The price. The décor. Her pongy pets and children. The neighbourhood. They are all valid and all so much easier than choosing a politically correct, employee-to-employee gift. But I take the safe option.

Pot Pourri.

Ready Or Not - Monday

2011-12-19T20:07:00.003Z

‘You reckon there’s anybody in there still?’ Asks assistant manager T glancing across the road nervously.
We’re parked opposite a run-down mid-terrace house with signs of neglect. The paintwork is peeling, at least one slate roof tile has slipped and a gutter shows signs of prolonged leakage.

‘Probably long gone.’ I tell him with a little more confidence than I’m feeling. Repossessions are never fun, but if the defaulting borrowers are still inside they can get really messy. It’s partly why I have T with me. Not that he’d be useful for muscle with his wiry frame and wire-framed glasses, I just want to be in and out as soon as possible. He can help with the measuring and take the photographs.

‘Ever get the feeling you’re being watched?’ Asks T, glancing at the surrounding windows, where I’ve seen several net curtains twitching already. We were lucky to get a parking space in the car-choked road, one not really designed for the two-vehicle family. The local authority have issued residents permits and turned the road into a one-way system but it still feels more like a linear car park than a once pleasant Victorian neighbourhood.

‘They’ll know who we are.’ I tell T glancing at my watch and cross checking it with the dashboard clock. Five minutes until the appointed time. ‘Just as well this motor isn’t sign-written with the company name.’ I add. T chuckles. ‘Yeh, I bet those guys spend a lot of money at the bodyshop.’

I’ve had my car deliberately scratched of course and we’ve had some unpleasant deposits through the office letterbox too, one’s that definitely weren’t recorded delivery. But then estate agents have never been that popular. Repossess a house and you’re even less likely to get a Christmas card, and I certainly wouldn’t be able to send one back. Never sure which bed and breakfast the council will use next.

‘What do you reckon those two are up for?’ Posits T, nodding towards the opposition agents’ boards we can see further down the road. He should know, so should I but secretly being on each-others mailing lists so you could tap-up the competitors register isn’t as necessary as it used to be, with most agents all on the same property portal.

T fingers his smart phone for a few minutes and brings up the properties in question. I couldn’t do that with my ancient Nokia, but I keep it as a stubborn, almost Luddite-like, badge of pride.

‘Whoa,’ he announces, spinning the screen towards me. I squint until he does that expanding with your fingers trick. Reading glasses are months away. ‘They’re going to be pissed when ours comes on.’ Predicts T with a smirk. The lender will have my report and recommendations on price – which they’ll ignore – followed by two independent surveyors suggestions, before the marketing price is set. The only thing certain is it will be a lot more realistic than the two homes nearby - about £20,000 more realistic at a guess.

‘Here comes the locksmith.’ Says T nodding towards a white panel van easing its way through the tightly packed cars. Then as the van passes I see the bailiff hurrying up the road, long coat flying behind him.

I clamber out of the car, back grumbling with the motion, and T follows me clutching the digital camera. The bailiff recognises me. I feel the curtain movement all around and make sure I blip the remote so the car is only vulnerable on the outside.

‘Morning all.’ Greets the bailiff chirpily, as the locksmith joins us. He’s double parked blocking the street and is hefting a big clunking bag and clutching a massive cordless drill that sports a brutally menacing bit on the end. He’s clearly not planning on staying long.

The bailiff is a weasel-like character, and has a wispy moustache presumably through choice rather than for charity. Like T, the man is surprisingly slight of frame, but then if there’s any resistance he’ll just call the police and we’ll all get back in our cars and watch.

I still hate this bit, I think, as the bailiff checks his watch, glances at the paperwork then asks: ‘You ready?’

Not really.

No More Heroes - Wednesday

2011-12-14T07:33:00.005Z

Revisiting old loves is fraught with problems. It’s the reason Friends Reunited peaked and plummeted after too many inadvisable liaisons, that only benefited estate agents and divorce lawyers. I should have known better.

‘This is going to be great.’ Enthuses my drinking buddy as we hurry through darkened streets and I try to calculate if we get mugged, or I get recognised, who’ll take the first knife blow. With my back, running is no longer an option so it’s a question of positioning for dark corners and blind alleys.

‘Great spot too.’ Continues my mate enthusiastically. ‘Never been in the front row before.’
‘I’m not sure that was such a smart move.’ I venture as a thin, but growing knot of people start to join out procession towards the theatre.
‘Nonsense,’ he continues undaunted. ‘We’ll be able to see without our glasses on and it’ll be loud enough.’

The first time I saw the band in question they were rebellious and filling big venues. Now, most of the founder members are retired or growing vegetables somewhere. Back then with 30-inch waist jeans and hair filled with gel - or sometimes gob - I queued for hours for tickets, despite my distaste for all things capitalist. This time round I ordered on line with my credit card and coughed the administration charges without spitting.

‘I just hope they’re not disappointing.’ I grumble as we make the foyer and I spot the audience demographic with a jolt. There’s a sea of bald pates, and more distressed denim than you’d find in a third world machine shop.

‘Shit they’re all about sixty.’ I murmur, shocked at the display of decay. You know you’ve aged, and my industry takes its toll more than most, but looking out you still fondly imagine you’re the same young punk who was going to change the world. This is like a giant, pitiless make-up mirror. I’m just glad nobody can see me.

‘Hello.’ Calls a female voice, before adding my first name ominously. My heart sinks and I wish I’d stayed at home. Fixed, commercial grin swiftly pasted on, I turn to see if it’s a buyer, seller or auxiliary professional who has tagged me. I’m badly placed to avoid a sharp blade as my mate has headed for the bar, oblivious to the danger.

The face is familiar, but I tend to remember bricks and mortar better than names. Fortunately she is sporting a lapel badge and collecting tickets. I see an ex-weekend staff member, who worked for me a decade or more ago. I conspicuously use her first name several times, but I’m sure she spotted me scanning her chest area before we made proper eye contact. She was always rather flirty, in a merry widow way, when we worked together, despite being a good fifteen years older. I learn she has retired and is just helping her daughter on the door.

‘Who was the old granny?’ Shouts my friend as we join the scrum for drinks in the incongruous interval. One where more people are having ice creams than alcohol. I tell him, ears ringing from the music, and he makes an inappropriate comment involving cobwebs and lube.

‘They look a bit crinkly on stage too.’ He continues as I people watch. Obsessively scanning for someone who might recognise me and someone under forty who isn’t with their parents.
‘I remember the lead guitarist when he had hair.’ I say morosely. I’m thinking we should have sat further back, where failing eyesight and imagination could have taken me back to the seventies less painfully.

The queue for the toilets is like a new homes retirement flat launch-day, with more weak bladders and prostate problems than a hospital’s geriatric clinic. Then, as I finally stand at a urinal, it gets worse.

‘Aren’t you the estate agent?’ Asks the grey-haired man alongside, to what sounds like more of a hiss than a gurgle, from the other urinators. I don’t want to discuss the state of the market at the best of times. Speculating on price movements to a man with a wrinkled pecker in his hand is a new low, even for me.

Head throbbing, ears buzzing, underpants slightly soggy I leave before the encore.

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2011-12-07T16:56:00.011Z

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Show Me The Way - Friday

2011-12-02T06:13:00.004Z

Trainee F comes towards me hesitantly. I encourage him to ask if he’s not sure as it helps minimise complaints and litigation. But sometimes his questions are so asinine I want to thump him. Sadly, punching staff is frowned upon by the touchy-but-no-feely human resources ladies. They suck all the joy out of the job – without the sucking, obviously.

‘What’s Feng Shui all about?’ F finally asks timorously. It’s a good question as it happens, but it elicits a groan from fat mortgage man M and a scoff of derision from B our lettings lush.

F looks at me pleadingly, as if I’m the fountain of all knowledge rather than a damp trickle of disappointment.
‘It’s an oriental thing,’ I tell him falteringly. ‘Supposed to tell you if your living space has good or bad energy.’
‘Bad if it has night storage heating.’ Chortles assistant manager T unhelpfully.
‘Worse if it has pylons running over the top.’ Adds M. ‘You might be able to charge your I-Pod by holding it out the window but you’ll still be glowing when you turn the lights off.’

‘It’s all bollocks.’ Sneers B, who is an expert on scrotum-scrutiny by all accounts. ‘I get them wanting to check the freshness of the energy in the rooms before they’ll rent.’
‘Be better of checking the sheets’ Laughs M.
‘And they get really picky about cul-de-sacs,’ continues B undaunted. ‘Blocks the flow or some such mumbo-jumbo.’
‘I thought cul-de-sacs were a good thing?’ Says F disconsolately.
Complicated business property.

‘It’s just this Chinese couple want to buy a flat but they need to know about the entrance and the Trinity…. isn’t that a film franchise?’
‘They’ll want to know which way if faces too.’ Contributes T.
‘South for the garden?’ Asks F hopefully.
‘No that’s for different punters.’ Says T with a hint of enjoyment.
‘Can’t they just buy it and redecorate like anyone else?’ Pleads F face crumpled in confusion.
‘Bad Karma.’ Opines M waddling towards the kitchen and more calories.

‘Isn’t Karma an Indian thing?’ Asks F dejectedly.
‘Or a curry house.’ Chips in T gleefully.
‘You just have to identify what the buying trigger points are.’ I tell F in an attempt at clarification. He doesn’t look convinced. ‘Find what are the deal-breakers and what are just wish-list things that they can compromise on.’ I continue, feeling belatedly I’m adding something to the conversation.

‘We had some Feng Shui consultant come in a few months ago,’ pipes up S my voluptuous negotiator. She’s definitely orientated the right way at the moment with that new blouse, and I can feel positive energy flowing in all the right places.
‘She was a nutter though.’ Interjects B from her lettings desk. ‘Those mad staring eyes and way too earnest. The sort that rearranges cushions when they come to your home.’
‘True,’ concedes S. ‘I might still have her business card somewhere though.’ She looks at me and adds: ‘Would you like me to ferret around for it?’

Some clever answers are better off not exposed to the air, so I decline.
‘Why don’t you look Feng Shui up on the Internet,’ suggests T. ‘It’s all available for free, then you don’t have to pay for a loony women divining for something with chopsticks.’

‘Just wheel them round the place and tell them if they don’t make their mind up someone else will have it.’ Snaps B ungraciously. Her lettings technique wouldn’t work in sales, at least not property sales. Her follow-up comment about take-aways and wanting another one an hour later caused a fractious discussion about inappropriate racially biased comments and political correctness, which left me grasping for the right orientation again.

‘I’m going out with the Wongs.’ Chirps F late afternoon. I junk the facile reply about spending more time with the Rights instead, as I can no longer tell what’s acceptable. I just know I need more deals.
‘Don’t waste your time if they’re self-employed chefs with less than three years accounts.’ Sneers M, rolling out another unwanted stereotype.

‘Are they happy about the energy lines then?’ I venture reluctantly.
‘Don’t know,’ says F. ‘But it’s the only one they can afford.’

Sounds positive.

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Wrecking Ball - Monday

2011-11-28T19:59:00.004Z

‘That bastard Bomber brought the keys back for number 11?’ Asks assistant manager T with unaccustomed vigour. He’s referring to one of our least favourite surveyors – quite an achievement given the choice. Of course his given name isn’t “Bomber”, that would have taken impressive foresight by his parents….

‘Darling what do you think our little bundle of joy will grow up to be?’
‘Hmm. I’m thinking a joyless weevil of a man who’ll delight in dashing people’s dreams, criticising imaginary faults and dismantling weeks of work.’
‘You think he’ll be a Building Inspector?’
‘No dear, I was hoping he’d become a Chartered Surveyor.’
‘Bomber it is then….’

Of course our local sales-wrecker isn’t the only practitioner. He’s just one of the least sympathetic ones. Hence the nickname, as without exception he’ll downvalue the agreed price on a transaction and as an added bonus usually point out every last flaw and request endless third-party reports, before he’ll put his neck on the block and rubber stamp a loan.

‘He’s still got the keys.’ Answers trainee F after scanning the key book and confirming the set have been logged out but not in again. There had been a collective groan when Bomber arrived in the office with the lender’s instructions. Of course you stay polite to their face in the hope they won’t destroy this particular sale, but invariably this guy lives up to his name. I’m fairly sure he’s oblivious to the unflattering moniker, just as The Terminator and Dr Death are to their titles in town. Paradoxically, these guys are nowhere near as sinister in the flesh as their unofficial names might suggest. Think greasy hair, sports jackets, bad shoes and bad breath.

‘Why do the always trash deals?’ Asks F innocently and I hit him with a worryingly verbose litany of reasons, running the gamut of fear of being sued right through to fear of their own shadow. It spills from me in a vitriolic stream, like some possessed person in a 1980s horror movie, just stopping short of the head spinning.

‘If you always kill a sale, or ask for dozens of builders and engineers reports, you don’t get any come back from lawyers and lenders down the line.’ Pronounces T not entirely inaccurately.
‘What do you think he’ll say about number 11?’ Asks F wide-eyed.
T and I look at each other. He goes first.

‘Some evidence of wet rot, we recommend a builder inspects and quotes.’
‘Possible roof deflection.’ I follow. ‘But because of limited access to loft void a specialist report should be commissioned.’
‘The electrics appear to be coming towards the end of their useful lifespan but due to the limited scope of this survey a full electrical survey should be undertaken.’ Continues T theatrically, as F looks on in slack-jawed bemusement.

The little thespian-fest continues for some minutes – all salesmen being frustrated actors – until T finishes with a flourish. ‘And you can bet he’ll take between five and ten percent off the sale price just to cover his sweaty little arse.’
‘You can ask him yourself.’ Says negotiator S with a throaty chuckle that rumbles distractingly through her blouse. ‘Because here he comes.’
Many surveyors post the keys through the door after closing time to avoid the quizzing we’re about to administer. But Bomber has the skin of a Rhino. The door opens and I can almost taste the palpable hate in the air. He’s oblivious.

‘Everything alright?’ I ask, wincing internally, ring tightening, as I think of the fee I can’t afford to lose if he wrecks this sale.
‘One or two issues.’ Hedges Bomber as he hurries to divest himself of the keys.
‘Could you elaborate?’ I probe, as F takes the jangling brass, with corporate logo and internal security code, on the temporary fob.

‘I need to write up the report.’ Obfuscates Bomber, before asking. ‘Do you have any evidence of comparable sales at this level?’ He’ll be going to our competitors with the same question and they’ll doubtless try to convince him our buyer has paid too much.

‘Stick it back on the market?’ Asks T as Bomber exits.

Probably.

Signed Sealed Delivered - Wednesday

2011-11-23T20:38:00.004Z

‘Just leave me alone.’ I shout at the car headlining, like some overwrought film starlet. The mobile phone has chimed three times on the trip back to the car park. I have an almost physical hatred of the device and the absurd bluetooth headset that I can’t get on with and makes me look like a miscast nightclub bouncer.

My yelp of anguish echoes round the cabin and the woman struggling to parallel-park her Toyota Yaris next to me gives me a suspicious look, then backs out and heads for a more acceptable space. It’s not the first suspicious look I’ve had this morning and I suspect my bean counter boss, who is one of the missed calls, is framing a similar frown, as he never seems to believe I should be busy enough not to take his call – I guess he does see the office statistics though…

‘Bloody public, the job would be fine without them.’ I mumble in a familiar if erroneous refrain, as I exit the car and another stabbing pain courses its way down the sciatic nerve. Briefly, I toy with actually taking my wife’s advice and finally making a doctor’s appointment. Obviously I dismiss it as readily as the last two valuations I’ve just been on, dismissed me.

‘Oh no I couldn’t possibly sell for that figure.’ The woman at the first abortive appointment had opined dismissively. I’d spent forty minutes in her frosty company, on top of the pre-valuation preparation obtaining comparable property sales data, compiling a presentation pack and printing off supporting documentation. She swiftly decided that mattered not a jot. Apparently you can ignore fiscal forces, established values, lending restrictions and reality if you are greedy and want a new home in a better area with enough change for a world cruise. Of course you can’t - but telling someone that doesn’t always win new Facebook friends.

‘Spare some change for a cuppa?’ Whines a wino, as I cross the park with an ungainly hobble and I think of the second failed valuation while brushing off the beggar. The whiskery man no more spends his takings on tea than I spend my time with people I would actually like to add as friends, assuming I did do social networking. If I wanted to be Linked-In I’d buy some handcuffs.

My mobile beeps again and the message callback digitally hassles me, as I spot the traffic warden and another agent ahead. Everyone wants a piece of me and I’m yearning for some time in solitary - obviously without being chained to a radiator.

The other valuation had been as dispiriting as the first. The thirty-something couple barely exchanging glances, let alone fluids, thought they were separating until I arrived.
‘I need much more that that to make it work.’ Grumbled the man as his soon to be ex looked at us both with distaste. As if I forced them to pay over the odds for a shrunken square footage, timber frame construction and a view of the car park – actually on reflection I may have done, but that’s mere detail. The mortgage three months in arrears wasn’t helping either.

‘You’ll have to do a lot better than that.’ The woman finally sneered as though I wanted to buy their pokey flat, with about thirty grands worth of negative equity and climbing. They might not be sharing a bed for much longer but I’m guessing they’ll be financially together long after the wedding rings have been sold or slung. I’ve seen it all before.

‘How did it go?’ Asks fragrant negotiator S as I enter the office trying to loose the hobble and the beer belly. Sadly, she’s the only one so far today who doesn’t want a piece of me.
‘Dreamers and wasters.’ I tell her gloomily as she nods her head towards the message book.
‘You might want a coffee before you deal with that lot.’ She says gently.

What first? Ring the bean counter, tackle the buyer who wants to renegotiate price after a survey, or placate the vendors threatening to pull out of a sale if the chain isn’t ready to exchange in time for their daughter’s wedding?

I’m yours.

Tried And Tested - Thursday

2011-11-17T18:45:00.007Z

Occasionally I like to do a run of viewings, it’s almost relaxing after the ultra-competitive environment of valuations where you are up against several accomplished bullshit artists in better cars and pricier suits.

You can’t really hard sell on a viewing. Even if you did there are several weeks for solicitors, family and surveyors to persuade the punters to change their minds. It’s a much more subtle process, possibly why female negotiators who bring nuances the males are oblivious to, seem so good at it. Creating the desire to own by gently highlighting the salient features, mentioning in passing the scarcity of similar homes and possibly the people who are due to view next.

Of course you still get the time-wasters. The weekend viewers looking for redecorating, design and fitted kitchen clues. The nosey neighbours and the dreamers who want to see what can be bought for the sort of price tag they’ll never afford, short of a lottery win or a sexual discrimination payout. And there’s the downsizers…

‘Oh no this will never do,’ whines the early sixties woman, in a voice that could cut diamonds. ‘Much too small for my dining room table.’ Her hangdog husband who looks as though he’ll be lucky to make it through the conveyancing process, glances at me wanly and shrugs a hint of an apology.

‘It’s a fairly good size room for the price range.’ I counter to a frosty look from the dragon-lady. What I want to say is: You can’t expect to pocket half a million, move closer to the shops and library and still fit your f***ing crabby table and chairs in there, you haddock-faced old cheapskate.

‘I’ve seen enough.’ She continues curtly as I rue my decision to sign out several sets of keys when I could be back at the office looking at negotiator S in that new over-stuffed blouse, defying the laws of gravity.

‘I hope the next one is more spacious.’ Wheedles the woman as I turn to mutter an apology to the vendor who has come home from work early especially to accommodate us and has, unlike many, even vacuumed and tidied round. Viewers like this lady from accompanied hell, can cost you instructions almost as quickly as no viewings at all.

‘Nothing we’ve seen so far is a patch on our house Trevor.’ She moans as I pull away. They wanted to be picked-up, and of course ostensibly the company car is provided just for that. In reality we hate having punters in the motor with us. The kids make a mess, the pensioners’ smell of Dettol and death - and the smokers just stink.

I look at Trevor in my rear view mirror. I could almost pity him if it wasn’t for the fact he’s wasting my time, is a complete spineless wimp who should just take her to a furniture store - and wasn’t called Trevor.

You don’t buy a home on the strength of attachment to a forty-year old table and chair set, at least you shouldn’t. But countless wanabee downsizers fall in to the same sentimental trap. The only way Trevor is leaving his current pad is horizontally. It’s a pretty safe bet his widow will reconsider the need for eight place settings once she’s scoffing ready meals for one. But you can’t tell them.

‘If you put your own home on the market, you’d be in a better position to clinch the right smaller property when it comes along.’ I coax, getting to the real reason I’m here and not looking at a pert pair and a sagging balance sheet. The couple are typical of the type. Expecting the pick of any new instructions but unable to perform and unwilling to take the steps to make them a credible buyer.

‘You would say that wouldn’t you?’ Sneers Trevor’s ball and chain, as I wonder what he ever saw in her? Perhaps time and disappointment have soured her beyond recognition from the faded sepia wedding photographs.
‘She won’t be bounced into anything.’ Says Trevor apologetically as I try to banish an inappropriate image – unsuccessfully. And then she says it: ‘You lot just want a quick sale.’

As if.

Treading The Boards - Monday

2011-11-14T20:31:00.005Z

Standing on the doorstep, I imagine it’s a feeling akin to the first night nerves an actor has just before the curtain rises. Only I get it every time.

As the doorbell echoes, I gallop through my mental checklist for the umpteenth time. Appearance confirmed in the car mirror before I came up the path, so it’s too late for that. Briefcase has the requisite marketing material, price research and comparables enclosed and breath is a fresh as the just-crunched mint will allow. I just hope the owner isn’t another nutter.

The only bar on property ownership – and admittedly it’s a big one at the moment – is affordability. Nobody checks for sanity, hygiene levels or bad beverage-making skills. I could find a charming, level-headed individual about to open the door - or a grade 1 lunatic. It’s usually somewhere in-between, but you never know.

‘House rules,’ Trills the woman wearing a dodgy patterned blouse, with those slightly too earnest eyes. ‘No shoes indoors.’ My heart sinks. Now you shouldn’t generalise in sales, it’s a mistake to judge people on first impressions, but then after so many years knowing something and adhering to it, are two different things.

Reluctantly, back grumbling in tandem with internal dialogue, I stoop to unlace my Oxfords.
‘You don’t mind do you?’ Asks the owner rhetorically as I try to paste on a nonchalant, doesn’t bother me you’re an obsessive weirdo with podiatry problems, smile, as she continues: ‘Only we insist.’

As I pad absurdly up the hall, no guests’ slippers arranged by the front door in this home, I make sure my socks are hole-free. I’ve checked first thing this morning of course, but cheap hosiery seems to spring gaps at will and a gnarly big toe poking through as you sit on the sofa and make your pitch isn’t going to help nail the business…

‘This is the kitchen.’ Enlightens the woman unnecessarily as I traipse into a dated room that really needed no introduction – particularly to me. 1970’s units are hanging tiredly from the walls, yellowing formica teamed with a peeling laminate work surface. A water-stained sink, half-full with unwashed plates, sits under a dripping tap. And you wanted me to take my shoes off, I think acidly, as one sock sticks to something viscous on the floor and I spot a fat moggy lurking malevolently in one corner.

Terrific. She doesn’t want you to tread in anything unsavoury from outside, yet she keeps her house like a municipal tip and allows some bird-torturing sadist that has probably just torn a sparrow limb-from-limb before sliding through the cat-flap, to walk up and down the food preparation area.

‘Do you like cats?’ Asks the woman, bringing me back to reality. They say honesty is the best policy and I’m all for raising standards in this much-maligned industry but answering, ‘only if they’re stir-fried madam,’ isn’t going to help win the business. I’m economical with the truth instead.

‘And this is the bedroom.’ Intones the woman as I tiptoe semi-undressed into the boudoir, where another hairy moggy is sitting at the bed-head, exactly where the owner will be sleeping later. ‘Shoo Tiggy.’ Chides the cat-lover half-heartedly to a look of total indifference from her pet. ‘She knows she shouldn’t be up there,’ coos the woman unconvincingly. ‘But you’ve got to love them haven’t you?’
Only with noodles lady.

‘We’ll only sell if we get the right price.’ Insists the owner superfluously, when we’re sat on a hair-matted couch, me in my socks and with a dark suit attracting every last floating feline follicle. Now I have to coax a sensible marketing price out of this woman who obviously has selective vision. The house needs £25,000 minimum spend to bring it up to standard, unless that’s reflected in the asking price she’ll be less likely to move than the hairball on her pillow.

‘Your shoe lace is undone.’ Announces assistant manager T as I stumble through the office door, sneezing wildly, eyes red and running. ‘Any luck?

My sniffy diatribe that includes extensive use of industrial carpet cleaners, flea infestation treatment, a trip to the opticians and a red-hot wok, causes understandable bemusement.

Three for the price of two on the new socks though.

Swiss Roll - Wednesday

2011-11-09T19:01:00.006Z

‘So why don’t you like retirement properties? Quizzes trainee F without a hint of irony, but then he doesn’t do irony judging by the rumpled shirts…

‘Reminds him how close he is to qualifying for one.’ Chuckles assistant manager T. T has a point. When sheltered flats started to appear in the 80s the minimum qualifying age of fifty-five seemed a lifetime away. I could still pogo and The Clash were the best band I’d ever heard. The thought of ever needing a communal lounge and an orange emergency pull cord if I couldn’t lever myself off the dumper would have been anathema to me. Hope I die before I get old.

Now, of course, my perspective has changed a tad. Three decades of sales and a passably healthy bank balance have sapped my enthusiasm for anarchy and bondage trousers. I still play my music loud but my wife maintains it’s because I’m going slightly deaf. I don’t hear it myself.

Fifty-five is still ludicrously young to be thinking of incarcerating yourself in a glorified Holiday Express with a grumpy manager and runaway service charges – about twenty years too soon by my reckoning.

‘I just think they are over-priced for what you get.’ I tell F as he nods vacuously. He’s not taking it in. He doesn’t take much in as far as I can gauge - other that cigarettes and alcohol. But that’s what you get for not having a minimum standard of entry to the profession.

‘Wouldn’t catch me dead in one of those places.’ Contributes morbidly obese mortgage man M. Probably won’t make the qualifying age, no matter how low, I think uncharitably as I wonder how he’d ever get past the actuaries if he tried for critical illness cover – they don’t like paying out.

‘Have you noticed how they always smell of cabbage in the corridors?’ Asks T, brow wrinkled. Of course I have, I’ve commented on it often enough, that and stale urine. The lifts are no better and the fact some have a bench seat, in case you feel light-headed and need to sit down while the cheap hydraulics wheeze you towards your final destination, isn’t too chipper either.

‘So why do old people buy them then?’ Asks negotiator S sweetly.
‘Because they’re shit-scared of dying alone.’ Snaps lettings lush B with feeling. She’s been through another Internet-sourced boyfriend again - or more likely he’s been through her - and she’s not been in the best of humour. The drinking before lunchtime probably doesn’t help.

‘It’s for security and companionship, I guess.’ I tell S, always happy to help with her education. ‘It’s just you pay a premium for it and with the re-sale values the only way you are getting out is horizontally.’
‘I don’t get it.’ Chimes trainee F.
‘On a stretcher.’ Enlightens M, before waddling towards the kitchen. I think he’s wearing a groove in the carpet.

‘So what would you do then? Presses F and I realise he’s talking to me still. The implication being I’m the one most likely to be hankering after a closed-community of incontinent bores all talking endlessly about their wonderful family, who probably never come to visit them.

It’s a better question than F usually posits. Going to Las Vegas and hiring a couple of hookers to help me blow my way to oblivion has crossed my mind on more than one occasion. It certainly beats the sad procession to a Swiss flat for a final take-away meal and some barbiturates. But as M’s insurance drones with the life expectancy tables would tell me, the reality is I’d be long gone and it would be my wife making the last property move without me.

‘Probably hang on in my house until I can’t manage the stairs.’ I eventually tell F morosely.
‘Then start pestering estate agents for bungalows close to the doctor’s surgery, that don’t exist.’ Adds T brightly.
‘Come in the office every morning to register forgetting you’d called the day before.’ Says S with a smile.
‘And then have a nasty fall.’ Laughs F to an ugly silence.

It was about time he did another leaflet drop.

Stand Well Back - The Weekend

2011-11-07T20:45:00.006Z

‘If anyone starts on about estate agents and property prices I’m going home.’ I tell my wife as we walk in the early evening darkness, shopping bag clinking with alcohol.
‘Don’t be so stupid,’ she chides.’ You know people love to talk about it, just grin and bear it.’

I’m tempted to take her literally if some braying twat does quiz me on why their home is no longer outperforming their shares portfolio? A rictus smile and lopping my todger out would really cause fireworks. Instead, I just scowl at the hooded teenagers skulking past on the opposite pavement with mischief in their eyes – if I could see their eyes.

‘They’ll be lobbing bangers through strangers letterboxes and setting fire to paper bags full of dog-dirt on doorsteps.’ I tell my wife to a sigh, before she says.
‘Don’t always judge people by your own warped standards.’ My reply that we had fewer distractions, with no internet porn when I was a boy, doesn’t impress. So I resolve to leave the brown paper bag empty once I’ve drunk the alcohol. Shit will happen anyway.

‘So you lot don’t mind the economy going down the toilet do you?’ Opens a ruddy-faced inbred, as behind him the host tries to ignite the green-timbered bonfire with local newspapers that contain my company’s property adverts.
‘How do you mean?’ I reply tersely.
‘Well you get the repossessions when people go belly-up anyway. It’s a win-win for the likes of you.’

Patiently, more patiently than the bonfire tender, I explain how we’d rather not stand next to the bailiff while he evicts a family who got it wrong and probably bought their failing endowment policy from M, my fat mortgage man, or a slimmer, slipperier version of him. But it’s a waste of time, as are the animated efforts to ignite the damp wood the increasingly annoyed pyromaniac is going through.

‘I’ve just had a bank of solar panels fitted to my roof,’ waffles a crushing bore who has been directed my way by someone who clearly doesn’t like me – the choices are endless. I’m tempted to tell the green sun-catcher he’s probably down-valued his home, at least aesthetically, and the payback time with the watery sunlight we get for two-thirds of the year will probably stretch into three decades. I might even have cleared my own mortgage by then. I’d be wasting my time though as this guy is a planet-hugging zealot.

‘It’s not all about the finances.’ He drones, as I swig deeply from another bottle of beer and think: it is if the locksmith is waiting to drill through your keyhole matey. ‘We have a wider responsibility to preserve this world for those yet to come.’ He continues, as I watch the host emerge from a garden shed with a plastic petrol can and a look of determination.

I’m half way back towards the house, eco-man left strategically in front of the smouldering pyre, when there’s an almighty flash of fire and more gasps that the few weedy roman candles so far, have occasioned.

‘Get back down there and see if he’s alright.’ Hisses my wife as I ponder how slowly I can lope without seeming cowardly. I have a reputation to maintain after all. While a clutch of women and one terrified Labrador whimper softly, I join several other men approaching the now blazing pile with caution. It’s as though someone has tossed a few dozen Correx for sale boards on the fire, they burn brilliantly but briefly – or so I’m told.

‘I reckon we’re all going to get our fingers burnt.’ Proclaims some wag to chuckles, as later, the few remaining partygoers sit in the lounge and talk drunkenly about – yes – property. The bonfire man, with singed eyebrows and no hair left on his forearms, bemoans the fact his teenage kids will never be able to afford to buy with the prices as they are. I refrain from telling him they nearly inherited a house an hour ago, plus considerable savings on a cremation.

The curt reminder home owners were happy to have rocketing prices until they wanted their adult children to leave proved explosive, after that it all rather fizzled out.

Financial Services Authority - Thursday

2011-11-03T19:32:00.004Z

‘He might explain it.’ Posits lettings lush B as I enter the main office after a fractious phone call with my bean counter boss. Negotiator S looks at me expectantly, as B returns to her monitor with a hint of a hiccup.

‘Explain what?’ I ask cautiously. Being the oldest and greyest in the office doesn’t bring too many privileges. The ancient elder in a sales tribe doesn’t get first dibs on nubile team members. More likely, after my conversation with the boss, they’ll be sent away to die quietly like some wrinkly elephant - either that or a sheltered retirement flat.

‘Equity release schemes.’ Says S, bringing me back to a world of ramped-up targets, cutthroat competition and performance review meetings. There are no orange emergency pull-cords here. If you fall nobody will pick you up.

‘Don’t they advertise those on daytime television?’ Offers trainee F hesitantly. Before I can ask how he gets to watch the box when he should be working, he continues. ‘That bloke who used to be a weather man recommends them.’

‘If it’s the tosser who said there wouldn’t be a hurricane,’ chuckles B throatily. ‘You might as well ignore that.’ B is at least old enough to remember Michael Fish, possibly because she drinks like one, but it turns out it’s Bill Giles.

‘Only,’ picks up S. ‘I have an elderly couple who want some advice as to whether to sell and downsize, or stay put and release some capital. They are happy for you to go and see them.’ Of course they are, it’s a free, no-obligation, valuation. I have a hankering, when and if I retire, to do the same. Call out agents with no intention of moving just to have someone to talk to. Just to moan about immigration and the poor rate of interest on my savings.

Hypocrisy is a sly affliction, which creeps up with age. It turns gay liberals into drab capitalists, human rights tofu eaters into hang ‘em and flog ‘em carnivores and idealistic punks into cynical old men. I spend my days despising people who waste my time and yet I’m already thinking of doing the same. You get a lot of self-loathing when your working life is relentlessly documented on Excel spreadsheets.

‘It’s more a financial consultant’s bag.’ I hedge to a wounding look of disappointment from S. She still likes to help clients. I do in the final analysis. I’m just more weathered and worn.
‘I’m not handing them over to that sleazeball.’ Counters S magnificently, her breasts heaving in distracting indignation.

M our bloated mortgage man is on holiday and his cover is the sort of oily figure-fiddler who, when I first started, had a mullet haircut, wore turn-up trousers, paisley ties and flogged endowment mortgages. I wouldn’t trust him with a family pet.

‘He’s the company approved conduit.’ I say shamefully, actually feeling my cheeks colour for the first time since the lift was out on the ex-council tower block with sub-standard construction. S looks at me disapprovingly and I crack.
‘Book me in then, just don’t blame me when you are half way down the licensed introducer’s league table.’
I’m secretly proud of S. I hated pushing product for banks, building societies and insurance companies when they piled into estate agency. But then they were our new masters and even I bought an endowment that isn’t going to pay off the loan. I have a nasty feeling equity release might become another scandal like Payment Protection Insurance – at least that’s my forecast.

‘We’re not really from the buy now, pay later generation.’ Says the wrinkly husband when I sit in the couple’s lounge later. Good for you mate, I think. I’m pretty sure your beneficiaries will be pleased too.
‘What would you do in our situation?’ Asks his matronly wife sweetly. I toy with telling them what I really think. Ache to spew out the wisdom of more than one property crash and several corporate owners with only the balance sheet and shareholder dividends in mind. What I actually say is:
‘Unfortunately I’m not authorised to give financial advice but I could arrange for one of our consultants to visit you.’

It just creeps up on you.

Who You Gonna' Call - Halloween

2011-10-31T20:34:00.006Z

‘Do you think we should have dressed the window with a Halloween theme?’ Asks negotiator S breathily. An unhelpful image of a buxom witch with legs way better than a frog’s materialises in a flash. The human resources coven wouldn’t like this sort of thought crime, I think hurriedly, as I try to ensure my face doesn’t betray my true emotions. Fortunately years of dealing with the public helps.

‘It just looks like a naff cash-in.’ I finally reply, referring to our rival’s frontage, which is cluttered with garish ghoul-based items. You can almost smell the sick-making stench from the pumpkins, the Scream-franchise mask is probably a reflection of their asking prices and I’ve a feeling the cobwebs were already attached to the window display.

‘Yeh, but you never want to join in on the fun stuff.’ Continues S, as I stifle an inappropriate reply that would definitely cause a horror show and probably a sexual harassment claim as well.

S is referring to my seasonal stubbornness. Decorations of any kind – other than sold slips – are anathema to me. Every Christmas there’s a running battle over the validity of a naff plastic-figured crib scene, finding marketing space in the office window. My gag about not wanting first-time buyers to think it’s a scaled down barn conversion for sensible money, wears thinner than my hair, each December, but I persevere.

‘You know what your trouble is don’t you?’ Chips in assistant manager T with the sort of pre-cursor I hear from my bean counter boss at every performance review.
‘You just don’t want to move with the times.’ Continues T, undaunted by a fright-night-worthy scowl and my half-formed spell inflicting something unpleasant on him – other than his current career.

‘People love Halloween.’ Urges T. S nods in agreement, as do her breasts. ‘It’s a good way of drawing attention to the window display.’
‘You’ll be suggesting we all dress up in zombie costumes like those idiots at Tesco Express.’ I say scornfully. T’s face falls and I realise that’s exactly what he wants to do. I can understand one of our local surveyors mimicking the living dead as they’ve killed enough hopes, but I draw the line at cheap American imports - particularly after the last Top Model series…

Mortgage man M waddles through the door clutching a bag of doughnuts and I look to him for support, but before I can enlist his help he says.
‘That crazy crew in the convenience store are all in costume.’
‘The boss thinks they look tacky.’ Interjects T with a look of distain.
‘The only things scary in there is that bloody self-scanner.’ I grizzle. Aware I’m coming across as a misery but unable to stop myself.

‘I guess they didn’t have Halloween when you were a boy.’ Posits S in a conciliatory manner. She’s right, I hadn’t heard of the festival until my kids were small. I still frown at calling round to strangers’ homes and asking for favours – even though that’s what I do most working days. I don’t get given many treats mind…

‘We just did Guy Fawkes night.’ I tell her, suddenly feeling old and spent again. ‘And before you ask,’ I add quickly. ‘We don’t want some dummy in raggedy clothes in the window either.’ As I say it - whiz-bang on cue - imbecile trainee F returns from a viewing, tie crooked, shirt hanging out.

‘What?’ he pleads as the office rocks with laughter. Tears wiped away, I ask everybody to get back on task. F still looks at me bemused but that’s nothing new. I sit in my office and chuckle softly. Sometimes this job drains your life force just as surely as fangs at a jugular, but just occasionally you wish the moment would last, that you could live it forever. Then the bean counter rings.

‘Your fall-through ratio isn’t looking to healthy.’ He carps, as I toy with the letter opener menacingly. ‘Is there no way you can resurrect any of them?’ A tsunami of sarcasm bubbles-up, potion-like, in my throat as I long to tell him what a nightmare he is to work for.

The scream was silent – but no less heartfelt.

Growing Problem - Wednesday

2011-10-26T22:04:00.005+01:00

Reluctant team gathered around, I pause before commencing the morning meeting then ask pointedly. ‘Has anyone seen that weed by the window?
Timing is everything, in property, comedy and sex – or so I’m told. This is unfortunate, as to a man, woman and retard they all turn and look outside just as a limp-wristed-looking lad in those huge black glasses, pauses to examine the display. The poor geek spots the movement inside the office and bolts like a startled racehorse. Our image drops a notch lower in the community.

‘Not the four-eyed fool.’ I snap ungraciously, then realise T the assistant manager is looking daggers at me through his own designer-framed windows-on-the-world.
Big-bellied loan peddler M starts to chuckle voluminously and says. ‘I don’t think you can discriminate against myopically-challenged weirdos.’ He’s right of course and I’m instantly ashamed. I’m half tempted to book myself on a re-alignment course, but realise I couldn’t stand another pseudo psychology lesson from a humourless woman in a trouser-suit.

‘I didn’t mean to offend anyone with an alternative ocular viewpoint.’ I stumble awkwardly. T clearly doesn’t think it’s funny, so I move on. ‘I meant the unpleasant growth that’s been expanding daily without anyone even noticing.’
Lettings lush B catches negotiator S’s eye and the two women look at M who is oblivious to any potential slur as he’s unwrapping a chocolate bar, that I recall as an appropriately named Marathon. Of course it’s been re-branded.

The two women are giggling like schoolgirls, T is looking towards the window with a frown, idiot trainee F is gazing into space and M is now munching in an unpleasantly graphic fashion. No wonder I can’t make my year-end bonus.

With a sigh, I stand up and beckon the group to join me. A good team will follow their leader through crisis, danger and enemy fire; this lot seem reluctant to make the pavement. Eventually we stand, an absurdly diverse group, whom fate and poor educational performance has flung together, in a semi-circle, backs to the road, staring at the object of my ire.

‘What is it?’ Asks F eventually, to a soft chorus of groans.
‘I don’t know the Latin.’ I snipe. ‘But I’m pretty sure it doesn’t belong under our windowsill.’
‘Some sort of thistle?’ Asks S with a hint of a smirk.
‘Anyone care to guess how long it’s been there?’ I say exasperated. It’s a t least a week now and I’ve had to almost physically stop myself from uprooting it every day, just to prove a point. This morning I couldn’t last any longer.

‘Not that long.’ Posits T erroneously. I point out to him it might be alien to me but it’s not a Triffid. Facile diversion about John Wyndham’s novel over as nobody has heard of it, I move on.
‘Does anyone ever actually look at the window display?’ I ask, warning-off S’s signposted quip about geeks in glasses with a deep frown in her direction. ‘It’s been growing for days. Presentation is everything.’ I say, as an inner voice nags: I thought it was timing?

It’s bad enough businesses don’t mind having bin bags piled against their boundaries - even when the local authority workers aren’t taking industrial action - but having scruffy plant-life outside reminds me of when the Big Issue seller decided to set his pitch in front of our first time buyers’ display. Pointing out I already help the homeless when I moved him on, didn’t go down too well.

I realise everyone is looking at me expectantly and office workers late for first coffee are stepping round our kerbside gathering. ‘I’m just saying it’s indicative of a lack of care, an attention to detail.’ I say wearily, all fight evaporating even before the first down-valuing surveyor collects keys.

Pulling the weed up angrily was a mistake. It was definitely a thistle – and we had no plasters or antiseptic cream in the first-aid kit. The health and safety audit removed them. A potential hazard apparently.

It hurts more than I can say.

Dutch Courage - Friday

2011-10-21T18:33:00.005+01:00

‘Who’s for the pub?’ I ask in a rare show of altruism. It’s been a good week with net sales in the plus column, a couple of contracts exchanged and three completions where the vendors’ solicitors have paid promptly. I’m feeling relatively flush. It won’t last.

Assistant manager T looks at the others. He doesn’t want to be stuck at the bar with just me. I spot his caution and he promptly agrees he’s coming, and then one-by-one the rest of the team accept. Not that there was any doubt with lettings lush B. Of course I’m buying, that is expected of the manager and sadly the days have gone where you could shove a few beers and several gin and tonics through petty cash with a dubiously obtained receipt. Bean counters will inherit the earth – and send us all an invoice.

When I first started in the industry, way back when turn-ups on suit trousers and paisley ties were deemed fashionable, the pub on a Friday night was de rigueur. It was the forum for crowing loudly about how good a week you’d had within earshot of the opposition agents, who all congregated at the same smoke-filled watering hole. The tobacco fug has gone but the stench of bullshit still hangs in the air.

‘Those bastards are in.’ Hisses T as we troop into the darkened pub, all natural light banished, cold chill of air conditioning nipping at the face, reek of stale alcohol leeching from the sticky carpet. He indicates a group of sharp-suited boys and girls in a semi-circle round the far end of the bar. It’s one of the shadier, corner-cutting outfits in town. The type of agency that promises whatever you want to hear, then tucks you in to a long sole agency before attempting to erode the price or bullying you in to taking offers way below their kite-flying asking price. A figure probably in line with the one I told you in the first place. The mutual dislike is palpable.

‘Alright?’ Demands the rival manager curtly in my direction as I stand at the bar trying to remember my teams’ drinks requests. T has loyally remained at my side. The others have migrated to a pair of tables as far away as possible. A pub brawl is so undignified and will only add to the public’s generally low opinion of the profession.

The thug in a two-piece doesn’t really want to know if I’m all right. He spends his week undercutting my fees, touting my property register and overvaluing homes I’m after. I should just ignore him - as he’s too big to punch and at least fifteen years younger than me.
‘I’m fine,’ I lie effortlessly, before adding with a little more conviction. ‘Just celebrating a cracking week.’ It’s the modern day equivalent of a glove across his smug face and needless to say he responds accordingly.

‘Yeh us too.’ He crows. ‘Having it away at the moment aren’t we guys?’ His team respond with a chorus of self-congratulatory affirmations, just a little too slowly to be convincing. Then, as I pay for the drinks and wonder if anyone will offer to buy me one back this time, in comes another pair of property people.

‘F***ing look who is in now.’ Grunts the Neanderthal to his glossy-haired crew of GCSE failures, who would never make the grade if compulsory exams and minimum standards were ever introduced to the industry. I turn to look at the objects of his derision and recognise a couple of local surveyors. They’re clearly moving in packs to ensure disgruntled buyers, sellers or agents, don’t jump them in dark alleys.

‘Good evening.’ Offers the first one to me, as his companion nods warily. Pleasingly they ignore the other group. A small triumph for standards and a veneer of professionalism, that sadly doesn’t pay the bills on a canted playing field.

There’s an awkward moment as T and I gather up the brimming glasses. Traditional etiquette demands I should offer the pair a drink. It passes rapidly when I think of how many sales the duo have sunk with scare mongering surveys, timid loan-to-value figures and countless recommendations for third-party reports.

Not sure which group I despise the most.

Diminishing Asset - Wednesday

2011-10-12T21:05:00.004+01:00

‘Got a market appraisal for you.’ Begins trainee F enthusiastically as I walk wearily through the door. I should be energised. The chance to pitch for a new instruction is the lifeblood of any estate agency office. Without stock you founder frighteningly quickly.

‘Where is it? I ask cautiously. It’s not good management to sound churlish when a team member has ferreted a lead out for you, but some homes you don’t want at any price. F has done the right thing, even down to calling the appointment a “market appraisal”, a litigation-limiting ploy brought about by lawyers, owners and lenders wanting to use sky-high figures from inexperienced agents for their own ends. I still feel my appraisals are as good as any surveyors and probably more accurate, I just don’t have the professional indemnity cover. In my head I still call them valuations though – always the rebel, even with less hair.

F reels off the address to groans from the more experienced staff members.
‘What?’ He questions sulkily, demeanour suddenly like a whipped dog. I don’t want to stifle his enthusiasm, but I don’t particularly want to risk parking my car anywhere near this block. And walking along the street in a suit with a briefcase is the equivalent of one of those scowling German types with a machine gun they hoist on pulleys at firing ranges – an easy target.

‘The lease is a bit suspect.’ I tell F soothingly, as assistant manager guffaws in the background.
‘So that’s not good then?’ Quizzes F, brow more creased than his shirt now.
‘Not if you want to find a lender who’ll advance monies on it.’ I reply.
‘Don’t bother,’ Interjects fat finance man M as he sways past. ‘The construction is dodgy and until they extend the lease to at least ninety-nine years you are talking cash buyers only.’ He pauses and bites into something chocolate-coated before adding. ‘And pretty naïve ones at that.’

Sadly M is right, outside of central London - where a different set of rules apply, so perpetuating a two-tiered property market that skews the national figures endlessly – lenders require the lease to have about fifty years still to run once the loan period ends. With a twenty-five year mortgage, that means any lease less than seventy-five years remaining starts to become harder to shift and a diminishing asset. Personally unless you have a share in the freehold, or a 999-year lease with peppercorn ground rent, I’d steer clear.

‘But that’s not fair is it?’ Persist F. If he thinks property is fair he’s still got a lot of learning to do. I explain in small syllable words how you can enfranchise if the block meets the right criteria, and force absentee freeholders to allow you to extend your lease if it hasn’t run too low. But as ever there is a cost and getting consensus in buildings where leaseholders have probably bickered over parking, communal areas and parties, is notoriously difficult.

‘Keep an eye on your car for you?’ Grunts a pre-teen in a hoodie rhetorically, as I park within sight of the grim block in question. It’s a fair bet the architect responsible for this particular concrete and steel carbuncle doesn’t live nearby. Grade Two listed rectory in the countryside, as a rule.

‘It’s fine.’ I snap back curtly.
‘Could get keyed round here.’ Persists the play school mugger, sinisterly.
‘It’s a company car.’ I tell him dismissively. Not sure if that will make a difference to the junior extortionist but apart from the paperwork and the trip to the bodyshop, I don’t really care.

‘Third floor.’ Says the tinny voice as they buzz me in and I inhale the familiar whiff of boiled vegetables and stale urine. I’m just eyeing the battered lift warily and wondering about the stairs when I spot the Out Of Order sign. Decision made.

‘Nobody mentioned the lease when we bought.’ Replies the owner tersely, as I sit, still sweating, heart rate not back to normal. They never do. He and his partner are in denial - and in arrears. They want to sell and split up. I have a feeling their attachment to this damp block will last much longer than their own.

On the up side the car was undamaged.

No Fool Like An Old Fool - Weekend

2011-10-09T14:41:00.004+01:00

I walk into the third pub of the evening and feel an initial sense of relief.
‘This is more like it.’ Announces my drinking buddy enthusiastically as he scans the clientele.

The night out, while womenfolk drink wine, eat nibbles and exchange gossip at home seemed a good idea at the time, but after two hostelries with bouncers on the door and a drinking demographic more aligned to my kids than me, I’m beginning to yearn for News At Ten and a coffee.

‘Full of hot totty.’ Continues my pal heading for the bar. He’s on his third marriage and scouting for girls who might audition for number four. Like most multiple divorcees his standards are dropping in tandem with jaw-line. The pub is full of primped, Rosemary Conley-starved, and botoxed women of a certain age - the sort who look far better from behind. The men are not bothering to make such a sartorial effort. I see, overstuffed jeans, shirts worn outside not concealing bellies as well as owners would like to think, and principles disappearing faster than wallet contents.

‘We’re being given the eye.’ Contends my companion, once we are crammed into one corner clutching our third pint in quick time. My stomach is gurgling like a drain with the unaccustomed intake as I scan the bar hoping I don’t spot a client. I’m regretting my gung-ho affirmative to this whole outing. I should have stayed upstairs watching the spare television.

‘Definitely being checked out.’ Continues the low-rent gigolo. He’s right. Initially my cynical side imagined the women were just seeing if we were gay and I adjusted my body language accordingly. Now it seems the blonde-streaked forty-something females with over-wound body clocks are looking at us in that, slightly unsettling, not remotely erotic, fashion. The way boys used to ogle girls dancing to Donna Summer, the last time I went to a disco.

‘Two heterosexual men with their own hair and limbs must be quite a draw in here.’ I whisper nervously.
‘This is brilliant.’ Replies my friend, seeming oblivious to the cost of another matrimonial and his relentless slide back down the property ladder. I won’t even get his house sale, as his third wife doesn’t like me much.

‘Why did you tell them you were in property?’ Gripes my buddy when we leave the pub and head for the curry house, my stomach whimpering in advance even before we smell the spices. Because it was a shore fire exit strategy - with the age of our sperm-suitors I was pretty sure they’d have some property horror stories to deflect their ardour.

‘F***ing estate agent.’ Cries one of the women at the mixed-gender table next to us even before I’ve ordered poppadoms. Predictably, it turns out to be a complaint rather than a suggestion and I have to sit through a raft of derisory comments about the industry, biting my tongue, indigestion bubbling. I want to go home.

‘Everything ok for you?’ Asks the waiter distractedly as another group of liquored-up louts stagger in noisily. Not really, I think, but I answer affirmatively and see in his fleeting eye contact he hates punters as much as I do.

‘Lap dancing club?’ I whine. ‘Are you mad?’
‘You need to get out more.’ Giggles my friend, eyes unfocused. I was imagining the exact opposite. Even Eastenders and a shared bag of wine gums seem attractive now.

‘I’m thinking of a taxi.’ I say weakly, to a grunt of derision. I’ve seen the look before and unlike the alcohol intake, I’m impervious to it. The thought of some seedy commercial unit where bored Eastern European women in Ann Summers underwear try to engage you in conversation doesn’t appeal - not least because even in Krakow they hate estate agents. If I need to shove high denomination notes into women’s clothing I’ll take my wife shopping.

‘You alright?’ Asks my missus as I stagger back from the lavatory early hours, dehydrated, having tossed and turned all night, curry leaking from pores I didn’t even know I possessed. I grunt an unconvincing yes.

I’ve been fretting about figures again – there’s a meeting with my bean counter boss tomorrow. And I’m likely to be the one over-exposed this time.

You Don't Bring Me - Tuesday

2011-10-04T19:39:00.006+01:00

In to the office comes a woman clutching a bouquet of flowers. She looks a bit lost, so I’m wondering if she just wants directions, but she glances at a delivery note and calls out S, my well-upholstered negotiator’s name. She’s not at her desk so I rise to meet the florist, who eyes me suspiciously.

‘You can leave them here.’ I tell the driver, indicating S’s prime position in the window - a tempter to encourage punters to come in and see what we have on offer.
‘I’ll need a signature.’ She counters defensively. Why is it people don’t trust estate agents? It’s a mystery to me…

I scrawl my initials illegibly, like I do when I sign the bailiff’s possession warrant once we have the new keys to someone’s ex-home.
‘You’ll need to print your name too.’ Huffs the bringer of over-priced pollen and hay fever. Reluctantly I give up my surname, something I’m keen to avoid more and more nowadays. At least it wasn’t a recorded delivery those tend to bring only bad news – threats of legal action mostly since we no longer have a lottery syndicate.

‘Someone’s trying to get into S’s good books.’ Posits assistant manager T with a smile, once the florist has left. That or her knickers, I think cynically. And as I didn’t send them I’m guessing the unworthy boyfriend is trying to patch-over another bust- up. She should ditch him, but then as few people listen to my advice – particularly on asking prices – I could be wrong.

‘Shall we read the card?’ Asks T raising his eyebrows back and forth like some youthful Roger Moore – admittedly a hard image to conjure.
‘You can’t do that.’ Slurs lettings lush B from her desk, before adding. ‘Can you?’

B is so close to my shoulder I can smell the heady mix of something from Giorgio Armani and Gordon’s, as I prise open the little envelope. I’m pleasantly surprised, something that doesn’t happen too often in this industry. It’s a thank-you card from one of our vendor’s who recently completed on a nightmare sale. One S nursed along with all the skill of a true carer, as surveyors, solicitors, truculent buyers and a protracted chain, all conspired to rob the sellers of a dream and us of our commission.

‘She deserves these.’ I proclaim, trying to reinsert the card and seal the envelope back down.
‘They probably want a discount on the fee.’ Suggests T with a grimace.
‘No,’ I contradict less than convincingly. ‘They just recognise good service over and above what’s expected.’
‘I never get flowers after I’ve helped someone out.’ Grumbles B, tottering back to her desk, unsuitable heels pock-marking the fake laminate again. They don’t even ring, I think, uncharitably – unless it’s the STD clinic.

The fact is a good agent often earns their fee long after the first flush of adverts, viewings and – hopefully - offers. It’s when the inevitable problems start the agent often adds real value. Something the fee-cutters can’t or won’t do. I could count on one hand the number of sales that have gone smoothly once agreed, over the years, although trying to convince owners up front of this fact when all they see is a suit and a looming bill, isn’t so easy.

‘Someone’s performed well.’ Teases T, when S comes back from lunch. She blushes a fetching crimson, something B hasn’t done for a while I’ll warrant.
‘Who’s it from?’ I ask neutrally, to a groan from B and a stifled giggle from T.
‘What?’ probes S sharply. She’s nothing if not perceptive. ‘You’ve peeked haven’t you?’ She follows up, chest heaving indignantly.

The joint chorus of denials wasn’t that convincing, on reflection, but flowers – and shoes apparently - can soften the sharpest of female intellect. S coos over the imported blooms, all thoughts of air miles and the dying planet jettisoned in favour of something exotic from Africa that doesn’t involve antibiotics.

‘Oh that’s really thoughtful.’ Says S, voice thickening with emotion.
‘You worked your socks of for that one.’ I respond, immediately regretting a phrase that suggests S disrobing. I probably need another staff sensitivities awareness course.

I still have a nice warm feeling though.

Rent Roll - Friday

2011-09-30T06:59:00.004+01:00

In to the office comes the slightly supercilious commercial agency guy. He wants to use the facilities and cadge a coffee between appointments. I’m not over keen on allowing freeloaders in the office. I’m already feeding fat mortgage man M and educating imbecile trainee F – where the schools palpably failed – so another person taking me for a ride isn’t welcome.

‘I don’t think I like him much.’ Whispers negotiator S breathily, as the shops and offices man disappears out the back. I nod in agreement and look at S in what I hope is a paternal way, and try not to reconsider who I’d let mount me.

‘He doesn’t mean it.’ I tell her, voice lowered in case he returns swiftly. I have a feeling M was in there with the paper quite recently and the air conditioning can only shift so many leaden-litres-of-air per minute. ‘They just think commercial is slightly superior to residential.’

There was a time when I aspired towards the more respected end of the property spectrum. When I toyed with becoming a chartered surveyor, until I realised the exams had a maths element and several years of study. In the past an ARICS suffix might have been a stepping stone to a partnership and some profit share, maybe even your name over the door eventually. Now the professional valuers are just number chasers like the rest of us. Spending days dodging cobwebs and litigation, writing reports so riddled with caveats that even F could put his name to them without fear of writ or retribution.

The commercial agency boys were sometimes qualified - or becoming qualified - but there was also a smattering of educational late-developers like myself, plying a trade seemingly one step removed from the public – and their antipathy. One where knowledge of square footage costs, zone A B or C, and A1 A2 or A3 categories, all helped to give an aura of respectability to your opinion.

‘Christ alive what died out back there?’ Grimaces the commercial man as he staggers back in to the office and I suppress a giggle.
‘What zone do you reckon that is?’ Chuckles assistant manager T. ‘I’m thinking Y or Z.’
‘Is it the drains?’ Asks the industrial unit specialist as he moves towards the kitchen and I wonder if I can bill him for a beverage?
‘Something is busted.’ Continues T, on good form. ‘Do you reckon we have a break clause?’

We do as it happens, as I’ve read the lease. We also have upwards only rent reviews, horrendous dilapidation liabilities and a pension fund landlord with no interest in our well being whatsoever.

‘How come he thinks he’s better than us?’ Whispers S, encroaching into my personal, prime-location Zone A retail space, to communicate. I feel unexpectedly valued as S seeks my wisdom and I resolve to give it to her.

‘People respect their opinion more, I guess.’ I tell her with a hint of regret and a hope my maths teacher is in a council-funded nursing home - in a giant nappy.
‘Pretty bad dress sense if you ask me.’ Says S with an impish grin towards the kitchen where the kettle is rolling to a boil.
‘Checked sports jackets will be back in fashion soon.’ I tell her with a wink I instantly regret. It could be construed as sexual harassment, at a push comradely communication, or in an industrial tribunal I might claim a painful stye.

‘Primary rents are holding up.’ Drones the man as he sips his free drink and holds court. ‘But secondary locations are hard to shift and don’t even talk to me about tertiary sites.’
Nobody was going to, not least because I’m the only one who knows what he’s talking about and even then I’m on the edge of my knowledge zone. Not a good place to be.

‘Pretty dull just dealing with whitewashed shops and closed down industrial estates.’ Posits S as our quasi-colleague jumps in his car outside and backs into a sign-written rivals Mini with a thump. He drives off swiftly as we all move to the window and check for damage.

My reverse premium gag went down rather well – once I’d explained it.

Constructing An Argument - Monday

2011-09-26T19:54:00.004+01:00

‘Ex-local authority place to value.’ Announces negotiator S, as I stumble through the door some half-formed plan to kill the next time-waster and dispose of their body in one of the opposition agents’ empty, over-priced properties, still buzzing round my head. It would be a while before anyone found the body…..

I look at assistant manager T suspiciously. He hasn’t bagged the appointment so there must be a reason he’s left it for my return – other than our pooled commission system and his natural lethargy. I ask where the property is and just about suppress a groan.

All homes should sell at a price, but that price isn’t always palatable to the owner. They may have paid too much in the first instance, lending practices might have changed, and supply and demand might be out of kilter again. If the construction is non-standard, what on the face of it looks a bargain can become a millstone. If nobody is prepared to lend on a property, because of a discredited building technique, or alternatively if the lease has been allowed to run so low banks and building societies won’t advance a loan, a home is more coffin than castle.

‘Aren’t those the dodgy concrete panel places?’ Asks T slyly. He knows, of course he knows. I acknowledge that the area has a mix of standard and non-standard housing. Aesthetically they are broadly similar.1950s and 1960s bland elevations, semi detached three bedrooms with no garaging and invariably brick built outhouse where the coal used to be stored and now the stolen push-bikes tend to reside. Gardens will be generous and long, from an age where land wasn’t seen just in terms of how many more units you could squeeze on it. But the original post and wire fencing meant you had to learn to love your neighbour.

‘If it’s pre-cast, or steel-framed I’m not interested.’ States fat mortgage man M dismissively.
‘Why’s that?’ Asks trainee F, not unreasonably.
‘Because if nobody will lend on a place, it’s virtually worthless.’ Sneers M.
‘There are cash buyers.’ Suggests S naively.
‘They’re no good to me.’ Grumps M. ‘Unless they want some insurance cover and the miserable bastards always have their own pet advisor.’ I’m tempted to do some tenuous link to the dog and cat insurance M is supposed to flog, but I’m running on empty.

‘You going then boss?’ Quizzes T. He rarely addresses me that way unless he wants something. I check the exact address, and then mentally run through my memory bank - one that pre-dates the computerised records but is increasingly prone to crashing. It could be one of three types, and depending on how long the owner has been there they may, or may not, be aware of what is lurking behind the Anaglypta.

‘Oh, just to let you know.’ Adds S, breasts heaving unsettlingly. ‘They have two other agents coming to value.’ I scowl at T. He definitely knew this piece of information. Sometimes potential vendors are in denial about their home, be it price, desirability or method of construction. Chances are that at least one, if not both, of my competitors won’t bother to investigate what lies in the cavities or roof space. Some ejaculate in a suit, with no experience or qualifications but an instructions target, will tell the owner whatever they want to hear just for a board and a window photo.

‘The land will still be worth something.’ Suggests T as I reluctantly gather up my briefcase and cross check the contents.
‘Yeh couldn’t they demolish it and build a new place?’ Asks F enthusiastically. Sarcastically pointing out that the occupiers of the attached semi might have something to say about that doesn’t help much. But I’m already imagining another abortive appointment and an indignant owner who might blame me for the goalposts moving, or the local authority not mentioning the possible downside when he exercised his right-to-buy option with dreams of quick profits and Caribbean sojourns.

‘The other guy never mentioned anything about the walls and stuff.’ Growls the owner-occupier suspiciously, later He clearly thinks I have some hidden angle other than the suspect incline of his flank wall.

I’ll play the waiting game again.

Let There Be Light - Tuesday

2011-09-20T19:39:00.005+01:00

I spot it immediately. As obviously jarring to me as an unsightly gap in an American’s smile. And this doesn’t need thousands of dollars in dentistry charges, plus several uncomfortable months of incisor-shifting ironmongery in your mouth just when you are at your most self-conscious. A light bulb is out in the office window display.

If you are an all too obviously imperfect perfectionist, you are cursed by such small afflictions that others - particularly my staff - don’t seem to register. I’m twitching like a strung-out junkie even before the burglar alarm has stopped ringing and I’ve scanned the post with a practised eye that spots cheques and complaints with equal alacrity. I’m half way towards the stationery cupboards when I pull up short.

‘No.’ I say to a booming, empty-spaced echo. ‘Let’s just see who notices first.’ Even as I utter the words I know it’s probably a mistake. Not just the talking out loud, but the setting myself up for an agitated morning of frustration, which will only grow out of all proportion to the simple solution of un-boxing a fresh bulb and replacing the dead one – just like I always do.

‘It’s a point of principle.’ I announce haughtily, even as that nagging internal voice reminds me that principles have sunk better men than me - much better men. By the time assistant manger T strolls in suppressing a languid yawn, I’m staring at the dark place in the window obsessively. He doesn’t notice.

‘Morning.’ Announces negotiator S breezily, as she arrives in a wash of perfume and the blouse that stops traffic on warm days. But annoyingly she doesn’t spot the yawning black hole that says to me - and surely anyone looking in the window - that we don’t care. That we are unlikely to sell their house for twenty grand more than its worth if we can’t show it in a positive light…

Big mortgage man M arrives, podgy paw clutching another sweating Greggs bag. He waddles to the kitchen with what might be a grunt of acknowledgement but could just as easily be a suppressed fart. Unless he wants space for a pre-vetted financial services advert - with more small print than a midget’s memoirs - he barely looks in the window. He’s swiftly followed by B our lettings lush. She looks wickedly hung over again and I’m guessing won’t focus on the window, or anything else, until mid-morning and three cups of coffee down.

I’m now muttering under my breath about uncaring team members, a lack of awareness, and scowling at the offending light fitting with what is bordering on malice. As if the gloomy space is some entrance to a malevolent underworld peopled by cackling surveyors clutching red-hot pitchforks, all downvaluing manically while cloven-hoofed solicitors pile endless unread files on smouldering desks and refuse to take my calls.

F the trainee - appropriately enough from hell - doesn’t lighten my darkening mood by turning up late and flustered again. I don’t believe the traffic accident story one jot as he has no sign of blood on him, other than another badly staunched shaving cut. After a lacklustre morning meeting, I begin to drop heavily ironic clues. I know sarcasm is the lowest form of wit but I’m drawn to it like a magnet to metal.

Asking for bright ideas and requesting someone illuminates me on where we could improve proves fruitless. I leave for a valuation appointment, hoping against hope someone will spot the spent spotlight and replaced the bulb before I return.

Midway through the afternoon, several appointments in, and I have the lighting equivalent of the golfing yips. I’ve found myself in the stationery cupboard at least twice. Fondling a Philips GU50 watt box obsessively, aching to just climb in between the 6 x 4 displays and sort the problem myself, but doggedly I wait.

‘We’re off then.’ Announce T and S as I sit shaking with frustration at the end of the day. Then T turns and asks. ‘Do you want me to get the lights?’ Elatedly I think he’s realised, but he just clicks off the main overhead panel and leaves.

I’m totally in the dark.

Treading Carefully - Friday

2011-09-16T06:17:00.004+01:00

Trainee F is alongside me, making neither of us comfortable. He’s here to observe, assist and learn. I’m not confident he can manage any of them. If he knocks over another vase with the tape measure and I have to cough any more compensation, the slim chance of making a profit year-end will vanish faster than a newspaper’s e-mail records.

‘What’s this one all about?’ Questions F annoyingly as I pull up outside a regulation 1930s semi-detached house. The type spec-built on farmer’s fields as towns spread inexorably pre-war, even before we let Germans in voluntarily.

It rankles he hasn’t done his homework, but then if he had he wouldn’t be working in this industry. I learned, belatedly, to put the hard yards in – and the tricky metres – but it was too little too late. I do know what we’re valuing though and I do have several comparable properties sold locally to refer to, plus a brief case full of marketing material. The only weak link is F – and the fact that the majority of other agents who’ll doubtless be valuing, will be chopping fees and inflating prices.

‘Just follow my lead.’ I whisper to F. The canine connection entirely appropriate as I look at his panting face, eager to please, but just as likely to start licking his own balls half way through the presentation – if he could. Then I spot the stickers in the porch window and my heart sinks.

No hawkers, circulars or cold callers. Warns the sign portentously, alongside a sub-text about never buying from doorstep salesman, and a warning the owners have the local police station on speed-dial. I try not to be judgemental, it’s a mistake many make, but then experience is also telling me the occupier will be a pedant of Olympian proportions. I’m pretty sure they won’t like agents too.

‘Two of you?’ Questions the owner when he eventually finishes shooting back a clattering array of bolts and deadlocks. He’s a mousy man with wire-framed spectacles and a nasally whine. Already I don’t much like him, but I want his cash, not companionship. Behind him hovers a mousy looking wife with sensible clothes but not sensible shoes. I know before he says it.

‘We have house rules here.’ I nod and glance at F who I can see is confused. He’s thinking minimum bets, membership 24 hours in advance - I’m thinking no shoes inside and beige carpet.

I bend stiffly and am rewarded with a shooting pain in the back as I struggle to unlace my Loake Oxfords. F looks at me as if I’ve gone mad, as I just pray he hasn’t got holes in his hosiery once he realises what’s required.

‘Ah I see you’re a man after my own heart.’ Chirps the owner, erroneously. I smile and in the absence of any movement from F, hiss. ‘Take your shoes off. They don’t allow outside footwear indoors.’
You need to meet any owner at his or her level, so if they want you to pad around in your underpants, you do it, if they’ll sign a sole agency.

‘Are they religious or something?’ Hisses F as we follow through into the lounge and my mind goes on to an unwelcome detour, imagining what other absurd “house rules” we might encounter. There’s the obvious, don’t kick the cat, use the toilet, shag the daughter caveats. The regular no alcohol, boyfriends, loud music and loud ties indoors rules, and in this case I’m thinking pork products might not be too welcome either. I’m hoping F doesn’t have another bag of scratchings in his jacket pocket.

‘If we do put it on the market with you,’ Drones the man even before I’ve hit him with a realistic price that he won’t think is. ‘We want any viewers properly vetted.’ I glance instinctively at F and wonder fleetingly about castration costs.
‘And they need to know they can’t come inside with their shoes on.’ Interjects the wife, as I glance at the carpet, colour as predicted.

‘They didn’t like your price much.’ Ventures F as I pull away angrily.

I won’t need the new socks, just yet.

Sweet Sorrow - Sunday

2011-09-12T21:12:00.005+01:00

‘Last minute checklist?’ Worries the wife as my son and I exchange knowing glances and I rev the car engine impatiently. She’s been packing, ironing and fussing for weeks now and the time has come to take the boy to university. She secretly doesn’t want him to go, although we both know it’s the best thing that could happen to him. More pertinently, I see enough people in their properties to recognise a burgeoning empty nest issue coming as soon as we get home and the door closes on an echoing house. I guess I’ll just have to play my music louder.

‘Did you look a his lease?’ Harries my wife after several miles of unaccustomed silence.
‘It’s all pretty standard stuff.’ I tell her with a wink to the lad. With his legs as long as a racehorse he’s now confirmed his manhood by sitting in the front, while his mother is perched amongst boxes of pre-folded clothes, enough dried ready meals to support an infantry platoon and a poignant photo-montage she’s put together of the family.

‘I reckon those university flat investments are about the only sure-fire way to make money out of the property market at the moment.’ I tell the car to a hint of a groan. The return must be giving a high single-figure yield I’d reckoned, when signing the guarantor forms and hoping, like every parent, the kid stayed the course and didn’t land you with a bill for a year’s rent when they were back in their bedroom citing a change of artistic direction.

‘Have whatever you like son.’ I tell the boy as he scans the menu contemptuously and I stare out of the steamed-up windows.
‘I haven’t been in a Little Chef since I was a child.’ Says his mother wistfully, her eyes as watery as the tea. We couldn’t find a drive-in McDonalds and we are now wedged between some burly German truckers chattering in a guttural dialect and more typical of the venue’s ageing demographic, a couple of damp-smelling pensioners, picking fastidiously at some desiccated fish-fillet combo.

It’s like a throwback to my childhood too, with the faded grease-stained décor, peeling paintwork, slightly desperate feel in the air. It could be me on the way to an early 1980’s university with my parents - only they didn’t stick together and I wasn’t clever enough to qualify - all I need is London Calling on the radio.

‘Still checking out the boards Dad?’ Chuckles my boy as we make our way into the town and I rubberneck the for sale signs from unfamiliar firms. I remember feeling this gloomy when we took his elder brother to university and he has never looked back. He’ll be ok. It’s his mother I’m worried about. I’ve never known her so quiet.

‘This is alright.’ I enthuse as we personalise his room, one with an en-suite I could only dream about at his age. It’s just as well, because the wardrobe doesn’t look robust enough to piss in. I’m seeing cheap laminated ply, possibly Ikea. I’m still jealous though, improbably imagining myself at some great seat of learning instead of flogging homes for ungrateful punters until my sales figures are no longer deemed good enough.

By the time my son and I have made several unloading trips to the car and we’ve both eyed-up the girls arriving, my wife has made his bed, hung enough clothes to last until Christmas in the chipboard commode and placed the photo frame in pride of place. A quick look in the mirror tells me the female students arriving were looking at my lad, not some improbable time-travelling punk in drainpipe jeans and brothel creepers. It’s time to go.

A gaggle of excitable new occupants are forming as we do the hugs and I hold on for just a second too long. ‘Just don’t tell them you’re an estate agent,’ jokes my son as we pass and he gets a couple of warm smiles. ‘Or you’ll ruin my credibility.’

It took until we passed the rundown Little Chef on the way home, for the tears to come.

Rushing Clocks - Thursday

2011-09-08T18:58:00.004+01:00

‘Nice valuation for you later.’ Says negotiator S as I leave my office following a challenging phone call with my bean counter boss. If you need cheering up the sight of S, with her equally challenged blouse straining to contain her enthusiasm, is as good as it gets without a harassment complaint and another industrial tribunal.

‘What have you got?’ I ask her, internal voice offering a lewd comment I have to stifle almost physically.
‘A nice lady wanting to downsize.’ Replies S enthusiastically, as another inappropriate comment rises like reflux. Deep swallow later I get back on track. S is yet to realise even the nice ones turn nasty at some stage in the transaction – at least the majority do. It might be the lack of buyers, it might be too many buyers; it could be a broken chain and broken dreams, or it may just be the size of my invoice if things go unusually smoothly.

‘Give me the details.’ I tell S warmly, pulling up a chair at her desk and trying to look her in the eye. She’s good. I’ve trained and mentored her as closely as possible - without resorting to hands on. Unlike imbecile trainee F, she has the intelligence and street-smart awareness to make a great estate agent if she just sticks with it and doesn’t get pregnant.

S reels off the basic information, the house address, accommodation, contact numbers, then takes me through the more useful stuff. The motivation, finances, time scales. I end up with a pen-picture of the potential vendor. All the nuggets a good operator will mine with a seemingly benign conversation, allowing me to have a competitive edge when I carry out the appointment.

‘I’ve already given her details of smaller homes and a couple of nice flats if she goes the buy abroad keep a base here route,’ informs S as I throb with pride at her growth and try to ignore my own. ‘You could ask her what she thinks about them when you go.’
‘Husband?’ I quiz, knowing she’ll know.
‘Yes, still alive this time.’ I go to add something but she’s ahead of me. ‘And before you ask he’s going to be back from golf in time to see you.’
Told you she was good. With both parties on hand it will be much easier to get some commitment. I just need to work out which one is the decision maker.

‘And this is my daughter’s room.’ Announces the nice lady proudly, later in the day. Fortunately I already know it’s not one of those creepy shrine bedrooms. The girl, well woman to be more accurate, has been to university and is now married and has been working in the city for several years. She’s not coming back - at least not until the divorce. I just have to get the parents moved before then.

‘I like to keep it as she left if just so she knows it’s always here.’ Says the mother wistfully. I need to offer alternatives or I’ll never winkle her out. The fading Westlife and Blue, through to All Saints and Manic Street Preachers posters on the walls, chart the daughter’s musical progression. She’s moved on, the mother hasn’t – yet.

‘I’m sure you can have a nice room for her at your new home, when you relocate.’ I venture, putting a definite on the transaction rather than a maybe. She nods unconvincingly then says with melancholy. ‘They grow up so fast, one moment they’re here and needing you and the next minute…’

I don’t want tears. And maudlin isn’t good for 2.0% sole agencies either, but although I’ve heard it a thousand times before, this time she’s struck a chord with my second son about to join his sibling at university.

‘Do you have children?’ She asks pointedly, breaking my darkening mood. I’ve pretended to have cats, dogs, fish and an interest in sports and hobbies I’ve never heard of in the past, but this time I don’t have to lie.

‘Did you get it?’ Asks S when I return to the office. I wave the agency agreement with less vigour than normal.

I’ll miss him when he’s gone.

Ticket To Ride - Monday

2011-09-05T18:54:00.003+01:00

There was a time in a long-distant past when hope briefly overcame reality, when I aspired to be something more than a house-flogger. A childhood fantasy about flying a plane – maybe to find where my father had got to – flickered for a while, until my remedial-level maths ability made it clear that calculating fuel loads and navigating complicated sectors might be a little tricky when you ran out of fingers.

I have an accomplished looking brief case though. One I bought for more money than I could afford at the time, in the hope the sturdy Samsonite casing and discreet branding might just afford me some professional respect. One that if you didn’t look too hard at the leaflets, touting letters and sole agency contracts when I opened it, might just – to those with poor eyesight – fool a casual observer in to thinking this guy could handle an Airbus, not a No.7 bus.

‘Just off on that valuation.’ I tell assistant manager T. Idiot trainee F looks hopefully towards me, like some simple Labrador wanting exercise and possibly a shit in the park, but I shake my head. Too messy to take him on this appointment, I’m up against at least two other agents and the slightest slip-up might cost me the business. A borderline imbecile knocking over another vase, or treading on the cats tail again isn’t going to tilt the odds my way.

‘Next time.’ I tell F disingenuously. He may be stupid but even he doesn’t swallow that one.
‘You cross-checked?’ Asks T with a hint of mockery in his voice. I made the mistake of confiding my aircrew dream to him after a good week and too many celebratory beers. Now it’s a standing joke involving weak references to final approaches, barrel rolls and duty-free-drink trolleys.

I humour him and more importantly prepare myself, as I ping open the now slightly war-worn case – the initials on the top were a mistake – and make sure I have everything I might possibly need to secure the business. Agency forms, business cards, camera, spare battery and memory cards, steel tape measure to augment the garden-length fibre reel-to-reel one I keep in the car - even that laser measure I never got used to and still don’t trust.

‘Spare pens?’ Asks T grinning. I nod. ‘Comparable sales evidence?’ Affirmative. ‘Right Move data?’ Again I confirm with the gravitas of an experienced captain ready to select maximum thrust and take to the air.
‘You’d better shift your car quick.’ Announces a breathless M, the rotund mortgage man, as he puffs through the door. ‘Traffic warden is on the prowl.’ Fantasy shattered I leave in a hurry.

He’s across the road as I limp towards my car. On refection the bad back wouldn’t take too kindly to ten hours sat on a flight deck, so it’s just as well I’ve a patch a few square miles wide and a mid-range motor to navigate. The warden sees me and quickens his pace. It’s like some surreal Mexican standoff as I rush towards my vehicle - one that’s overstayed for at least ten minutes - and he tries to make the killing zone before me.

‘Just moving it.’ I wheeze in empty triumph as I click the key fob and the hazard lights flash in acknowledgement of my shallow victory.
‘You lot are chancing your arm.’ Growls the charmless man as he squints at his hand-held ticket disgorger, then checks my registration number against a pad with arrival times on it.
‘Surprised you don’t know our numbers by heart.’ I snipe, firing the engine and inching forward to prevent any doubt, window down.

‘I’m just doing my job.’ Retorts the fascist, as I suppress a reply involving Nuremberg trials and a final solution to parking problems.
‘So am I,’ I eventually spew, lamely. ‘But if the council had their way there’s be no businesses left in town.’
‘Just shift it.’ Instructs the man curtly, customer services clearly not high on his agenda.

The valuation is a waste of time, another idiot in denial - wanting to fly a kite on price.

I’m predicting a bumpy landing.

Window On The World - Thursday

2011-09-01T22:21:00.003+01:00

As I approach, suppressing an audible curse, I see someone has smeared takeaway leftovers on the office window again. I’ve avoided the few winos awake in the park asking for alms and it’s too early for the persistent Big Issue seller, but there are still a few people around to see my anger.

‘That doesn’t look too tasty.’ Joshes a familiar voice and I turn to see the hobbling banker. His other hip needs doing now and although I don’t need to hear any more sob stories about how the industry has changed and he’s expected to be just a “common salesman”, it does cheer me briefly when I see he’s worn even worse than I have.

‘It’s disgusting.’ I reply shaking my head.
‘The pizza or the prices?’ He rejoins with a reedy chuckle. I give him a wan smile, it’s the sort of cheesy gag I’d have employed if the roles were reversed, but for the moment I’ve seen enough mozzarella – and enough mortgage floggers.

‘What people forget,’ I bite predictably, rubbing a cautious finger on the congealed smear. ‘Is we are employed to get the best possible price.’
‘Yeh,’ he concedes with a twinkle in his eye. ‘But there are some things that just can’t be swallowed.’ And he points to the over-priced apartment that’s been in my window longer than the dead wasp the cleaner keeps missing.

‘You know that block has a dodgy lease.’ He teases, leaning towards me then wincing pleasingly as something in his pelvic area grates, bone-on-bone.
‘I didn’t hear too many objections when your lot were advancing five times salary on the place a few years ago.’ I return tartly.
‘Head office, not me.’ Says the banker. ‘I always knew it would end in tears but I had targets to hit, payment protection to sell – my own mortgage to pay.’

‘You going to wash that off yourself?’ He continues, almost joyfully. I look at the hardened mix of dough and topping. It will take hot water and some elbow grease and the window cleaner only comes once a fortnight since my bean counter boss embarked on another round of myopic cost cutting, with little understanding of the front line consequences.

I tell him about our paucity of ancillary service providers. The useless contract cleaners, the cancelled milkman who couldn’t provide a monthly invoice and wanted petty cash we were no longer allowed to spend, the odd job man who used to fix minor carpentry and electrical problems. All axed, as they didn’t conform to either health and safety absurdity or head office accounting procedures.

‘We’re the same.’ He sympathises. ‘I answer to some women fifteen years younger than me with a degree and a sense of entitlement. She knows naff all about maintaining local business relationships but everything about escalating sale targets and PowerPoint presentations.’

‘Hopefully she’ll get pregnant and leave for a while.’ I suggest, starting to tire of the conversation.
‘She tends to do her screwing in the office.’ Replies the banker sourly, before looking at his watch nodding a goodbye and hobbling off, just as negotiator S crosses the road looking devastatingly alluring.

‘Morning.’ I say throatily, the thought of someone screwing in the office rebounding round my head unhelpfully. She returns my greeting then her pretty features frown as she sees the window.
‘Oh not again. What’s with these people?’
‘They don’t seem to like estate agents.’ I reply with a wry chuckle, thinking present company excepted. She’s had two bouquets of flowers and a box of chocolates delivered already this month – none of which were from me.

‘I just don’t get it.’ Says S with a shake of her head. ‘We do our best to help people and they don’t appreciate us.’ Some do, I think, as I stoop to unlock the door and my own muscular pain shoots down one leg.

‘Do you want me to get some hot water and rub it away?’ Asks S. Momentary internal confusion banished just before I make a fool of myself, I take the washing-up bowl outside and start to clean up someone else’s mess.

Pretty typical day then.

Colour Blind - Bank Holiday Monday

2011-08-29T17:18:00.005+01:00

As we drive towards the dreaded Ikea building I feel the sort of rising panic those with irrational phobias experience. There won’t be snakes or spiders as far as I’m aware but already I’m coming out in an unlikely cold sweat, as my wife tells me to stop being absurd.

Despite her words of admonishment I still remember my first trip to the soulless blue building. The disorientation of the vast hanger made me realise my envy of the commercial agent boys who don’t have to deal with the public direct, would stay a misplaced one.

‘You’re just being ridiculous.’ She chides, as with the looming approach of the architectural carbuncle - one Prince Charles must dislike as much as me - I continue clocking other agents boards and wondering how overpriced the homes are, and how long they’ve been on the market?

‘I just don’t see the point. Where’s the enjoyment?’ I ask as she pulls into the car park and I wish I’d volunteered for weekend cover in the office - or at least driven myself and become conveniently lost. Something I’m contemplating still, once we’re inside the retail labyrinth.

‘The point is, it’s fun.’ Says my wife curtly as she takes a barrier ticket and I prepare for further pain while she tries to park vaguely parallel to a marked bay.
‘Only if you’re a masochist.’ I gripe. ‘If I wanted a migraine and to get hopelessly confused, I’d visit a maze.’
‘It’s great value.’ Perseveres my spouse pointlessly. So is Poundland I think miserably and I won’t be going there again either. Petulantly, I traipse after her towards the entrance wherever it is.

A friend of mine’s elderly parents supposedly visited an Ikea multi-storey excretion somewhere on the south coast. After parking they became so disorientated on the vast lift and escalator warren that they couldn’t even find the way in. Wisely they went home without getting as far as the entrance and had John Lewis deliver.

Being a wage slave I’m fully aware of corporate branding - I have the marks to prove it - but surely Ikea should paint their units pink, not blue, as it’s such a girl-thing? I’m wondering why the Property Mis-Description Act doesn’t apply here. And I still don’t understand the truncated trolleys with the yellow bags, you have to awkwardly attach, and are not allowed to take to the car park with you at the end – assuming you’ve found the checkout and not run screaming from the nearest fire exit. I mean any shop where they have to put arrows on the floor to force you along like animals in an abattoir, should look again at the experience.

‘Hello mate.’ Calls a male voice as my head throbs and I stagger dizzily inside a web of mocked up bedrooms with labels in Swedish I can’t fathom. For a moment I think it’s some sleazy salesman trying to flog me a new kitchen, until I remember MFI went bust – possibly for not listening to what customers wanted. I look at the man awkwardly trying to remember if he’s a vendor – unlikely as he called me mate – a purchaser, or one of a myriad of other trades I mix with in the property business. Then it clicks. He’s a rival estate agent.

‘I’d rather be at the office than here.’ He confides, as I think he looks a lot more human in jeans and a t-shirt than the suit I usually spot him in, when he’s exiting a valuation I’m doing too. As his hyperactive son collects dwarf pencils that look sharply effective for stabbing Scandinavian marketing men with, I find common ground with someone I’d happily run over on a weekday - if it weren’t for all the surveillance cameras.

‘I only come for the meatballs.’ Continues the rival, before leaning in and nodding towards his attractive wife adding: ‘And the gratitude shag later.’

The dining hall reminded me of school dinners, and the Zimmer frame food-tray-trolleys, of sheltered retirement homes. I over-ordered on the meatballs and overspent at the checkout.

I’m not sure how grateful my wife was in the end, as the headache grew until I became queasy and went to bed early with reflux and some Rennie.

Cleaner Economy - Friday

2011-08-26T20:20:00.004+01:00

First in to the office, I silence the alarm, turn on the main lights then fire up my screen. The silence, once the alarm has finished chiming is all encompassing. The calm before the phones jangle, chains start to break, buyers and sellers change their minds and the bean counter boss calls to grumble about the figures.

After checking the diary and moaning out loud like some pissy pensioner complaining that the country has changed, I move towards the kitchen. The sink is awash with a scummy brown pool of unwashed mugs in a grubby bowl. Since the bean counter axed our old, reliable cleaning lady, because she didn’t have a VAT number and professional indemnity, we have relied on the cheapest contract-cleaning firm he could source. False economy.

‘I mean look at this mess.’ I grizzle to the ceiling, noticing one of the tubes is out and another flickering on and off ominously. ‘I thought I’d done with training kids how to behave.’ My angry words echo back at me and I make another mental note to try and stop talking out loud, as I sluice the grimy water away and fill the kettle.

Of course the old duck who used to come in every night, clean fastidiously and even change the - now banned by health and safety zealots - tea towels, was far better than the harassed expired-visa-dodgers who come very other day with an impossible schedule to adhere to. If we’re lucky the bins are emptied, desks given a cursory flick and the fake laminate floor, out front, washed once a week. The cups and mugs sport the sport the sort of ingrained stains you see on porcelain bog pans that haven’t seen bleach for a couple of decades.

Then I spot the warning light flickering on the colour printer and the out loud stuff returns, with a choice expletive that is still ringing round the office gutturally when the front door opens.

‘Morning boss.’ Offers imbecilic trainee F as he stumbles in dishevelled and surprisingly first.
‘How long has this service light been on?’ I growl ungraciously as the kettle rumbles to a boil behind me. I might as well be asking if he can explain that particle accelerator in Switzerland. True to form he peers at the machine as if for the first time, then shrugs. And now my particles are accelerating and in danger of colliding explosively.

‘Surely someone has noticed we need an engineer?’ I ask, in what turns out to be a rhetorical question. Ten minutes and several denials later I’m holding for the remote call centre, blood boiling - tea cooling.

We need the printer. Despite the fact we can now e-mail property particulars and spend less on franking machine bills, the public still come in to the office and like to see physical details, something more tangible than an electronic alert. I’m guessing the backup of photocopies in each property file is down to a few sheets at best, as one of the bean counter’s economy drives was to hold fewer sets in stock as you can run extra copies any time. False economy.

As I listen to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons - a piece I used to like - I start opening post, handset in the crick of my neck, headache building. If my call is so f***ing important to you, I rage internally, pick up the line, just pick it up!

‘Do we have any toner?’ Asks lettings lush B, to groans all round. ‘What?’ She parries. ‘The printer isn’t working.’ Negotiator S has a word in sotto voice and B shoots me a derisory look, just as I spot the contract-cleaners’ bill and realise for the umpteenth time the old woman with a duster and some pride in the job, was much better value.

The heavily accented man only serves to annoy me when he starts reciting a clumsy script, which includes asking how my day is going? Not sure if you can recognise sarcasm in a second language. Twenty-four hours for an engineer to show up is laughable – unless they really are coming from Mumbai.

Then the bean counter rings. My day was downhill from there.

Bad Medicine - Tuesday

2011-08-23T19:13:00.005+01:00

On the way back from an abortive appointment I take a spin round the office patch. A good agent likes to know what’s happening in his area. Other agents’ boards, planning applications, new build starts, who is getting the repossessions, etc. Knowledge is power – something I wish I’d realised at school.

I drive up a familiar road and curse as I see a removal van on a home I didn’t even know was on the market. It might be a rental changeover but I doubt it, certainly B our drunken tart of a lettings lady wouldn’t be able to enlighten me. Not unless the outgoing tenant is a pub landlord who isn’t too fussy on whom he serves - or services.

Then I spot a for sale board on a familiar property.
‘Tosser.’ I tell nobody in particular as I slow outside the house, although having forgotten the car window is down the scruffy bloke walking his dog gives me a filthy look. I nod in his direction, he scowls and the Alsatian growls, both possibly recognising an estate agent?

‘They just don’t listen.’ I tell the sun visor, once the walker has moved on. The house with a rival’s board - not a particularly good rival as it happens, but that’s a given – is plainly vacant again, curtains pulled back, lounge visibly empty. I valued it nearly two years ago, third agent in.

I remember the conversation well, the rejections always featuring more vividly in my memory than the triumphs. The owners had been on the market at the wrong price with the wrong agent for some time. I dispensed some fairly clinical price advice that they refused to swallow and they decided to rent instead. Not with B though. The only clinical contact she might have given the husband, would probably involve penicillin and some awkward explanations to the wife.

Every six months since, tenants have moved out having discovered how noisy the road is – something I factored in to my valuation and some other agents clearly didn’t – and the house comes back on to the market, still at the wrong price, still with the wrong agent. After a while more tenants are found and the cycle begins again as the owners who won’t accept reality perpetually chase the market down, just enough out of synch to secure a sale. I’ve little sympathy.

‘See that twat is back on the market in London road.’ Announces assistant manager T as I return to the office and notice no phone lines are lit. I’m not surprised BT are not engaged but I am rather taken aback that T has actually noticed something other than fashion and females.
‘I spotted it.’ I tell him flatly. ‘They just don’t seem to want to get real.’
‘Some people are in denial.’ Says T, just as fat mortgage man M waddles through the door clutching a bakers bag, tenderly. T and I just look at each other conspiratorially.

‘What?’ Quizzes M defensively. Pastry goods pulled even closer to his man boobs.
‘Nothing.’ I answer swiftly. There must be some sort of bloater discrimination legislation in the pipeline to swallow. I just haven’t read the memo yet.
‘We were just talking about that house on London road.’ Says T helpfully. ‘Back on the market, still at the wrong price.’
‘Some people just can’t see the blindingly obvious.’ Scoffs M before swaying to the kitchen.
‘You should ring the owner.’ Continues T. ‘See if they’ll use us this time.’
It’s what I should be saying to him and now I’m on the spot. If you don’t lead by example, don’t do what you say, you end up looking a shallow twat like my bean counter boss – only without the mathematical ability and expense account.

‘Yes I remember you.’ Confirms the owner when I ring and do the intro. I give him a bit of spiel about the market and realistically priced homes still selling, as they always do.
‘I’ll stop you there.’ Interjects the idiot. ‘There’s no way I’m giving it away, no matter how many trashy tenants damage the décor.’ He pauses then adds. ‘And your fees are way too high.’

I’ll keep watching and waiting.

Dotting And Crossing - Thursday

2011-08-18T19:02:00.005+01:00

‘Alright mate?’ Asks a familiar voice as I clamber wearily from my car, sleep still itchy in my eyes. Mate, is an over-used term in my industry. Odious little shiny-suited competitors use it when they bump in to you on the way out of valuations, or in the high street. The last thing I am is their mate. They are trying to put me out of business and I’m intent on reciprocating. This time it’s my short-of-stature, big of ego, rival manager H.

‘I’m good.’ I lie, in the standard knee-jerk response. I only just stop short of crowing. ‘We’re having it away.’ H looks at m disdainfully, he sees the weekly stats, but I’m not about to tell him I’m yearning for the chance to do something different, to rebel just once more before my vinyl Clash LPs are too brittle to play – to punch him in his supercilious little face and walk away.

‘Not doing too well in the league tables.’ He snipes as we walk across the hotel car park. He’s as predictable as sunrise. Yet it still irks when he brags about his office figures. I should repeat the mantra that he has a better town to work in, more employment and a superior housing stock – not to mention fewer competitors with the planning rules restricting A2 use and other agents opening. But I’d be casting on barren ground.

‘This looks like a real treat.’ I say sarcastically, waving the agenda for our management meeting as we approach the revolving doors and I ponder the likelihood of an industrial accident involving a pompous dwarf crushed between spinning glass – with just a slight trip.

‘I’m only here for the cooked breakfast.’ Chortles H, before pausing and signalling his next line. ‘Oh and the performance award cup.’
‘Looks like it came from one of those cheap engraving shops.’ I mock half-heartedly. I covet the shitty little plastic and tin trinket, despite every fibre of my being screaming it’s as hollow as the metal it’s made from.

‘Ah, but it’s symbolic,’ continues H as he navigates the twirling entrance successfully, despite his clunky shoe lifts. ‘You’d love to have your office name engraved on there come the end of the year.’ I’d rather have the cheap champagne as it happens, at least that’s what I tell myself.

We pause at reception and ask the sullen-looking eastern European girl where our breakfast meeting is being held this time. If they hate it so much why not stay in Sofia? She grunts something guttural and points a long painted fingernail to a peg- board with our company name miss-spelt, and the location alongside.

‘I could murder a full English.’ Says H as we clamber up the stairs. I could just murder, I ponder gloomily as I think of the next two hours and churlishly take two steps at a time. I achieve an appropriately small victory by making the landing as a winner. It’s all downhill from there.

‘And now I’d like to hand over to our Human Resources Director.’ Announces my bean counter boss, as I feel the bacon sandwich starting to repeat uncomfortably. This woman is everything that’s wrong about industry, I think angrily, as I wonder how much business I’ve lost while looking at another childish PowerPoint presentation and a set of stats I already know better than my wife

Rumour has it the HR leader is a lesbian. But then salespeople can be malicious – and inventive on quiet days. Whatever she does in her spare time is irrelevant, it’s how she impacts on people striving to make a profit and stay employed that hurts. I’m all for industrial conditions improving as I’m as keen as the next man not to lose a limb to a scythe machine or an unguarded lathe, but I’d rather not waste any more time on money laundering regulations, sexual equality retraining and correct postural position at the work station.

‘She hates men.’ Posits H as we make it back to our cars, arms laden with more handouts for the bin.
‘They don’t generate any income, just paperwork.’ I say.
‘She should work in your office then.’

Murder. A very small murder….

No Comment - Monday

2011-08-15T18:41:00.005+01:00

‘A few messages for you.’ Informs negotiator S as I walk in the door. If anyone had to be the bearer of bad tidings it would be her – it’s why she’s so good at telling vendors their sale has fallen through while keeping the instruction.

I try to remain upbeat. It might be someone ringing back to put their home on our books. It might be an offer - on property, mortgage or for another job. Chances aren’t stacked in my favour though, with market, lending policy and alternative employers all heading the wrong way.

‘Anything interesting?’ I ask even before I’ve opened the message book and read the details myself. S reels off the minutia of property transactions; boards fallen over, chains breaking, buyers stalling, owners hyper-ventilating, then adds cheerily. ‘Oh and a reporter from the local paper rang you.’
‘What did he want?’ I snap.
‘She actually.’ Retorts S indignantly. I should have guessed, you only need to look at the names rolling across the credits after a television programme or on magazine articles to realise most of the players don’t have willies any more.

‘What did she want?’ I ask contritely. Be nice to people on the way up – or when stalled at the roadside – and they might not sack you on the way down.
‘Wanted to know what the market is doing.’ States S with a sheepish smile.
‘Don’t we all.’ I bat back emptily. I know whatever I say isn’t going to change any angle the hack is already working on. If the article is going to sit alongside a developer’s new site launch it will need to be upbeat, irrespective of reality. If the word-jockey wants to trash capitalism, the market place and bemoan her inability to buy a starter home, she’ll just need a willing dupe to misquote.

‘She’s left her mobile number.’ Informs S. ‘Needs to speak to someone before close of business.’ Of course she does. She’ll have a deadline to meet and will keep ringing agents until she gets someone, anyone, who’ll have their name appended to a paraphrasing they won’t recognise. I swear they’d list our Albanian cleaner if they could understand her – or get her to pick up the phone. On second thoughts she hasn’t shifted the unit to dust under it once, so slim chance of lifting the handset.

‘Why don’t you like journalists?’ Asks S as I scowl at the number and hesitate. It’s a good question. They are right down in the public-opprobrium-gutter alongside agents and politicians, but as I’m a failed writer and can’t master my expenses’ fiddles, neither gets my vote.

‘They publish absurd surveys just to shift copy.’ I grumble. ‘They contradict each earlier one and just make the public confused. It’s not helpful.’
‘I just feel used by them.’ Interjects B from her lettings desk. I’d forgotten she was there, head behind her monitor, quietly shaking off last night’s hangover. Not sure why B is restricting herself to just reporters. The word is she’s being screwed by anyone and everyone.

I still harbour resentment towards the local rag, as before the Internet property portals took-off they routinely shafted me – and on reflection B – with exorbitant, monopoly-style advertising charges. There was nowhere else to go to promote our properties and they new it and took full advantage. All I had in return was a big accounts debit each month and a cheap bottle of port at Christmas. Now the sales department chase me for business. Of course the reporters consider themselves superior to the marketing representatives. People like me.

‘Are you going to ring that woman?’ Asks S as the clock approaches closing time. I’ve been toying with it. The lure of seeing your name in print, even wildly misquoted, is something I’m sure the scribblers’ major on. But I just know I’ll be disappointed, or worse still buy a copy on property day to find I’ve been edited out and that twat with the shiny suit and a sign-written Mini is in there again. Crowing. And lying.

I opt not to call. No point in having cross words.

Instead I try the Sudoku.

Fault Finding - Wednesday

2011-08-10T19:56:00.004+01:00

‘My sale is going to fall-through.’ Sighs trainee F, face crumpled, tears a blink away. Entrusting a transaction to F was a leap of faith that his ability really didn’t warrant. But sometimes you have to just give them their head - even if it’s empty.

‘Why do you say that?’ I ask, preparing to re-appropriate the file and use all my guile and experience to save a fee.
‘Bloody surveyor says it’s falling down.’ Sulks F, defeat in his face, several page report in his hand. The buyers have sent him a copy in the vain hope he’ll understand it more than they can. Waste of a stamp.

I walk across and take the survey/valuation and begin to skip read the familiar weasel words and phrases.
‘They always say anything over ten years old and out of NHBC warranty is dropping to bits.’ I tell F soothingly as I continue to take in the requests for specialist reports, the dire warning of danger to the buildings structure and any inhabitants, and the massive retention on the proposed loan, added at the end of the report.

‘What does it mean? Quizzes F pitifully.
It means the surveyor is afraid of his own shadow, has been sued several times, is under orders from his line-management not to do or say anything that might increase the already sky-high professional indemnity charges. It means F’s opening line was probably right. The sale is going to fall through. But then I like a challenge.

‘This is the difference between a good agent and a useless one.’ I tell F, immediately regretting the phrase as I look at his empty expression.
‘How do you mean?’ He eventually asks hesitantly. And I tell him that this is often where the experienced practitioner has the edge, where false promises about prices, marketing and cheap fees from the edgier operators, are long forgotten.

‘So what are wall-ties? Asks F as I take him through the defects step-by-step. He probably thinks it’s Banksy-style gaudy neckwear graffiti on an end-terrace flank. But I tell him, in words of small syllables, about the butterfly-type metal inserts that hold inner and outer cavity together and stop the two parting company, or at least bowing. The older Victorian ones are prone to rust. Telltale signs of cracking to the mortar and brickwork and deflection in the walls, point towards the problem.

‘It’s fixable,’ I tell F. ‘we just need a builder to pop a fibre-optic probe into the cavity and give a quote. They just drill and put new ties in alongside the old ones. You can see the holes where it’s been done before.’
‘Like cavity wall insulation?’ Questions F surprisingly. Maybe he does take some of this in.

‘The damp proof course has failed.’ Says F morosely, finger jabbing at the paperwork as I make a mental note of the surveyors name and add it to my fantasy hit list. All Victorian property is prone to some moisture issues. The slate damp-proof courses they used tend to crack with age and are often bridged by the ground level being raised over the years, with borders and paving slabs allowing a capillary action to work its way up the building.

‘They can inject a new silicone based damp proof course, or cut in to the mortar and add a bitumen one.’ I tell F, a hint of smugness just below the surface – or at least two brick courses away.
‘So it’s solvable?’ He asks, hope flickering briefly.

It could be. If the buyer isn’t so spooked they cut and run - and if the sellers aren’t in denial over the defects and refuse to countenance a reduction, or doing the work themselves. If the surveyor is prepared to talk them through the process, then lift the retention following the works and a further inspection. If the lawyer doesn’t tell them to look for something else and the rest of the chain don’t become tired of waiting. It could be.

‘That’s nonsense.’ Rails the owner when I tell her the news. ‘The house has stood for over a hundred years - there’s nothing wrong with it.’

Denial then.

Cut To The Quick - Friday

2011-08-05T18:25:00.004+01:00

I stomp to the back of the office and check the diary for the tenth time today. I see the gap I’ve been mentally allocating to the task, and then with the fastidiousness of a pedant calculate how long I’ll need for the deed. I factor in possible delays and the projected time-span before I’ll need to repeat the process ahead of any holidays, or meetings - and make my decision.

‘I’m off to get my hair cut.’
‘Tell them not to take to much off the top.’ Chuckles fat mortgage man M whose head is hirsute with follicles, growing as expansively as his belly.
‘Go for something different.’ Suggests lettings lush B with a disdainful look. I’m glad I’m not her type of man - I do the excessive drinking away from the office and the casual sex only when my wife is half asleep.

‘I think it looks nice as it is.’ Offers negotiator S to groans all round and a catcall from M.
‘There’s no pay rises this year.’ Laughs assistant manager T, teasing S as she blushes an attractive dewy pink.
‘Have a number one all over.’ Says trainee F. ‘Like Ross Kemp.’

Ross Kemp? I think angrily, as I weave through the shoppers and head for the traditional barber, complete with red and white pole. I was thinking at least a Bruce Willis - someone with a bit of a sparkle in his eye and a sense of humour. A mature sex symbol that leads from the front, shoots from the hip and looks good in a vest. Okay, not the vest bit, I think on reflection - in the window of Boots the chemist.

I won’t have anything too radical. Years of selling leave you conservative in dress sense. I’ve spurned early eighties desires for just one earring. Shied away from excessively narrow and excessively wide ties and most definitely avoided showy shoes and visible tattoos. I can’t do anything about the lines etched by stress and the thinning grey bleached by the public, but you can play the neutral appearance card.

‘Blimey,’ jokes the barber as he sees me enter. ‘You lot hunting in packs now?’ He has an impressive memory for faces and names, something he’s cultivated to enhance his business but I have asked him not to out me in public. As I look along the bench of waiting punters and work out how I can avoid the trainee cutter who never gets the back bit right, I realise what the scissor-wielder is referring to. Sat smugly by the water cooler is a rival agent.

With an internal groan I force an old guy to shove up and grab the redtop tabloid I’m not allowed to read at home. I’m hoping the moment will pass. I dislike my rival more than most other agents. He’s younger- something the mirror will shortly illuminate with disconcerting detail - and always undercuts me on fee. I’d have thought he’s be in one of the showier dual-gender salons in town, where you get a hot drink and a hot girl brushing you shoulder with her tits, for the price mark-up.

‘How’s the market gents?’ Asks the barber as he razors his clients neck menacingly. The room falls silent as every waiting punter drops their paper, in a swishing domino effect. ‘They’re estate agents.’ Confirms the traitorous snipper forgetting what I told him last time. The theatrical groans quickly fade and I’m left with the clack of blades, the soft hum of clippers and an expectant pause. They all hate us but they all want to know.

‘Well we’re having it away.’ Crows my rival. He’s clearly lying, no agent ever tells the truth when a competitor is there. ‘Can’t get enough to sell.’ He continues to murmurs of disapproval from those struggling to save a deposit, and lustful bank-balance calculations for those already on the ladder.

‘Sorry.’ Whispers the barber when I make the seat. ‘Forgot you like to stay incognito. It’s just they all love to talk property.’ I mutter a platitude, thinking it can’t get any worse until he asks. ‘Would you like your eyebrows done?’

It’s the beginning of the end.

New Programme - Tuesday

2011-08-02T19:48:00.005+01:00

‘Why is the system down again?’ Asks trainee F vapidly. I look at him with a mixture of pity and contempt. The pity is for myself, the other emotion entirely for him – but then I did employ the fool in a moment of weakness, so perhaps it’s the other way round?

‘I don’t get it.’ Continues F giving the blank screen an equally empty thousand-yard stare. Yes, I figure I have to shoulder some of the blame – post formal education – for F’s ineptitude. I should have re-advertised after the parade of GCSE failures, ex-cons and reluctant applicants dragged in by their mothers, with hastily assembled CVs they clearly didn’t write. I’m thinking of publishing some of the Curriculum Vitae’s I’ve received over the years as the lost works of the Brothers Grimm.

‘Have you tried switching it on and off again?’ Asks assistant manager T as he raises his eyebrows towards me, then attempts to fire up his own screen to no avail. Terrific, now not only will we be having to write everything by hand for the next few hours, something else F has failed to master, but I’ll have to put a call in to those call centre drones who field the IT providers complaints.

‘No it’s definitely knackered.’ Confirms T after pulling the power supply and trying again several times.
‘Problem?’ Asks letting lush B as she comes in late again. T points towards his screen and tells her the news. She shakes her head and slumps in her chair and mutters something about needing a drink. I’m hoping coffee but with her it’s hard to tell, even before 9.00am.

‘I’ve got landlords to speak to, the rent run didn’t go properly yesterday,’ grumbles B, seemingly close to tears. ‘And I need to do three credit checks before lunch time or some spotty students are going to be sleeping on a bench tonight.’

‘Never had this problem in your day eh?’ Suggests T with a grin. Of course I bite.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well,’ continues T, winking at negotiator S slyly. ‘You could just turn a handle and crank our some black and white details - or even use a feather.’

‘We had computers when I started.’ I rail. ‘They just weren’t so…so.. complex.’
‘Yeh right.’ Continues T merrily. ‘Like a binary thing, with an ink pad and stamp.’
‘There was nothing wrong with a Commodore 64.’ I tell him, hoping for a laugh. But they all look blankly at me. Apart from B who is returning with a mug of something I hope doesn’t include brandy. I feel old.

I can’t master a laser tape measure. The floor plan programme leaves me flummoxed, and the formulas on the Excel spreadsheets my bean counter boss sends me might as well be in Swahili for the grasp I have of them. And as for uploading details on to our various Internet portals, I should just train pigeons and send it that way.

We’re monitored 24/7 via the all-seeing mainframe. Our viewings, financial services, sales and lettings all collated and processed by out digital master – at least until it breaks down. The brief hiatus, while you wait for a techno-geek with acne and attitude to arrive, is almost tranquil. Where you can rely on the postman to see how other offices are doing and who is pulling out of a purchase. Old school.

‘He looks like he might be missing assembly.’ I snipe to T as the boy with a scaled-down toolkit exposes the inside of our router – at least I think it’s a router. It has lots of coloured lights on the outside and it looks scarily complex on the inside, with the sort or wiring loom you see when the BT man opens one of those green roadside cabinets while his mates make tea in the van.

‘You’re re-booted.’ The rapidly dividing cell tells me, handing me a form to sign. I give him a limp joke about signalling and being relieved I wouldn’t need to brush off my flag collection.

Turns out, semaphore is now a data type proving simple abstraction for controlling access by multiple processes to a common resource in a parallel programming environment.

Old school.

Report Findings - Friday

2011-07-29T18:01:00.005+01:00

Assistant manager T drifts in to the office with a minute to spare. It doesn’t seem to occur to him I’ve been in nearly twenty minutes, sorting post, checking e-mails, planning the day and preparing the morning meeting.

‘You’ve got a personally addressed letter.’ I tell him handing over a buff, hand-delivered, envelope. T screws up his face, then shrugs and says.
‘What could this be?’

Sarcasm is supposedly the lowest form of wit, in which case I’m a jovial limbo dancer.
‘Ok, I will open it.’ He snaps back. My caustic retort echoing round the staff-less office, and sounding rather less rib tickling spewed into the air.

With an almost syncopated flurry S my negotiator, F the hapless trainee and B our loose-letting-lady spill through the door breathlessly. I have to bite down on a mordent comment as my last one is still rolling round the ceiling tiles charmlessly.

While the trio divest coats, bags and sandwiches I look at my scribbled notes on the day’s activities and scan the offer sheet in the vain hope a few more bids have materialised. As the kettle rolls to a boil in the background I’m vaguely aware of T opening his correspondence and slowly reading.

Just as the clock moves to ten minutes late, the door opens again and man mountain M our mirthless mortgage man waddles in to the office, bag of something hot and greasy in his podgy paw. He grunts a curt ‘morning’ then clumps straight through to the gents’ toilet.

‘Oh that’s not good.’ Groans T.
‘Tell me about it,’ I sympathise. ‘I was hoping to go in there for a piss in a minute.’
‘You’re not going in the ladies’ loo again.’ Warns B sternly. I’m about to tell her that was an emergency and the memo was unnecessary, when T speaks again.
‘No not the bag of shite.’ He exclaims angrily. ‘This.’ And he waves a familiar looking pre-populated form and my heart sinks.

‘How much do you reckon?’ Asks T after we’ve gathered round a desk, defensive ring of chairs in a semi-circle, backs to the still locked door. As M shuffles back into the main office, hint of an earthy aroma in his wake, I toss the homebuyers report on the desk dismissively and do the maths.

Surveyors are paid to criticise. The lender wants to know defects, loan-to-value margins and anything that might endanger their investment. The buyer may have fallen in love with the property they bid on several weeks earlier, but that first lustful flush has doubtless dissipated a tad with mounting lawyers, lenders and surveyors bills, not to mention the pernicious stamp duty take the government want - and they neglected to budget for. Now some arse-coverer with bad dress sense and cobwebs in their hair has effectively told them the object of their affections has the property equivalent of an STD.

‘We’re f***ed.’ Proclaims T dejectedly. I should reprimand him for the inappropriate language but I’m still calculating the lost fee if the sale falls through. The surveyor has listed a long list of defects, which to the layman make it seem as though this house is a death trap.

Section J of the report is headed Risks - never the most comforting in a litigation-riddled society. This damp-meter wielder has gone for the full set by listing plumbing, wet rot, load bearing inadequacies, electricity, gas and heating issues, as risks to people. The risks to building section, is even more comprehensive.

‘I’m thinking fifteen thousand pounds minimum.’ I speculate as I wonder how long it will take to collate the various specialist reports.
‘They want twenty.’ Says T morosely as I almost hear the whoosh as my sales carry forward falls by four grand.
‘And the owners won’t drop a penny.’ Adds T.

‘Any luck?’ I ask T last thing. He’s spent the day ringing builders and damp proof firms, and shuttling between buyer and seller, striving for the wisdom of Job while helping to keep mine.

‘Buyers think the surveyor’s word is gospel. Sellers think he’s an idiot.’ Says T tiredly. ‘I f***ing hate them all.’

He’s finally getting the hang of it.

Broaden The Mind - Monday

2011-07-26T08:19:00.006+01:00

‘You are going to have to get out of the pool.’ Calls my wife as she leans over the edge dangerously considering the slippery tiles and the amount of bulk she’s carrying. “The do I look okay in this bikini?” answer I gave seven days ago is looking a lie at worst and myopia at best. But then I’m only floating this well because of the ballast a week of eating three meals a day, and beers starting at lunchtime, adds.

‘Just five more minutes.’ I hiss, as I look at the big clock and notice the two girls, with the enviable legs and taut tummies, all the waiters have been keen to service, strutting by. In a few moments – quite a few actually – I imagined myself giving them the benefit of my experience, until my wife reminded me I was advanced enough to be their father. A fact confirmed by my more realistic urge to tell them both they’ll regret those tattoos when they’re old enough to buy a house.

I clamber out of the water for one last time and pull in my stomach and hope the man boobs don’t look as bad as they feel. I pass the couple we met on the boat trip I chatted to while bobbing up and down in the sea, hoping nothing bigger and more unpleasant than crabs were taking an interest in my undercarriage.

‘Off today aren’t you?’ Asks the man from Atlantis. He and his wife asked me what I did as we swam. My shamefaced admission was negated slightly when he coughed to being a policeman and his partner sheepishly said she was a civil servant – compounded by the further admission, that her role was a tax inspector.
‘Somebody has to do it.’ Was her familiar plea, as I warmed to the girl - until my wife reminded me it was their honeymoon and they weren’t much older than my senior son.

Partially dried and with an hour before the coach departs, I do the same. Nodding to the few people I deigned to talk to. Mentally saying goodbye to the greater number of fellow holidaymakers I gave nicknames to. “Staggers”, the constantly pissed old boy with his blousy partner. “The Creeper” and his gaggle of Thai followers – the wife tuned out to be the one I thought was the daughter, and the creased and saggy one, her mother. Sadly, this sex tourist Englishman fitted the stereotype - weird, paunchy, greying, with bottle-lens glasses and a propensity to letch even more conspicuously than me. I wouldn’t trust him with a family pet.

I ignore “Bonehead” the multi-tattooed thug who starts drinking at breakfast and buys a day old copy of The Sun every day. He was over-competitive at water polo and didn’t seem to bring enough tops to wear. On past the “Husband Hunters”, then the “Adams family”, I take my leave and start wondering about what’s happening at the office, in earnest.

‘Don’t turn your phone on yet.’ Hisses my wife as I fiddle with the unit like a strung-out junkie. The coach is full of sweating leavers, all looking stressed already. I don’t want to know the drivers name, or to empty coinage into his tip-box just for reluctantly heaving the cases and getting us to the airport four hours earlier than needs be.
‘I just need to check.’ I whine, as a trickle of sweat runs down my clammy shirt and I wonder if I can still wear those knee-length flight socks with shorts and sandals without looking a dick? Fashion-sense versus deep-vein-thrombosis always a toughie.

My e-mails scroll relentless on once I’m home and hosed, dodgy landing and customs negotiated. The pain in my leg builds, as I see I’ve been missed by Russian hookers, Kenyans’ needing my bank account details and scores of penis-extension purveyors. Then I open the work-related nonsense and wish I’d spent more on the duty-free trolley.

Sales-fallen through, a couple of complaints, a dodgy survey, conflicting house price reports and a breakfast meeting to attend - my trunks might still be damp in the case but I might as well have never been away.

Welcome back.

Out Of Office - Monday

2011-07-17T18:57:00.002+01:00

So after leaving lists of action required for the staff and being given one by my wife, the cases are packed and weighed.

The frantic scanning of world news to find a passenger plane that’s gone down in the hope that statistically my flight will then stay airborne is over. An apocryphal tale about you being more likely to be kicked to death by a donkey than perish in an air crash, is running round my head. I’ll just avoid third world carriers of all types to be on the safe side.

I’m still troubled by what will go wrong at the office while I’m away, but with one in three sales doomed to fall-through I’m probably just as powerless to prevent matters as I would be if the pilot mixes up feet with metres – we’ve all done it you Trading Standards Nazis…

The thorny problem of introductions to fellow holidaymakers remains though. My wife says it’s nice to meet new people but I do that every working day and on balance it isn’t that pleasant. The majority you wouldn’t want to mix with in a lounge or a life raft, and I can already picture the steely looks when I confess my profession. Then after a few beers the property horror story anecdotes will doubtless start.

God, air traffic control and Airbus willing I’ll be back in a week or so. In the meantime leave a comment, follow on Twitter or maybe even download the Blog compilation book on Amazon http://amzn.to/if07xS There’s a free, rather appropriate, No Sale No Fee trial chapter or two for the cheapskates. And please remember Estate Agency is a dirty job – but someone’s got to do it.

S.A.

That's Just The Way It Is - Friday

2011-07-16T09:46:00.005+01:00

Pull up outside a late valuation. The house looks desirable enough and a quick check on my sales records and a mental fee calculation chases away the lingering irritation caused by having to work when most people are postprandial or pissed.

I double-check my briefcase contents as I’m five minutes early. Agency contracts, company promotional material, comparable homes sold recently, digital camera, old-fashioned tape measure, fat financer M’s business card, Dictaphone and valuation form - all in place. Preparation is the key to a good presentation, that and good listening skills, the ability to think on your feet and knowing when to close.

‘Good evening.’ I begin trying to subliminally emphasise I’m putting myself out and ratchet-up the pressure to commit. The man, early forties and self-important squints at my card dismissively, ignores my qualifications, and swiftly beckons me in like some tradesman who has turned up at the front door by mistake.

As I follow him to the sitting room I can’t help notice the aroma of supper lingering in the air. I’m guessing something with tomato and pasta and my stomach rumbles in fruitless anticipation. I’m trying not to let my annoyance show as he pauses, neglects to turn off the blaring television and tells me I have fifteen minutes.

Apparently he was too busy to see agents during the day, hence the evening appointment. I accepted it because new instructions are our lifeblood and it’s a competitive business. Now it seems he had time to eat bolognaise and garlic bread before this twilight beauty parade. And now he picks up a clipboard. A bloody clipboard that undoubtedly has a list of questions that are as inane as, do you like children and charity work?

Swift tour of the house and a peek at the gardens later and he’s conspicuously looking at his watch and looking towards the front gate. He has another agent coming, I belatedly realise. I was hoping to close the business, majoring on realistic pricing, good service and the fact I’m suffering from mild malnutrition, to pitch for his so-so semi.

He hurries me through my presentation as I wonder when he’s going to ask the probing, salient questions he’s taken time to list over a lazy supper.
‘So how much can we ask and what’s your lowest fee?’ He demands curtly.
‘Of course they’re both important,’ I begin trying a little avoidance tactic. ‘But I want to make sure you’re happy with the service you’ll get from your agent. It’s not just about a picture in the office and an advert. In particular we pride ourselves on the after sales progressing. That’s when a good agent can make a difference.’

He looks at me slightly bemused and a hint of a belch escapes from his mouth before he sneers. ‘You would say that wouldn’t you? At the end of the day you are all the same. Just different ties.’

As I say my goodbyes with as much dignity as I can muster and make one more plea for consideration I catch a glimpse of the top-secret clipboard notes. Five agents company names, then a space for price and fee. That’s it. Nothing else. No experience, no qualifications, no probing for local knowledge, understanding of the conveyancing process and its pitfalls. He might as well be wearing blinkers and a nosebag.

‘You just been in there?’ Questions an estuary English voice as I ease myself painfully into the car and my tummy rumbles like an incipient volcano. I look up to see a rival agent, lower-to-mid market, wide grin tie and boy.

‘Possibly.’ I reply, knowing if he was any good he’d have been outside early, casing the joint.
‘Saw you coming out.’ Confirms the smart-arse before making some lame joke about me delivering pizzas, which only serves to heighten my hunger and sharpen my anger. He’ll undercut my fee and probably pump the price unrealistically high if he can get a board and an instruction for his target figure. He’ll want a sixteen-week sole agency to close out any more professional operators and work on bringing the price down.

Judging by the service-indifferent man inside he’ll fall for it. Generally, people get the agent they deserve. I just hope he gets indigestion.

Sale Or Return - Monday

2011-07-12T07:36:00.004+01:00

In to work first and before the alarm has stopped trilling I notice the answerphone is blinking like a robot with conjunctivitis. I traipse towards the machine as the chime from the alarm falls silent and the soft insistent beeping of the tape machine takes over. LED light flashing rapidly.

It could be good news, might be multiple offers from the weekend, but a quick scan of the message book tends to indicate a different type of property storm is brewing – a far from perfect one.

One after another, I read the calls and call backs I have accrued by taking a day off while some pissed-up prats have gone on a wrecking spree. Who knows what the allure of an estate agents board is to a drunk but clearly after a few quarts of White Lightning our poles are as seductive as a topless dancer - and a lot cheaper to get your hands on. Not sure if they visualise a semi-naked lady sliding down the 4x2 as they uproot our advertising flag and abuse it horribly, I’ll leave that for the psychologists, but something primal is going on.

‘Morning boss.’ Calls trainee F as he bustles through the door, tie round his shoulder hair dishevelled, shoes in need of a polish. I grunt a reply and continue reading the litany of complaints generated by the vandalism spree the pissheads have gone on.
‘Everything alright?’ Asks F showing more perceptiveness than usual – unless he has splinters in his hands still.

Dejectedly, I relay the emerging story as the rest of my team troop in and gather round, of how at least five of our for sale boards have been uprooted from gardens, gates and borders and re-distributed round the borough, in what through beer goggles must have seemed hilarious new positions, but through my jaundiced eyes seem just wanton.

‘I’d like to catch one of these little f***ers doing this.’ I snarl, breaking my no swearing rule.
‘Trouble is it would be a whole gang of them.’ Soothes negotiator S, her blouse heaving in what I take to be sympathy.
‘And they’d be steaming drunk.’ Adds assistant manager T, as lettings lush B staggers through the door and I look at her suspiciously, then resolve to check her manicure later.
‘Plus they probably hate estate agents.’ Contributes fat mortgage man M in between chewing motions on a breakfast bap. He doesn’t think of himself of one of us – twice the man I’d guess.

‘And look at this,’ I fume indicating the hurried scrawl of our weekender. ‘Apparently they’ve been shoving the boards through people’s fences and breaking them. What sort of arse gets a kick out of inserting wood through a flimsy panel?’ M’s bacon-sprayed George Michael and a gentleman’s toilet stall joke doesn’t improve my mood.

‘Surely they can’t think it’s your fault?’ Questions T naively after my third call to an irate homeowner, two of whom weren’t even selling through us. Like a soggy Dutch boy with his finger somewhere futile, I’m being overwhelmed as further calls come in revealing, Google map-like, just which direction the vandals meandered as they sought out taxis and kebabs before vomiting on someone’s doorstep. I wonder if the traffic cone manager has mornings like these?

‘This woman wants us to pay for new fencing.’ I say dejectedly as I steel myself for more vitriol. ‘We didn’t ram our flag board through her larch lap.’ Persists T doggedly. ‘Just because it’s got our name on it doesn’t mean we’re responsible does it?’

T has a valid point, one I formulate in my mind as I resolve to make the calls sooner rather than later and run through a defence involving Boeing aircraft and the Twin Towers, but jettison it as tasteless.

‘You people are all the same.’ Rages an irate homeowner, one who probably hasn’t moved for at least a decade but still remembers her hatred of the process.
‘It’s really not my fault some thug has damaged you property.’ I soothe in dulcet tones designed to placate.
‘You just couldn’t care less.’ Shouts the woman demolishing my caring demeanour mode. ‘I want to speak to someone in higher authority.’

Me too lady - but God isn’t listening.

Good Sense Of Humour - Thursday

2011-07-07T18:34:00.005+01:00

Lettings lush B snaps at trainee F for something innocuous, and the office chatter falls silent. Now, I’ve chastised the fool more times than I care to remember, but one thing I learnt early in my sales career is, criticise in private, praise in public. It’s a shame my bean counter boss doesn’t subscribe to the same school of management.

‘That was a bit harsh.’ I tell B, when F has skulked away like a whipped dog.
‘No it wasn’t, ’she contradicts irritably. ‘He’s a f**wit.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ I counter lamely. I have and probably will again – just not to an office of people.

B laughs at me dismissively, as I rue the slightly tortuous management line that has me ostensibly in charge of, not only residential sales, but her and fat finance man M. The reality is they report to their own management channel, making for a thorny in- office situation. Particularly when she’s pissed, or pissed –off over another failed relationship.

When you deal with break-up sales all day long you get an insight only clergy, lawyers and psychiatrists are privy to. Infidelity and irreconcilable differences drive the market as consistently as death, no matter what the economy is doing. It’s why I may not be a churchgoer, but I regularly pray for a few more divorces and some cold snaps, when the deals dry up.

‘You’re a hypocrite.’ Accuses B spitefully, lips quivering with anger, or possibly emotion. With her you’re never sure if it will be vitriol or tears, next.
‘I’m not.’ I respond weakly, as heads go down - apart from M who continues eating noisily. The fact is I’ve hated hypocrisy from an early age. The duplicity of saying one thing and doing another hurt from the day my father left, right through the angry punk rock phase up until I had to start selling endowments. Junking principles in favour of keeping a roof - or a job - is part of growing old I guess.

‘You are,’ continues B. ‘You know he’s a useless wanker.’ I know nothing of the sort, in fact I’ve speculated otherwise. ‘And you know he’s a liability. Has the intelligence of an amoeba and the attention span of…’ And now she’s starting to breath heavily and an embryonic sob is bubbling up.
‘A goldfish?’ offers M unhelpfully, through a spatter of chocolate-chip pieces.
‘Yes,’ snaps B in agreement before tottering to the ladies’ on unsuitable heels. ‘A f**king goldfish.’

An awkward silence descends, broken only by M’s rhythmic mastication.
‘Whoa,’ says negotiator S eventually, with a shrug of shoulders and that distracting ripple of breasts. ‘What’s eating her?’
‘Nobody at the moment.’ Chortles M, face still buried – rather unfortunately – in a muffin.
‘That’s gross.’ Says S primly, before looking to me for instruction. In the absence of any, she asks. ‘Should I go to her?’ I nod in relief. The last time I was in a ladies’ toilet it didn’t end well.

‘She’ll be alright.’ Concludes M tersely, wiping crumbs annoyingly across the spare keyboard terminal. ‘She’ll just get pissed and hang around a singles bar until she picks up someone,’ he hesitates, piggy eyes glistening. ‘Or something.’
Much as I hate to admit it M has a point. Like those other divorcees, B’s standards – and underwear - continue to slip in direct correlation to her age. Blokes they wouldn’t have bothered with - let alone blown - seem to get face-time once allure starts to fade. Unlike old buildings, a crumbling façade doesn’t hold a premium where dating is concerned.

I silently bless my own longevity in the relationship game as the phone sounds and assistant manager T takes it. B has been round the block more often than the municipal dustcart and I have a horrible feeling she’s carrying a similar bubbling cocktail of germs and fledgling viruses. As far as I know, she’s never shagged a monkey – but she’s done a few apes.

‘I she okay?’ I ask, as S emerges alone, minutes later.
‘Man trouble.’ Confirms S. ‘She’s going to try internet dating again.’

I don’t approve, but then ultimately we’re all touting for business.

The Ties That Bind - Monday

2011-07-04T08:05:00.004+01:00

‘I’ve ironed a short-sleeved shirt for you.’ Says my wife as I stumble out of the shower, sweating already. It’s hot outside, and the forecast is for unaccustomed temperature highs. It will be upper-twenties centigrade if you believe the imbecilic local radio presenter with a comedy name he should have shed when he reached thirty. It still won’t be hot enough for me to wear a short-sleeved shirt though.

‘What?’ Quizzes my wife, sensing my hesitation with the sort of laser-guided female insight that makes the wise husband keep everything pink and pasty inside his clothing – except arms apparently. Now I have a dilemma. Spurning an ironed shirt is likely to result in cross words at best and creased shirts or worse. Going to work with your top looking as though you’ve slept in it, shouts divorcee, loser, sad twat who lives on his own in a studio flat and can’t afford those “non-iron” shirts that in truth don’t really work.

‘I’ve told you before there’s nothing wrong with short sleeves.’ Presses my wife, as I sense an argument brewing. One that touches on feminism and men ironing their own clothes if they want to be picky about what’s hanging immaculately pressed, in the wardrobe. But then I need to pitch to punters all day long, and the slightest thing can cost you the business: hair too long, ill-advised jewellery, shoes scuffed can all mean the difference between winning or losing. Looking like some Antipodean realtor who’s escaped from an episode of Neighbours isn’t going to help me. She’ll be expecting me to wear shorts next.

‘I’d rather a long-sleeve,’ I venture gently. ‘I’ve an important meeting later.’ It’s a white lie, but I’m hoping it will defuse the situation. I don’t want to lose the laundered shirts, or her – and particularly the house. Best to circumnavigate the issue.
‘You’ll just roll the sleeves up.’ Suggests my wife accurately.
‘No I won’t.’
‘You will,’ she continues. ‘And then you might as well have worn short sleeves.’
She’s wrong. But I’m not about to tell her. The linen basket is overflowing and the launderette is no place for a flabby middle-aged man to be stripping down to his boxer shorts any longer.

‘Morning.’ Chirrups negotiator S as she breezes through the door serenely. Her blouse doesn’t even have sleeves but the rest of the material is working hard at keeping everything encased. She looks cool and fragrant and I’m already overheating. Cuff links were a mistake. Now, B our lettings lush, comes in. She too, is in a light-weight blouse, it looks suspiciously like the one she had on yesterday and as the chances are she hasn’t been in her own bed last night I might be right. She still looks more comfortable than I feel.

‘Wow it’s baking out there already.’ Gasps assistant manager T as he enters, jacket nowhere to be seen, but sleeves of the long variety, tie loosened at the neck. He’s followed by idiot trainee F, in odd lightweight-looking trousers and some sort of synthetic shirt that probably wicks away moisture like a cycling top. He looks like a div. Then in waddles fat mortgage man M, already puce in the face as he wheezes through the door. Dark stains under his armpits. He’ll stink before we’ve had our mid-morning coffee.

‘Can you turn the air conditioning up?’ gasps M as he sits at a customer’s chair and mops his brow with an off-white handkerchief. The air-con is a blessing when we do get a brief taste of summer, but it costs a fortune to run. As the man responsible for the profit and loss account, I surreptitiously turn it back a notch or two during the day and as soon as I go out, the others wind it back to frosty setting.

‘Alright mate?’ Questions an estuary English voice as I puff towards the car, brief case in one hand. It’s a rival agent, from the trendily decorated office with an espresso machine and sofas. The lad has an open necked shirt, short sleeves and chinos with deck shoes.

‘How’s business?’ he asks as we pass.
‘Hot to trot.’ I lie effortlessly.

No sweat.

Grey Day - Tuesday

2011-06-28T08:04:00.005+01:00

‘Sheltered retirement flat to value.’ Announces assistant manager T as I hurry through the door. Now estate agents need homes to sell, it’s their very lifeblood. You can’t just ring up a supplier and order more stock, so we battle against every other practitioner in town to win instructions. Some major on experience and service, others company reputation and position in the high street, and some less professional operators deliberately inflate asking prices and chop fees.

But sheltered housing, since it appeared in the late eighties, has always been a niche market, often bucking what were established trends on square footage, location and most importantly price. Purchasers were paying cash, buying into a “lifestyle”- illusion or otherwise. The levelling hand of a lender’s surveyor didn’t impact on prices that had experienced agents gasping in disbelief and predicting nobody would pay that sort of money. We were wrong – at least until the re-sales.

‘Dead or alive?’ I ask T, all enthusiasm drained. If it’s a deceased estate I’ll be arguing with disappointed beneficiaries again. If the owner is still breathing my suggested price could just bring the relatives into play anyway.

‘Old girl, bought four months ago,’ relays T gloomily as he names the block. ‘Says she’s made a mistake.’ He gives a flat smile. ‘An expensive one I reckon.’ Then he brightens before saying. ‘I put you down for it. Five o’clock alright?’

Now my role as manager is to lead and lead by example. I certainly don’t want to spread despondency in the ranks - I have a blog for that. But with the developer still battling to shift brand new units a flat with coffee stains on the wall and piss stains on the carpet, isn’t going to be an easy sell. The fact the owner is still breathing only helps marginally when potential buyers enquire about the outgoing resident. Not that it’s difficult to imagine. Care home or funeral home are the usual options but nobody need reminding of their own mortality, particularly when you want them to write a big cheque.

The fact that every reasonably sized garden plot in Zimmer frame distant of the shops has been cleared, boarded and horded for redevelopment, is testament to a business model that’s working for someone. In our office we don’t discriminate, but an in-house catch all of: McPricey & Drops Like A Stone, covers all the major players, hopefully without risking litigation-hungry lawyers.

‘Can I help you?’ Asks a friendly voice as I clamber out of the car. Can’t be the resident manager, I think wryly, they hate agents with a passion but then I remember when they were called “Wardens” – with good reason. It’s the on-site show flat lady, typically, a glamorous fifty-something woman with a good legs and good haircut. Someone to convince the female purchaser they should still make an effort, and to encourage the few male buyers to spend before their pacemaker packs up.

The charm vanished faster than free bubbly on launch day, once the woman realised I was here to compete against her, not boost her commission payments. On the second floor - at least she didn’t buy ground - I pass the residents lounge. A small group of grey-haired women huddle round a card table encircling a solitary intimidated-looking old man. Sixty years ago he’d have relished this sort of female attention - now a creepy combo of cobwebs, lubes and vacuum pumps beckons.
‘I’m too young to be here duck.’ Proclaims the granny figure who bought in haste after her husband snuffed it. I stifle the unkind urge to ask when she last looked in a mirror. ‘They’re all so old and decrepit.’ She continues as her long-suffering son, looking about my age, sits on the one spare chair and shakes his head in resignation.

Here it comes, I think, after I’ve rationalised about competing against other similar re-sale units elsewhere in town and fighting the developer, still trying to shift over-priced product on site, with the advantage of holiday sweeteners and part-exchange deals. They both nod in agreement until the reveal.

‘Are you having a laugh?’ Snaps the son, as his mother shakes her saggy jowls defiantly.

Not as often as I’d like.

Whizz Kid - Thursday

2011-06-23T19:48:00.004+01:00

In to the office comes a barely pubescent boy. As I’m the only one around I prepare to tell him he’ll need a decade or two, a lot of saving and some dead grandparents before he can afford his first home. But I’m wrong – not about the sizeable deposit - he’s here to fix our computers.

After brief introductions and an uncharitable bristle when he calls me “mate” the techno geek sits at one of the terminals and begins practising a dark art you won’t find on my most visited Internet sites – assuming the router’s not down again.

‘What’s your office password?’ he asks breezily as a whole raft of screens I’ve never seen flash by. I’m not sure I’m supposed to divulge this to just any fresh-faced juvenile with a waist size slimmer than my collar, but I’m blinded by the technology and cough the information. Then he’s into a monochrome screen that reminds me of my Commodore 64 as he inputs his password with a rueful shrug, before admitting you’re not supposed to use your date of birth. I’m still numbed it was in the nineties, when he brings up a blur of coding information with more forward slashes than a pissed-up stag party.

‘How do you know all this stuff?’ I ask awestruck, as I see all the office screens light up, cursors moving independently like digital poltergeists.
‘It’s simple man.’ He tells me distractedly and I watch as he manoeuvres around our clunky in-house software with a hint of distain.

Technology and me have never been close bedfellows. I’ve tried to engage, but after early-adopter disasters with Betamax, British Satellite Broadcasting’s squarial and Hi-def DVD, I’ve withdrawn ungracefully. The passing of time is swift enough as you age but nothing illustrates your mortality more than a smart phone cleverer than you are, or realising the only tablet you want is paracetamol - lots of them.

I’m becoming like those wistful old vendors who mutter: “Don’t get old lad will you?” while reeking of Old Spice and last-minute codicils. I’ve made wrong choices too, but I don’t need to be reminded by some incontinent codger who probably had no truck with the internal combustion engine and put all his money on the horses.

‘Who’s the hot boy?’ Asks my negotiator S when she wafts back in from lunch and spots the spindly spunk-bubble bent over her keyboard. Now I’m really grouchy, I was hoping she’d go for the silver fox market ahead of the young buck brigade, but on reflection she probably thinks The Clash is a wardrobe mismatch, The Jam some heavy traffic and Stiff Little Fingers……

‘So how long have you worked here?’ Asks the lithe lad, shamelessly flirting with S as he fondles her mouse suggestively. I’d corrupt her drivers if I knew where they were, but females are still as much of a mystery to me as binary programming and that floor plan software. She’s clearly flattered by his attention and the way he handles her equipment, as I finally realise what women see in Bill Gates - other than a massive endowment.

‘Who’s the stick insect?’ Queries bloated mortgage man M when he waddles in the door and spots the engineer half under S’s desk. I tell him, trying to mask my jealousy as best I can. ‘A Microsoft monkey,’ he says scornfully. ‘You just need to switch it off and re-boot. If that doesn’t work junk it and buy new. It’s all disposable nowadays.’ And the fat financer shuffles towards the kitchen to finish off his half-eaten pie while I yearn for simpler times. When you weren’t available 24/7, a windows malfunction just needed a glazier and bad news came via the postman - not e-mail.

‘You not got one of those digital measures like the other lot?’ Questions my afternoon valuation later. Now, not only has he made me feel technologically inadequate again, but he’s revealed I’m competing with at least one other agent, one who probably thinks an acre is a bad hangover and a measuring stick something you have in a cocktail.

I really need to move on.

Root Cause - Monday

2011-06-20T19:47:00.005+01:00

‘Oh come on!’ Groans assistant manager T thumping the phone down angrily.
‘Problem?’ I ask pointlessly. Home moving is all about problems. All about setbacks, disappointments, broken promises, withdrawn mortgage offers, lying vendors and buyers, dilatory solicitors…..I could go on.

‘F***ing surveyor has asked for more reports than a government committee.’ Snarls T impressively.
‘Are there any good surveyors?’ Asks trainee F tentatively.
‘Course not.’ Snaps T. ‘The bastards are paid to criticise.’
‘They’re only doing their job.’ Says lettings lush B, to everyone’s surprise. Maybe she’s shagging a valuer now. I just hope he doesn’t take his damp meter into the bedroom.

‘Doing their job?’ Mocks T. ‘Those little sods are frightened of their own shadow if they go out in daylight.’
‘They do get sued quite a lot.’ Suggests negotiator S gently.
‘Not enough if you ask me.’ Replies T.

‘What has he asked for?’ I probe. Already thinking of tame builders, compliant damp proof companies and willing wall-tie specialists I might call upon. I just hope there’s not a structural engineer’s report required. The cost and caveats will usually cause most purchasers to bail out faster than a French fighter pilot.

‘Tree surgeon.’ Says T, brow furrowed. ‘I mean where an I going to find a tree surgeon around here?’ I walk to my desk and fumble in the drawer for a few minutes, dusty business cards lurking amongst the spent paracetamol packets, dried out highlighter pens and stale crumbs from a thousand slim-line sandwiches.

Triumphantly I walk out with an amateurish-looking calling card, picture of a large oak inked in the middle, followed by a name and some improbable qualifications nobody has ever heard of.
‘Here’s your man.’ I announce, just the right side of smug.
‘Who is that, Robin bloody Hood?’ Sulks T, holding his hand out reluctantly.
‘Didn’t he steal from the rich and give to the poor?’ Asks F.
‘Definitely not a surveyor then.’ Concludes T, eyeing the card suspiciously.

‘Lenders don’t like trees.’ Contributes fat finance man M unhelpfully. Pointing out most of the country was covered in them when Mr Hood built his first tree house would seem a little churlish. But I’m tempted believe me.

‘Why’s that?’ Asks F.
‘Roots,’ answers M. ‘Get under the foundations, suck out the moisture then you get subsidence or heave.’ M pauses before adding. ‘Or both.’ And I thought I was downbeat.

‘How come you know this guy?’ Asks T, waving the faded card.
‘Because he’s come across this sort of thing before.’ Answers S supportively and I feel my heart soar, until she adds. ‘He’s been around long enough.’
’Is he like a proper surgeon then?’ Persists F doggedly.
‘Yeh, just like one.’ Mocks M. ‘He has a big buzz-saw and amputates limbs.’
‘If he was a plastic surgeon I’d be more interested.’ Says B wistfully.
‘For the money or the free-gratis work?’ Asks S dangerously. B looks daggers at S. Women can be far scarier than men when they want to be.

I decide not to point out that S doesn’t need the surgeon’s knife in my eyes and B would require a whole valley’s-worth of silicone to help her cause - that and a new liver.

I’d never have cosmetic surgery.’ Opines M to an almost audible gasp, as five people simultaneously think: Not even liposuction?
‘What?’ Quizzes the bloater, as the silence bounces around the office tangibly. ‘I’m happy the way I am.’
He’s not. He can’t possibly be - can he?

T rings the long-lost tree surgeon. Surprisingly he’s still in business. Most of these alternative lifestyle practitioner’s; the interior design gurus, Feng Shui experts and energy advisors, rise overnight like fungi then are gone just as quickly. Somewhere there’s a community of colour co-ordinated, correctly orientated and well-insulated Yurts, were all these financially failed hippies live - Sherwood Forest maybe?

‘He thinks he might just be able to do some pollarding.’ Announces T knowledgably. I decide to wait. Silence is a great sales tool. He cracks after less than ten seconds and asks. ‘So, what exactly is pollarding?’

‘Expensive pruning,’ Interjects M annoyingly, adding. ‘The lender will still put a load of onerous conditions on the offer.’

Nipped in the bud again.

Are You Sitting Comfortably - Wednesday

2011-06-15T18:56:00.004+01:00

‘What’s this bollocks? Demands assistant manager T, referring to a pile of corporate paperwork on his desk.
‘Could you narrow it down a bit?’ I ask him wearily. Time was when you came to work, flogged a few houses, took the plaudits and commission and went to the pub. Now I’m dogged by cumbersome legislation making me a quasi-expert on health and safety, property mis-description, data protection and sexual discrimination – to name but a few.

‘This.’ Clarifies T prissily, waving a multi-page self-assessment form some jobs-worth in human resources has produced on their Apple Mac. ‘What the hell do they think we do all day? I haven’t got time to fill this crap in.’ He probably has as it happens, but he doesn’t want to – neither do I.

Fig 1 on the first sheet is entitled: Summary of the subjects dealt with in the minimum standards for workstations.
‘That’s not a summary,’ says T articulating my thoughts exactly. Only I can’t agree with him, not verbally anyway. I’m management and so by definition complicit in the pile of steaming tosh - almost as if I’d squatted it out myself.

Beneath the clumsily worded opening is a line drawing of some sexless individual parked before a desk, keyboard and monitor. Their chair, screen, printer, and footrest are all numbered. A separate sheet gives a side-on elevation an architect would be proud of, detailing the optimum lumber recline angle, reach to keyboard, distance and angle from monitor.

‘Who has a feckin footrest?’ Mocks T reading the notes disdainfully. ‘You just stick your foot on a stationery box if it’s aching.’
‘Not supposed to have anything unauthorised under the desk.’ I tell him as negotiator S floats through the door looking alluring – and distinctly unauthorised.

‘You seen this pile of steaming shite?’ Asks T angrily. ‘They can’t replace our cars but they can afford to produce a tome on postural change.’
‘It’s probably meant to help.’ Suggests S pleasantly.
‘Meant to stop them from getting sued more like.’ Snaps T. He’s right of course, although I don’t like the term “them” when referring to the company you work for. It’s the sort of cop-out you get in retailing when you ask about stock availability, or delivery problems – but in this case I’m feeling sympathy.

Fat mortgage man M waddles from his office and joins the conversation, glancing at the handout and chuckling. ‘Says here,’ he begins. ‘That the optimum viewing-to-screen distance is 35-70cm at an angle of 15-20 degrees. They’ve obviously never watched porn on-line.’
S huffs at him in disgust and I feel all eyes on me. I’m reading the bit about minimal flexion or deviation to the wrists, which isn’t helpful given the circumstances.

‘Just fill it out will you please.’ I eventually offer lamely, stopping short about mentioning repetitive strain injury - despite M’s vigorous jerking motion in my direction.
‘Don’t think you’ll be getting a new chair because of it.’ Predicts M sourly. ‘My squab is saggier than a pensioner’s parts and they still won’t replace it.’ I could point out his arse alone probably exceeds the maximum safe load, but there’s a whole separate worksheet on approved lifting techniques, with a graph to match. Sometimes you can have too much information.

‘You seen the section on postures and spinal injuries?’ Asks T, comprehensively ruining any thoughts of moving on to fee-earning activities. We all crowd round the previously unseen double page spread featuring what looks disconcertingly like an un-pc naked woman, bending and flexing into slightly risqué positions. She’s perched atop some bar graphs with percentage pressure increases on one axis, and relative changes in pressure/load to the 3rd lumbar disc - experienced in various sexual positions - on the other. All it needs is that bloke with the beard from the Joy Of Sex sneaking up behind her with a surprise delivery.

‘Keep the load close to the body.’ Chortles M salaciously, as he reads the attached notes in a breathy phone-pest voice.
‘You lot are just disgusting.’ Concludes S flouncing off. ‘It’s not what they meant at all.’

‘That’s enough now.’ I chide, not wanting to risk further injury.
‘I don’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable.’

Horror Story - Friday

2011-06-10T21:07:00.004+01:00

‘Whoa, Goosebumps house.’ Says trainee F with a shiver, as we pull up outside the sort of decrepit property that gives me a hard-on.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, twisting for my clipboard and feeling a sharp stabbing pain, hip-to toe.
‘It’s like a ghost mansion or something from the books.’
‘What books?’ I question grumpily. I was under the impression F read nothing more challenging than a betting slip most days, but the title is vaguely familiar.

‘By the famous author.’ F answers giving me the sort of look I normally send his way. I look back blankly, as an internal literary audit rejects Dickens, Bram Stoker, Mark Twain and Harper Lee.
‘You’ve never heard of him have you?’ Taunts F gleefully. ‘He wrote loads of bestsellers.’

Now I’m grumpy, the brief ardour the weathered house raised, draining away flaccidly. ‘Is this an adult author?’ I finally ask as I vaguely picture a gaudy collection of books my sons both had before they reached puberty.
‘No,’ Responds F indignantly. ‘These were like well scary. R. L Stine, he was, like, a genius or something.’ And it clicks.

‘They were a load of second-rate tat my kids used to read.’ I tell him scornfully. ‘I’m not even sure if he - or she - was a real person.’
‘They used to really scare me.’
‘And you read them all?’ I press, the unwelcome reminder that F is closer in reading age to my offspring, than me, not helping my mood.
F looks crestfallen before saying. ‘Not exactly read. I was more a fan of the television series.’

‘A book always paints a more vivid picture.’ I tell F sagely, as I tug on a rusting wrought iron gate and am rewarded with a suitably creaky noise.
‘How can it?’ Argues F, eyeing the peeling front door with suspicion as I wish I’d brought negotiator S with me. She wouldn’t be so easily spooked.

‘Because it awakens your imagination.’ I tell him wearily, realising I’m shoving water uphill again, but doggedly persisting. ‘And you don’t get commercial breaks.’
‘I used to hide behind the sofa.’ Says F with a bashful grin. And they still won’t demand a minimum standard of entry to the profession. God help us.

The door yields with a groan I vaguely recognise as the sort of noise I make rolling out of bed.
‘Do you think there might be ghosts?’ Asks F, wide-eyed and jittery.
‘The Boo Radley house.’ I tell him with a grin. He hesitates before asking uncertainly.
‘Like the band my Dad used to like?’
‘Which Dad was that?’ I snap unkindly, realising I may have awoken some genuine nightmares. My apology doesn’t clear the suddenly frosty atmosphere.

‘It’s freezing in here.’ F eventually says after the third dusty room has been inspected. All empty homes become chilly once they’ve been shut for a while, they start to smell too. And they move.
‘What the f**k was that?’ Yelps F in a girly voice. A deep groaning sound has emanated from somewhere upstairs.
‘The house breathing.’ I tell him obtusely, as another tip-tapping noise beats above our head.
‘And that?’ Squeaks F, close to panic.
‘Probably birds in the eaves.’ I say mysteriously, before adding. ‘Or a poltergeist.’

‘It’s warmer out here than inside.’ Shivers F as we stand in the overgrown garden and look back at the tired, but character-filled house.
‘That might have been a cold spot.’ I say mischievously. ‘An echo from a past occupant.’
‘Shit.’ Announces F. ‘They should just bulldoze the place. How many flats could they build on here?’

Too many, I think, as I mentally run the development options and try to recall the local plan. I’m pondering a loving refurbishment and some landscaping and you’d have a cracking family home. One I’d love to live in. With a secluded garden suitable for dotage pottering with plants. F is thinking affordable housing with maximum density and off-road parking for ten. No wonder our literary tastes don’t match.

‘I’m thinking cracking auction lot.’ I tell F as we drive away. ‘A full room, multiple bids and happy beneficiaries.’
‘I find auctions a bit scary.’ Says F.

Nothing in common bar the postcode.

Smash And Grab - Tuesday

2011-06-07T19:58:00.005+01:00

‘So what do people get exactly from Stamp Duty?’ Ventures trainee F cautiously. It’s good he keeps asking - I just wish he had a mental capacity slightly more retentive than the average kitchen sieve.

‘Ripped off.’ Says assistant manager T angrily.
‘Maybe some of the money goes towards social housing?’ Suggests negotiator S with what, if it weren’t for her enormous breasts, would be annoying naivety.
‘You’ve got to be joking.’ Mocks mountainous mortgage man M. ‘It’s just an excuse to raise revenue.’

‘So they don’t actually get a stamp then? Questions F, as if there might be some bespectacled philately collector at the Inland Revenue, fastidiously using tweezers and a scrapbook for each property completion.
‘Don’t be a twat.’ Says M scornfully. ‘It just means they’re treading on the soft touches again. Stamp, get-it?’

F looks at me for guidance as something at the back of my brain tries to match useless information to relevant stuff. It’s a painful process. Finally, with all the subtlety of a failed double-de-clutch - pre synchromesh - I remember a fact. At least I think it’s a fact. After that miserable showing at the last pub quiz where I thought Martin Peters scored the hat-trick and all the students Googling in real-time, not only knew it was Hurst, but how many people were at Wembley, I’m not so sure.

‘I think they did actually put a stamp on the conveyance at one time.’ I tell F hesitantly. It’s plausible.
‘Like some clerk in one of those old writers books?’ Asks F, eyes suddenly engaging.
‘Do you mean Dickens?’ I respond mildly impressed, only to see the light fade immediately as the idiot replies: ‘I was thinking Roald Dahl.’

‘It’s all on-line now.’ Says M shaking his fat head in irritation. ‘Land Registry can just push a button. There’s no excuse for it, other than another way to milk the public. It’s just a tax on moving. Destroys job mobility, stops people from trading up.’ M pauses for breath, as I look slightly aghast at this unaccustomed fervour and worry about him having a cardiac. There’s nothing of any use in the first aid kit and if I had to give him the kiss of life I’d be tasting half-masticated pasties for weeks after the funeral.

‘There’ll be bringing back the window tax next.’ Chuckles T, as M mops his brow with a yellowing handkerchief. F looks sideways at T and this time I can actually hear the cogs grinding. ‘Nah.’ He eventually says, eyes screwed in concentration. ‘You’re not getting me like that.’
‘It’s true.’ Persists T, throwing a wink towards S that F sees - and I resent. ‘They used to tax a house according to how many windows it had.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’ Responds F, looking at me for support.
‘No more ridiculous than a non-existent stamp and a f***ing big bill just for changing your postcode.’ Snaps M before waddling to the kitchen.

‘You must have seen those listed buildings with bricked-up windows,’ Tempts T. ‘You remember the old farmhouse on London Road?’ F now fixes me with a whipped hound-dog look, but I’m intrigued to see how he handles this. If he’s ever going to negotiate between argumentative parties falling out over fixtures and fittings, he’ll need to navigate this simple exchange.

‘I thought that was just, like, a design feature.’ He eventually tells T, in the slightly ungracious absence of any guidance from me.
‘What?’ Mocks T. ‘You thought they’d place a lintel and a window surround on the elevation and then think, hey you know what? Bricks might be more aesthetically pleasing and let in more light than glass.’

F looks like he might cry again, so belatedly, I decide to interject.
‘It’s true. There was a tax on the number of windows a house had. So people started to brick up windows to avoid it.’ I tell him, hoping he won’t ask just when this unjust collection existed. Fat chance.

‘When was that then?’ He ventures, still thinking this is another elaborate wind-up. Telling him to bring in trunks to measure up a swimming pool was childish, on reflection.

For the record -1695.

Open To Interpretation - Wednesday

2011-06-01T20:08:00.003+01:00

I’m sitting at assistant manger T’s desk. He’s out on a valuation. I’m enjoying watching what happens in the office and not minding watching negotiator S either. Her blouse is struggling to contain her enthusiasm almost as much as I am. Then as a youngish couple leave lettings lush B’s desk and exit the office, she bounces up and goes over to quiz B.

‘Were they any good?’ S asks the tipsy nymphomaniac. She saw the pair before she moved them – reluctantly - to lettings, having established there was nothing on the sales register within their price range.

‘Can’t afford much per month.’ Slurs B flatly. Her afternoons aren’t so good any more on account of the alcohol. And her mornings not too chipper, on account of the internet dating pressure to put out after the first Harvester meal and shared taxi fare. I sometimes envy B’s ability to daytime drink with casual abandon. The risky sex seems attractive too some days, until I remember that in matrimonials the wife nearly always gets the house.

‘They seemed such a nice couple.’ Chimes S naively.
‘Nice doesn’t cut it financially.’ Snipes B sourly. ‘I’m going to need a guarantor, assuming their references check out.’ And finally S’s perkiness sags a bit as she traipses back to her desk, face creased in concentration. I wait and watch.

‘Do you think we’re going to end up like the Europeans?’ She eventually asks the room. Momentarily I’m thinking of a common currency and those Euros I have left over from Spain last year. Perhaps if I wait long enough they’ll buy a couple of part-finished houses in a field just outside Dublin. But S is thinking on a broader level, something not many others are.

‘What you mean with Frog’s legs?’ Chuckles trainee F.
‘Or sour Krauts?’ I add, unable to help myself.
‘Czech mates?’ Adds B woozily, before fat mortgage man M contributes a conversation-stopping, borderline inappropriate. ‘ I’m a fan of Romanian tarts.’

We all look askance at M as he shrugs his meaty shoulders, then waddles to the kitchen. That man will eat anything

‘No I meant there was that survey,’ continues S throwing M’s departing frame a witheringly dismissive look. ‘They reckon only a third of potential first time buyers think they’ll ever be able to afford to buy their own home.’

I’ve seen the survey, one of a raft of conflicting property-based, part-speculation, part figure-interpretation outpourings the media seem to crave with an appetite more voracious than M’s - despite the damage it causes. Sometimes you can have too much information. But the genie is out of the lamp.

In the absence of any punters, physical or telephonic, a conversation rolls around the office. I pontificate about conflicting interests and the drivers behind seemingly benign surveys. M, mouth full of biscuit, rejoins and reminisces about the days when lenders would advance a liar loan to anyone with big balls and some company letterhead paper. Meanwhile, B tries to convince us we’ll all be working for her in another five years. F just looks bemused.

‘Unless something gives.’ Says S. ‘People my age will be renting or living at home until they’re ancient.’
‘Yeh,’ agrees F, finally contributing. ‘Until they’re like forty, or whatever.’
Sometimes I rue the passing of the days. Times when you didn’t have to work Saturday or Sundays - and you could punch imbecilic staff for reminding you of your advancing years.

Awkward silence over, the discussion continues, mostly without F. There’s a belief in some circles the market is indeed going through a once in a lifetime sea change. Where property ownership reverts to a Victorian-style privilege few can aspire to without a death in the family. Another less expounded theory, enthusiastically endorsed on some of the gloomier forums, is that property still needs to fall dramatically.

‘Nobody wants a double-dip.’ States M, as he dunks a crumbling chocolate digestive into the cuppa he’s made without offering to brew for anyone else. With my own children hoping for a windfall - or possibly me to fall - I’m not so sure everyone would agree.

I’ll wait and watch a little longer.

Wheels Of Industry - Friday

2011-05-27T21:56:00.005+01:00

I’m not a big fan of mixing with other businessmen. Invariably it’s all sales puff, bullshit and vested interests, so it’s somewhat of a surprise to find myself at a chamber of commerce-style drinks do. The woman who came into the office looking for attendees was new, vibrant and had four-inch heels. Now as I scan the dusty municipal room she’s nowhere to be seen. Tart.

Worse still, the bespectacled geek on the door forced me to pin an accusatory name badge on my lapel when I entered. Now everyone can see I’m an estate agent. Self-consciously I grab an orange juice and scan the room for a friendly face. I recognise a gaggle of deadly dull solicitors in one musty corner - two of whom never return my calls when I chase sales. Elsewhere I spot an eclectic mix of Asian convenience store men, Chinese takeaway owners and Polish builders - incomers always keenest to make friends in the retail community.

‘Ah-hah an estate agent.’ Claims a mousy looking man invading my space and proffering a dirty-nailed hand. Just where did all the totty go? I confess my profession – although most of the room might term it a “trade” - before a quick glance at my new chum’s badge confirms my worst fear, he’s an accountant.

Now I’m not a big arithmetic fan at the best of times. My numerical shortcoming confirmed with every spreadsheet and profit and loss account my bean counter boss sends me. Any man who has to carry two calculators in his suit jacket - just in case the solar-powered battery is caught out by an unexpected eclipse - is number myopic at best. But these people are so boring.

‘Have you met my colleague?’ Asks cuticle-hygiene-challenged man, as he beckons in a fellow figure-fiddler. A chap with a preposterous moustache now joins us - an individual who works for a different, no less dull, firm. Now call me old-fashioned, but I don’t actively encourage the opposition. In my business they are looking to tout your boards, customers and staff members – supping warm long-life juice with them isn’t high on my list of priorities. That’s probably what makes me trade.

After a while the two abacus-pushers are talking over and round me, as I look wistfully at the immigrant group and fantasise about a stir-fry. I’m always conscious of my shallow education. At spending too many years chasing deals, not knowledge. I try to read as much as possible and like every salesman am adept at bluffing – but when the conversation meanders on to physics theory, I’m lost.

Stupidly, I revert to an old schoolroom dodge and try humour to mask ignorance. The gag about thinking quantum mechanics was four Quick Fit guys leaping in the air falls on stony ground and in hindsight the star-jump was a mistake, so I move on after refilling my glass.

‘So what’s the high street doing?’ Asks another short-of-stature man, this time from the council, according to his badge. The choices for sarcasm are endless. Dying because of your business rates. Filling up with charity shops and whitewashed windows, are easy options, as is the grumble about parking charges and predatory traffic wardens. Instead I answer neutrally.

‘We’re keen to get an insight into what shop-owners want.’ Enthuses the man. It’s a common mistake, I run an office not a shop, and I act as an agent. The only stock I get comes from pitching, not ringing a warehouse. It’s not his fault, he undoubtedly has a 2.1 in public services from somewhere I’ve never heard of and his Greek knowledge probably extends further than a joke about sharing a kebab with George Michael on Clapham Common. He’s Stephen Fry – without the humour. I’m Jim Davidson – without the career.

‘Too many of you guys in every high street,’ Hypothesises the next man I can’t avoid. I’m guessing he’s another town hall quasi-intellectual not quite bright enough to get a university teaching posting, and not streetwise enough to run his own business. ‘We should licence you.’

The sex shop analogy made for a sudden ending. But at least I could come away.

Same Old Same Old - Tuesday

2011-05-24T19:32:00.004+01:00

‘Anyone got any ideas to boost business?’ I ask at the end of my morning meeting. There’s nothing new under the sun but I’m just hoping for a two-way dialogue. You get in early every morning, check the post, collect the DX, scan your e-mails, listen to abusive messages on the answer-phone and by the time your coffee has cooled your enthusiasm has done the same if you’re not careful.

My team look back at me blankly, at least those who’ll meet my eye. T the assistant manager hides behind his designer glasses and an aura of languid apathy, S my negotiator risks a half-smile, trading on her personable character and perky tits successfully. F, my idiot trainee, meets my gaze with a look so devoid of intellect I might as well be investigating pond water. It’s not a good start to the day.

‘I could use some more landlords.’ Suggest lettings floozy B, to a stifled giggle from S. B’s reputation is one she’ll need more than abstinence and penicillin to shake off. Like my track record of mid-table mediocrity, it’s hard to change perceptions once the die is cast.

‘I meant for business purposes.’ Adds B sarcastically, not exactly clarifying matters. Fortunately M, our mortgage man, the Friar Tuck of finance - without the outlaw’s charm – decides to interject. ‘I need better quality leads. The lenders are getting pickier and pickier.’ As he speaks M scratches at his teeth with a dirty nail seemingly unaware of the irony. Not sure what he has lodged in his incisor but I’m guessing it won’t help his halitosis.

‘The thing is,’ begins T cautiously as I tense for an excuse I don’t want to hear. ‘We can never compete on a level playing field with this lot.’ And he indicates the sales performance league tables I handed out at the beginning of our collective. My rival manager H, he of the reduced stature and heightened ego, has his office lodged at the top of the list again.

‘They have got a better patch, with fewer competitors.’ Ventures S in solidarity with T, her rueful shrug and concurrent blouse action helping to offset my knee-jerk prickly response. In truth it’s a dead-end argument I’ve tried presenting to my bean counter boss. His answer, the same as the one I sheepishly repeat: You can’t argue with the statistical evidence.

‘You put his arrogant arses in this office and let us sit over there for a month and see the difference then.’ Suggests T brusquely. I’ve thought about it, God I’ve lain awake in the middle of the night yearning for it – but that’s a different story.

‘Anyone want anything from the bakers?’ Asks M, rising with difficulty, seams stretching, shirt buttons close to popping. He seems to be signalling the end of my motivational think-tank. The lure of calories more attractive than recycled leaflet drops and scouring the local paper for private sale adverts.

‘How about we stay behind for an hour tonight and chase up some failed valuations.’ Says a voice, laced with reluctance. It’s not something I’m keen to do, the very term “failed valuations” gives a pretty big clue as to the outcome, but then as it was my suggestion I’m going to have to run with it.

‘Really, do I have to?’ Asks T, as if I’ve instructed him to blow me in the office window.
‘I’ll be doing it too.’ I remind him sharply. It is a thankless task. If people have spurned your advice and used another agent, they either didn’t like you, your price or your fee. I can change some of those but not all.

‘Sorry to trouble you then.’ I say later, with as much sincerity as I can muster before adding through gritted teeth. ‘Good luck with the sale.’ I holster the phone, look at the clock and wonder how crispy my supper will be by now, as T finishes his flat conversation in a similar vein.

‘Christ this is depressing.’ Announces T. ‘A handful have sold but the rest are stitched into a sole agency for months, at the wrong price.’

I take him to the pub - crusty carbonara can wait.

Eat To The Beat - Wednesday

2011-05-18T18:22:00.005+01:00

If there’s been a more pernicious over-the-pond import than the breakfast meeting, I can’t think of it on an empty stomach.

My wife’s peck-on-the cheek farewell and admonishment combo, consisted of an instruction to “not be grumpy”, as I pulled away from home, unpleasant gurgling noises emanating from under my shirt where metabolism shocked into un-fuelled motion, was already signalling disapproval.

She thinks I’m a glass half-empty kind of guy after several decades flogging homes for ungrateful buyers and sellers. She’s a good third of a liquidy container out on her maths - and what’s left is evaporating pretty fast.

‘You might enjoy it.’ She’d added seemingly with no intent to antagonise but with exactly that result.
‘Enjoy?’ I’d mocked.
‘You’ll get fed.’
‘They give breakfast to a condemned man before they fry him.’ I’d snarled back. ‘And he doesn’t have to sit through a sodding PowerPoint presentation before they throw the switch.’

Telling me I was turning into a grouchy pessimist hadn’t helped the parting. I prefer to think greying realist. But maybe it’s me. She tells me it’s me, my staff say it’s me, my bean counter boss tells me it’s me. It’s probably me.

‘What time of day do they call this?’ Chuckles my rival manager H as he climbs out of his two grades higher than mine, motor. The little twerp could actually qualify as one of Snow White’s helpers, although with his track record towards female workmates he’d probably be sleazy, rather than sneezy.

‘I’m not even sure I’m hungry any more.’ I tell him as I notice he’s wearing those shoes with the lifts in the soles. The one’s he thinks nobody knows about. The one’s I’d be mocking on my Facebook account if I had any friends – and an account.

‘That’ll be fear.’ He suggests as we move towards the bland budget hotel foyer and I make a mental note to remember I’ll need an exit token for the barrier when I finally escape this hellhole.

‘Fear of what?’ I bite back. ‘Indigestion?’
‘No, the monthly sales figures.’ He crows, as I ponder lumping him and just driving off, until I remember the token – and the mortgage.
‘We’re doing okay.’ I offer lamely knowing his office will be higher up the chart than we’ll ever be.
‘Mid-table mediocrity.’ Mocks the poison dwarf as I fume impotently and wonder if it’s too late to take up smoking. Rebel without a cause.

‘No cooked breakfast?’ Asks fat mortgage man M as we gather round a large oval table, managers and financial consultants in another uneasy alliance of shared needs and mutual dislike. There’s a pile of limp-looking, rapidly cooling, bacon sandwiches in the centre of the table and several cheap looking plastic thermal jugs of coffee. An overhead projector with the bean counter’s laptop connected squats menacingly to one side, as I curse Bill Gates for the hundredth time.

‘I thought we’d pass on the full English,’ announces the figure-fiddler as a way of opening. ‘Eat as we work and get straight on to the numbers.’ I feel sick and I’ve only sucked on a dusty Mint Imperial so far.

‘Cost cutting.’ Whispers H from somewhere down by my elbow. Not sure what made him think I’d like him sitting next to me. Perhaps he just wants to feel big about himself?

‘No vegetarian option?’ Queries one of the female managers, picking at the curling pig-butties, to barely concealed derision from the meat eaters.
‘I’ll eat your bacon if you like?’ Suggests M to guffaws all round. Then the numbers hit the screen.

‘Market share.’ Drones the bean counter, once he’s handed out the individual chastisements. ‘We can’t affect the macroeconomics so we need to target the opposition. Put them out of business.’
‘Starve them out.’ Suggests H, with no hint of irony.
‘That’s the attitude.’ Enthuses the bean counter with the sort of lustful look that would make a gay porn director gag - and ask for a retake.

‘Could you just open the barrier for me? I plead into the microphone as three cars behind start sounding their horns and I’m asked for proof of purchase.

I hunger for something better.

Green With Envy - Friday

2011-05-13T20:43:00.005+01:00

‘Here comes Captain Sunshine.’ Warns assistant manager T as he lurks by the window but fails to change the display.
‘God he really depresses me.’ Contributes negotiator S with a shake of her head. ‘How do you get to be that miserable?’

How long have you got? I think, as I spot the middle-aged guy trying to cross the road without being taken out by a bus. At least I think that’s what he’s attempting to do. Judging by his demeanour he might just be calculating how to toss himself under the No.3’s wheels for maximum effect, minimum pain. I decide to wait and watch.

There but for the grace of God go I, I think morosely, as he finally leaves the pavement and darts across the road with surprising alacrity. I so nearly fell for the Home Information Pack hype, despite all my experience and the inner voice saying it would end in tears. But if I trained as a Home Inspector, the internal argument went, I could get away from the public, do something with a little more kudos, raise my standing in the community. Sap.

Of course history tells us homeowners wanted Information Packs and the associated costs about as much as they wanted subsidence. And buyers treated the cumbersome paperwork with suspicion, or at best indifference. Now we are left with Energy Performance Certificates which only eco-freaks and cavity wall insulation salesman take any notice of. And this guy spends his life doing them.

‘Keys for number 27?’ Asks EPC man with no attempt at pleasantries when he comes through the door, slight smell of diesel fumes in his wake. We all look at him blankly. I wrack my brains for a road name, or flat block, to match the number but I come up blank. Then I look at lettings lush B’s equally empty desk and make the connection.

‘Is it a rental property?’ I ask nodding towards where the tipsy trollop should be sitting if she wasn’t in another stranger’s bed. Distractingly I wonder if the gloomy EPC man might have more fun issuing performance certificates for B’s efforts to help mankind. Probably not - wrong type of global warming.

‘How’s it going?’ I ask reluctantly, as S moves to find the keys. It’s an enquiry more out of latent politeness than interest but he takes it as an invitation to unburden. I should register as a charity.

‘I thought this would be a proper career,’ he grumbles face drawn and disillusioned. ‘Considered it a step up from home sales.’ Should have spoken to a proper surveyor before you signed up for the home study material, I think callously, being wise after the event a key skill-set of mine - at least once I realised a skill-set wasn’t an all-in-one tool kit from B & Q.

‘Now,’ continues the one-man weather front. ‘I just spend my time checking cavities.’ The opportunities for a witty comeback are endless, but instead I hand him the keys and ask him to sign the register. It’s a while since he’s done sales so he doesn’t recognise the brush-off signals. ‘We should have sued the government for conning us into taking the exams.’ He dribbles on pointlessly, as I resist the very real urge to conspicuously look at my watch.

‘Do you know how many of these I need to do to make a halfway decent living?’ He questions angrily, waving the Performance Certificate paperwork at me as if I was the latest Housing Minister to fail to get a grip of their portfolio before they’ve mastered their expenses.

Fortunately it’s a rhetorical question and I can pass it off with a non-committal nod.
‘I’ll tell her you were in.’ I say by way of an exit strategy, nodding towards B’s still vacant desk. She seems to have more need of his services than I do most weeks, the letting market being reasonably buoyant, even with a dipso nympho stretching the interpretation of “fully managed” to dictionary-challenging lengths.

‘He makes you look chipper.’ Chuckles T as the A-G rating man goes to guesstimate energy use, carbon dioxide emissions, light, heat and hot water costs, on an ex-local authority shoebox.

I take it as a compliment.

Meet In The Middle - Tuesday

2011-05-10T19:14:00.003+01:00

Achingly attractive Negotiator S, taps at my half-open office door. She’s an asset in the window but a distraction away from the public eye.

‘Can I ask some advice?’ She opens hesitantly. Yes, ditch the idiot you can do so much better, I nearly say. But of course she’s not after relationship tips, at least not that type of relationship. It’s a vendor and purchaser falling out, as they are prone to do when solicitors, surveyors and lenders all contrive to make them adversaries.

‘It happens.’ I reply, beckoning her to close the door and sit down. So much for the trite “door always open” policy - some things just have to be done in private.
‘People take offence at the funniest thing.’ I continue, as she tells me one of her deals is in danger of foundering as two couples bicker about carpets and curtains.

‘But a crappy bunch of second hand carpets and some tasteless drapes aren’t worth anything.’ Insists S sulkily.
‘It’s not about the value,’ I tell her sagely. ‘It’s about the principle.’
‘Sod principle,’ she responds feistily ‘There’s a seven grand fee on the line here.’
Suddenly, I’m even more focused on helping her.

‘Principles get in the way of common sense more often than you’d believe.’ I enlighten as she fills me in on the warring individuals, who when they shook hands on the deal were best of friends - always a mistake in my experience. It’s why selling privately is often a false economy. You fail to test the market comprehensively, run the risk of underselling by a margin far more than an agent’s fee, and lose the option of staying at arms length through the extended conveyancing period. Better for a third party negotiator to take - or ease - the flak. I’d rather be a hate figure than risk £7k’s worth of income.

‘People used to use the carpets and curtains as negotiating points all the time when I started.’ I tell S pointlessly. She looks at me with that endearing tilt to her head and I sense she is wondering if many homes even had carpets, when I first wielded a measuring stick. ‘Seriously?’ She finally asks. ‘What would they do with a load of off-cuts and curtains that wouldn’t match the décor?’ She has a lot to learn, a good portion of which I’m happy to help her with - short of a formal disciplinary meeting with human resources.

‘Look for a compromise.’ I tell S as I glance at my clock and remember a valuation in thirty minutes. I tend to lose contact with most vendors once the sales progress is in hand as I’m on the road trying to win fresh business. It’s the sharp end of sales. S needs softer skills to prevent the existing deal from going belly up.

‘They’re not in the mood for compromise,’ Responds S. ‘I reckon they hate each other now. I swear they’d each happily lose the deal if someone doesn’t back down.’ ‘That’s why you have to act as a buffer.’ I say swiftly, regretting the turn of phrase as S’s breasts heave agitatedly. ‘You need to find a release valve, ease the tension.’ I seriously need to work on my double entendres.

‘It isn’t really about the fixtures and fittings.’ I tell S. ‘It’s about not feeling you’re being screwed over.’ And now I’m wondering if some mischievous internal word goblin is deliberately feeding me suggestive lines? Hopefully she hasn’t even noticed. ‘Speak to them both,’ I coach. ‘Get both parties to give ground a little, then nobody feels they’ve lost. It’s the secret of good negotiation.’
I should set up a training consultancy, I think briefly - until I realise I’m too old for budget hotel rooms, political correctness and PowerPoint presentations.

‘If you really are in danger of losing the deal,’ I tell S cautiously. ‘Tell them you’ll speak to your manager.’ It’s the nuclear option, but if I have to chip in a few hundred pounds from our fee to keep the vendors sweet and allow them to give ground - and recycled curtains - I’ll do it.

I glow in the dark sometimes.

Missed The Starting Gun - Friday

2011-05-06T06:19:00.004+01:00

‘So what happened to this woman?’ Asks trainee F vapidly, as we park outside a dilapidated semi.
‘Old age.’ I tell the cretin curtly, waving the keys. ‘That tends to be how we get deceased estate sales.’

Of course it’s not strictly true. There was the car crash victim, the Gulf War guy and of course the man who hung himself from the loft hatch after his wife left him. I have more ghosts than I care to remember.

‘Looks a bit creepy.’ Quavers F, as we weave through an overgrown front garden to a weathered front door.
‘It’s the live one’s you need to worry about.’ I tell him gruffly as I jiggle the over-sized tarnished key in a solitary mortice lock then feel the door stick on something heavy.

‘What the f**k is that?’ Asks F anxiously, as I heave on the inert mass blocking our access.
‘Don’t panic,’ I tell him as I shove harder. ‘The woman came out horizontally a few weeks ago. The only dead things here are trees.’ And I ease through the door and stoop to collect the mountain of free papers, sheathes of junk mail and few personally addressed pieces of post, where nobody has notified the sender of death.

Depressingly there’s a post card from a similarly elderly person, judging by the cultured yet spindly handwriting. Voyeuristically I find myself reading the inane report from a northern seaside excursion and the, now impossible, expectation of a get together next Christmas with the extended family. They’re the one’s looking for a quick sale as soon as probate is granted - and a Caribbean holiday.

‘It smells in here.’ Announces F, as I fleetingly wish I’d brought negotiator S with me - only to realise proximity to my buxom employee in an empty house could be uncomfortable for both of us. Particularly as the bed doesn’t seem to have been made up since the ambulance men arrived. I know estate agents have a bad reputation but even I draw the line at trying to shag a staff member in a grubby flannelette-sheeted hollow with pictures of the grandchildren watching from the cabinet.

‘This place is like a museum or something.’ Posits F as he holds the end of my tape measure against a garishly 1970s style wallpaper. One I remember when it was fashionable. The lounge has that musty aroma homes get after only a week or two away on holiday. Factor in a couple of decades of retirement waiting for visitors - other than The Reaper - and the stench becomes overpowering.

‘Look at this thing.’ Calls F excitedly, lifting the lid on an age-darkened piece of wooden technology. He peers in to the hinged opening with that look of simian bemusement and sees a record deck. With a start I realise he’s examining an old radiogram. One that’s identical to a friend’s parents’ early adopter Sony, the machine I first heard Pink Floyd’s Dark Side Of The moon on. Suddenly I feel really old.

‘Wow did people actually listen to these?’ Asks F incredulously, the bulky music player as alien to the iPod generation as a wind-up gramophone was to mine.
‘You’d be surprised how time catches up with you.’ I tell him ruefully, sounding similar to a well-known Floyd tune, and probably not unlike the late occupant of the house we are in.

‘Everything creeks.’ Says F innocently, as I straighten my back from bending to the skirting board with my tape and scowl his way.
‘The floorboards.’ He adds hurriedly, as he catches my fleeting misunderstanding.

The house is no different to a hundred other deceased vendors’ homes I’ve dealt with. Only the bathroom suite colour and the electrical equipment differ in the final analysis.

‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ Questions F, as we return to the cobwebby hall and I notice peevishly that another agent has already dropped a touting flyer through the door.
‘Not necessarily ghosts.’ I tell him with unexpected clarity. ‘More like echoes in time, sort of reminders of what’s gone before.’
‘Hmm.’ Offers F nervously.
He hasn’t a clue what I’m talking about.

He’s not alone.

Burnt Offerings - Sunday

2011-05-02T06:44:00.004+01:00

We go to a local post-wedding barbecue with my wife’s warning to behave myself, fresh in my ears. It’s an uneasy mix of “friends” by virtue of nothing more in common than postcodes, simmering tensions over parking rights, and noisy party issues. I’m thinking self-medicate with alcohol and a shady spot away from interrogation by televised property programme addicts.

I know enough about myself and others, to realise sunshine, booze and badly cooked burgers equals boorishness at best and salmonella and a scrap at worst. I learned early in my career, having watched the resident surveyor and the pompous prig from the commercial property section heading to the pub at lunchtime, that drinking during the day was not a good habit. Some drunks become garrulous, some sleepy, and others want to pick a fight, none good options if you’re climbing a ladder later or flogging a retail unit to the Salvation Army.

‘Oh God, it’s full of people I abhor.’ I say sotto voiced to my wife, as we arrive and I switch on default mode smile, with all the sincerity I can muster where a fee is not involved.
‘Just don’t say anything contentious.’ She hisses, as I scan the knots of people already formed round tables, sun shades and of course, the Aussie-sized gas barbecue.
‘How nice to see you.’ Gushes the lady host, towards my wife mainly, although she takes my proffered bottle of Rioja swiftly enough.
‘We wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’ Replies my wife effortlessly, clearly having forgotten my desperate scanning of the television schedules looking for excuses to cancel.

I manage to sidle away to the drinks table and procure a cold beer, avoiding eye contact but keeping tabs on the bottle of red. Several animated conversations are already in full swing. I sense trouble. The cauldron of Carlsberg, clashing egos and chardonnay, almost guaranteed to cause a commotion. I can only hope a couple of matrimonials and a forced sale or two are the end result. I have business cards in my shorts pocket.

‘So the estate agent eh?’ Accuses an acne-scarred man with bald head, and bovine companion. Several nearby conversations splutter to a halt and I feel steely stares coming my way – at least I imagine I do. People love to know how much their home has appreciated when times are good but they’re not so keen to take the hit when the economy founders. Either way, I get the blame.

‘We’re thinking of moving.’ Blusters the man as I spot his pate is already red raw and hope he’s forgotten the sun cream.
‘Really?’ I bat back neutrally. I should always be prospecting for business, hence the cards nestling by my crotch, but sometimes you don’t want to deal too close to home. Besides this man is a time-waster.

‘Yep. If we get the right price of course.’ He chortles as his cow-faced wife chews on an unaccustomed – by the look of her figure – stick of celery. Everyone will move at the right price, I think sourly, as I mentally run the numbers and know he’ll take it personally.
‘Of course we won’t hold you to it.’ He lies, as his wife nods in agreement, after I’ve tried to obfuscate then generalise.

‘What did you say to them?’ hisses my wife as she joins me clutching a soft drink and I watch a funeral pyre smokestack rising from the antipodean meat crematorium.
‘Just a few home truths.’ I tell her with a chuckle. Ones short-lived, as another pair of tormentors heads my way like wasps to a jam sandwich.

‘So your lot had their arses smacked over that PPI fiasco.’ States another instant expert, several beers and several hurt householders later. No sooner have I extricated myself – banks no longer owning too many estate agencies - than two bores want free advice on how to sell without revealing a boundary dispute.

Head spinning from booze, guts churning from charred meat products, mind numbly adding noughts to values, I feel a hand on my arm. Years ago an urgent: ‘I think I should take you home now’, presaged an evening of adult entertainment.

Now I just want the lie-down.

God Save The Queen - Tuesday

2011-04-26T19:30:00.003+01:00

‘Can’t we just have a few Union Jack flags in the window?’ Pleads negotiator S persuasively. Shame video phones have yet to catch on, her fall-through rate would plummet if vacillating vendors, picky purchasers and lazy lawyers could actually see her – although on reflection as women make most of the buying decisions on property, maybe not. No lady likes to feel under-endowed – other than in the insurance department.

‘I’m not sure it would help promote sales.’ I stall unconvincingly, looking round the office for moral support from the males. Fat finance man M is indifferent to anything other than the bacon sandwich he’s assaulting unappetisingly. Idiot trainee F appears to be chewing gum surreptitiously, despite my verbal warning – unless it’s just a bovine perpetual motion he can’t avoid, and assistant manager T is on the phone, sotto voiced. It won’t be a punter judging by his body language, I’m guessing broody older girlfriend ratcheting-up the nuptial pressure – particularly now.

‘Everybody loves a wedding.’ Insists S, as I look across to loose lush B, in lettings. She’d probably love a wedding if she could find a mug mad enough to give her a ring – or even a ring back.
‘What?’ She asks aggressively, catching my eye with the sort of challenge that frightens away any man who can remember Fatal Attraction.

‘I was just saying,’ interjects S. ‘We should do something for the Royal Wedding before it’s too late.’
‘Cancel it?’ Suggests T testily. He’s finished his phone call, and I’m guessing it involved inspecting hotel venues and sharing the cost with the future in-laws. Not sure who’ll pay for the shotgun.
‘No,’ responds S with a raise of those pretty eyebrows – does she pluck, I wonder unhelpfully as she adds. ‘You men are all the same.’

‘It’s just one big expensive bun fight for toffs.’ States M, unaware of any yeasty irony. ‘We should just take the day off and get plastered.’
‘We’re open Sunday hours.’ I remind him, still smarting at the bean counter bosses insensitivity. I still curse the first agent who opened on the Sabbath just to trump his competitors – briefly. It didn’t work, just sparked an opening hours arms race leading to evening tele-sales, seven-day service and divisive bank holiday rotas.

‘I reckon it could cost us business, not gain.’ Suggests T. ‘People are pissed off hearing about them already. Who cares what her dress looks like?’ I wince for T even before the women start hissing in his direction.
‘Only a male could say that.’ Snarls S as B adds an unpleasant sexual suggestion that T is unlikely to try – at least sober.

‘That lot up the road have got bunting in the window and Union Jack cushions on the sofas.’ Pouts S in my direction. Firstly, we don’t have a pseudo lounge area in our office where passers-by can sit and have a coffee, or freeload on our broadband connection. Secondly, as they are independent I’m guessing there are no corporate restrictions on individuality, flair and patriotic soft furnishings. And thirdly, I’m not sure the royal family do anything constructive for the country – I seem to remember indifference, fledgling anarchy and some spitting for the 1977 jubilee celebrations. I’m still not sure how a punk rocker became a greying estate agent – lack of ability to gob as far as the stage or a fear of hepatitis, possibly?

‘I reckon we should set up a trestle table and barbeque and flog burgers in the street.’ Chortles M. Not sure if he’s being sarcastic or just wanting a free lunch - although we’d make more money selling baps than bungalows that day.
‘You’d need a licence.’ Chips in T. ‘Health and safety.’ I latch on to that easy out with un-edifying haste.
‘Yes, he has a point.’ I say, cheeks already colouring in shame. ‘Plus I think it might be construed a bit racist.’
‘Racist?’ Demands S.
‘Or, royalist?’ I bluster. ‘Sort of offending those that are republicans.’
‘Bollocks.’ Says B dismissively.
‘Sexist…possibly?’

Looks like the boys will be manning the office on Friday – and I’ll forever hold my peace.

Forward Planning - Wednesday

2011-04-20T18:58:00.004+01:00

‘Why are we stopping?’ Asks trainee F dozily.
‘Planning notice.’ I tell him, reversing at full speed into a space before someone else bags it. It’s resident’s only parking but I’m not intending to stay long, and we pay enough in business rates anyway.

‘Where is it then?’ Asks F as I grab my clipboard and make to get out.
‘ On the gate post,’ I tell him brusquely. ‘You’ve got to keep your eyes peeled for this sort of thing.’
‘I was watching the young mum with the pushchair.’ Giggles F, nodding towards a fast-departing woman who seems to have regained her figure effortlessly, judging by the tautness of her micro-skirt.

When I was F’s age the thought of lusting after any woman with children seemed mildly pervy, now judging by the youthful look of the disappearing yummy mummy I’d be happy to do her mother - or at least think about doing her.

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Asks F, still distracted and no doubt mentally ravaging the unsuspecting pushchair woman before her stitches have healed. I worry about the boy, I really do.

‘No, stick with the car.’ I tell him, wincing as I exit awkwardly and my back grumbles along with my stomach. ‘And keep an eye out for traffic wardens.’ I toss him the car keys I’ve tugged from the ignition on autopilot. F is dozy enough to be still sat in the passenger seat as a carjacker drives off. Unlike the stolen motors with babies still strapped in the car seat appeals, I’m not sure I’d bother to ask for him back. Just take the insurance money.

You try and give them the benefit of your knowledge, I think to myself, as I approach the laminated planning notice wired to the rickety post. Try to get them to think laterally, to be alive to sales opportunities. But in F’s case he probably thinks proactive is a stomach-friendly yoghurt.

The house is on a corner plot with the sort of generous garden you wouldn’t get nowadays. I’ve spotted it before of course, but short of touting by knocking the door I haven’t been able to winkle out an opportunity to engage with the owner. Someone else has though.

Scanning the brief details and jotting down the local authority reference number, I realise I’m probably too late. An architect is listed on the application and no doubt a developer is already involved, probably with a conditional contract locking out third parties and tying the unsuspecting vendor to a one-sided agreement. Just in case, I hobble back to the car and grab my door handle. It’s locked.

‘Open up.’ I snarl angrily, tapping on the window until my knuckles ache. F is drumming his fingers on the dash and the deep booming of a base note throbs so loud the bonnet is vibrating. Finally, sitting bolt upright in the seat he sees me, eyes like a startled rabbit as he spots my demeanour. The fool reaches for the stereo, stills the techno-noise and then blips the remote. The car alarm goes off as I snatch open the door.

Stream of expletives later, car still rocking on its springs, I curtly instruct F to open the glove box. His hands seem to shake slightly, unless it’s some sort of bodily echo rippling though his frame, post decibel overdose.

‘Corporate leaflet.’ I say exasperated as he tentatively pulls out my meagre selection of compact discs. Eventually he hands me a wodge of pre-printed bullshit, claiming we are way better than we actually are. I remove a business card from my suit jacket top pocket, add it to the handout and wearily trudge back to the house in question.

‘Will they fall for that?’ Asks F softly when I ease myself back into the car, arse first, swivelling my legs by hand, like a ventriloquist’s dummy.
‘Probably not.’ I tell him wearily. ‘But you’ve got to speculate to accumulate.’
‘Like doing the lottery.’ Nods F knowingly.
‘No nothing like that.’ I say testily, spinning the key and hearing the starter motor clunk expensively.

Maybe the owner will call me – although I wouldn’t bet on it.

No Man's Land - Saturday

2011-04-17T08:31:00.004+01:00

To another unwanted social function. I’m really not that popular, trust me. My wife is though and she insists someone goes with her. I’d rather be reading or blogging, but life is a constant compromise if you want to keep your house.

‘Oh, I don’t believe it.’ I grumble before the coats are off. She looks at me with a cross between anger and regret before asking what it is this time? ‘That twat over there.’ I hiss, realising with a room like this, I might need to narrow it down a bit. ‘The one with the absurdly long hair for his age.’ I clarify brusquely. ‘The one who looks a bit like David Essex?’ She asks, revealing a still slightly unsettling girlhood crush. If David Essex is still alive, he would be crumblier than this guy, but only by about fifteen years.

‘If you mean the sale-wrecking surveyor with a grey mullet and a sulky demeanour.’ I tell her. ‘Then yes. I hate him.’ ‘How can you hate him?’ She asks annoyingly. ‘He’s only doing his job.’ My testy retort that the Nazi’s all said that, doesn’t go down well, so I slope to the drinks table and try to avoid catching the object of my scorn’s eye.

Now it’s a truth every residential estate agent knows, that building surveyors are only there to pull to pieces the structure and sale price of any property you’ve agreed a deal on. They slink into your office for the keys, pass a few unconvincing pleasantries in exchange for some comparable sales data to protect their arses, then post the keys back when you are closed to avoid committing to a valuation, or opinion, that might be questioned.

The next thing you hear is the buyer has pulled out, or wants a renegotiation on the price on the back of a auto-generated survey with more caveats than a European court ruling. Invariably the house isn’t really falling down, the price agreed simply reflects effective marketing and a smidge of healthy competition. None of this seems to matter to the dodgy-damp-proof-course doom-mongers.

‘Thought it was you.’ Chimes an irritatingly cultivated voice behind me, as I curse myself for daydreaming and drinking without paying attention. I wouldn’t last five minutes in a real jungle. It’s the man with a twenty-five year old hair cut and questionable dress sense. He looks pretty miserable. A fact he confirms after two surprisingly swift beers with chasers, while he confides in me and saves the cost of a phone call to The Samaritans.

I can just see my wife across the other side of the party in animated conversation with a group of women, but my escape route is blocked. Besides, I don’t want to upset the ageing yuppie, he might be valuing one of my precious sales next week. Drinking with the enemy, marginally better than sleeping with them.

‘I hate my job with a passion.’ He slurs angrily. I’m taken slightly aback and despite myself find I’m warming slightly to the guy. I ought to still despise him for the income he’s cost me over the years. But we seem to be engaged in an improbable cathartic Jack Daniels-fuelled, out of the trenches, game of metaphoric football.

‘Yeh it’s the public that do your head in though, isn’t it?’ I offer in a comradely way. ‘Bastards.’ He spits. ‘You do your best for them, try to be even-handed, point out the good points and the bad, and all they want to do is sue you if you miss a bit of damp in the single-skin extension.’ He pauses for breath, his creased, tired face, emoting a mix of despair and resignation. It’s like a bloody mirror.

‘And you lot probably hate me.’ He states emotionally. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’ Responds a voice, used to days of artifice and obfuscation. ‘Yes you do,’ he continues. ‘Detest the low valuations, the retentions and the third-party reports. Do you know? When I qualified this was a respected profession, meant something. I should have been a partner by now and all I do is stick my head in dusty lofts and get covered in cobwebs.’

A better evening than expected.

Meltdown - Tuesday

2011-04-12T21:46:00.005+01:00

‘Look at that.’ exclaims trainee F as we take a rat-run short cut down a car-crowded street, to try and avoid the traffic. He’s pointing to another Victorian terraced house with a set of ugly solar panels despoiling the roof. ‘They really seem to be catching on.’

‘Wall cladding was fashionable for a while, too,’ I tell him sarcastically. ‘Now it’s about as popular as the plague.’ ‘Yeh but if it saves the planet and everything.’ Continues F. He’s only with me to help measure-up an empty home. I can’t be arsed to try and fix the tape end to another radiator, only for it to pull off half way across the room again. The days when you could guess a room size are long gone.

‘Do you think a brace of bug-ugly roof panels will stop the North Pole from melting?’ I ask sourly. Even as I say it I recognise I’m being grouchy and I also recognise nobody really understands the science yet. But I have a feeling it’s a cumulative effect, born of having too many setbacks and getting hot under the collar too often. Cranial warming?

‘Yes but you have to start somewhere.’ Persists F. ‘You know what the insulation qualities of an average home in this road are?’ I snap, waving at the elderly housing stock and braking sharply as some oik on a skateboard flashes out from behind a parked car, giving me the finger in surly response to my angry wave.

‘Probably band D or E?’ Replies F to my surprise. It seems someone actually takes notice of the Energy Performance Certificates. Perhaps it’s a generational thing? The expensive and inefficient roof panels on the property we’re discussing certainly aren’t generating much. Not if you take into account the upfront cost. A payback of a couple of decades and/or someone else having a leasehold interest in your roof, doesn’t appeal to me. But then F is going to be around for long after I’m gone - unless I top him first.

‘Roof insulation, double glazing, cavity wall insulation.’ I advise F as we reach a junction to discover the dodge was worthless, as the traffic is still gridlocked. ‘In that order?’ Asks F, as I wind down the window and try to look plaintive - and not too like an estate agent.

‘Probably,’ I intone as four cars in a row inch past and pretend they haven’t seen me. ‘But I’m none too convinced about cavity wall insulation if I’m honest. They used to pump foam into them in the seventies and eighties, and the moisture ended up bridging the cavity and rusting the wall ties.’

F looks at me with what borders on unsettling affection, before saying. ‘Man you’ve been around, like forever.’ ‘Thanks.’ I mutter as a woman doing her lipstick and talking into a mobile phone declines to let me into the traffic. Magnificent multi-taskers women, they can check their makeup, discuss their boyfriend and snub a man in a company car all without dipping the clutch. No wonder they’re taking over the world.

Perhaps I’m in denial? Perhaps if I came back in a hundred years or so, every home would have triple glazing, grass growing on the roof and its own solar generated power source. Although in the fifties people thought we’d be in flying cars by now, not sat nose-to tail in diesel fumes waiting for some bastard to let you out.

I passed an unfamiliar school not long ago and thrusting out of the yard was the incongruous sight of a vast white pole, topped by a spinning wind turbine. Somehow the governors had circumnavigated the planning regulations – you’d think there’d be little spare cash for brown envelopes and backhanders on the parent/teacher association – and this thing was now despoiling the playground.

The only time these turbines seem to spin fast enough to generate anything other than righteousness they end up slicing songbirds. I’d imagine depositing diced feathery bits of blackbirds on the tarmac would necessitate extra counselling for the kids, although it might create a few more vegetarians and save a few frogs from being dissected.

But then what do I know?

Plough And Scatter - Friday

2011-04-09T06:44:00.007+01:00

On the way back from an abortive appointment I take the long route, via a couple of roads that are perennially popular. It helps to know your patch like the back of your hand, local knowledge something overgrown companies and web based sales outlets, can never truly offer.

No matter what the market, some locations always attract interest. The road I enter now has long been one of the most sought after in town, so I’m surprised to see a couple of For Sale boards.

Most homes change hands swiftly when they come up for grabs here, with the majority of owners convinced they don’t have to stoop to something as seedy and needy as the agent’s board is perceived to be.

I’m not a big fan of touting other agent’s instructions, particularly as they’ll only do the same to your register once the tit-for-tat bad-mouthing and dubious claims of being so much better than the other outfit, starts. Besides, if they can’t sell in this road they’ve probably overpriced to eye-watering degrees.

‘Morning.’ I chirp to a couple of owners in their gardens, as I exit the car slowly, back griping. I’m rewarded with unwelcoming stares that in decades gone by might have had me checking my ethnicity, but now has me checking my flies.

One of the fastidious gardeners stops trimming their hedgerow to spirit-level-requiring rigidity and scuttles back towards their front door. The nearer of the two just eyes me suspiciously, an unspoken challenge in his body language warning me not to come towards him, no matter what my pitch is.

Well-to-do residential area mid-morning, man in a suit. It can only mean he’s selling product or God as far as most people are concerned. Granted they’ll more likely buy some over-priced tea towels from a Scouser with a shoulder bag and a sob story, than news of an impending apocalypse and the need to all gather on some high ground with like-minded weirdos, clutching prayer books and each other, but either way I’m not feeling that welcome.

‘Lovely morning.’ I offer to the man who hasn’t scuttled away. I can see him wrestling with the inherent middle class civility and the requirement to reply, but equally he clearly doesn’t want to be drawn into a conversation. I’m the same at home, but then you need to separate business from scant pleasure.

‘I don’t want anything.’ He eventually mumbles. I’m tempted to invent some improbable spiel about being from a law firm and looking for a beneficiary at his address, before hurrying away and seeing if he’ll chase me. But sometimes it’s best to let fantasy stay in your brain - or your pants.

I make my way towards the two other agents’ boards, having not parked too conspicuously close. I have a glove box full of pre-printed leaflets offering our services, all with the standard health warning about considering the existing agency agreement before appointing another firm, inserted in the small print. I won’t tap the door, that’s too blatant - at least for now.

A yappy dog barks insanely as I pop the first flyer through a tricky opening with one of those annoying draught excluder bristle bars, seemingly designed to keep it cosy for the occupiers but to expose postmen’s fingers to hungry terriers’ teeth. Then as I approach the second house, curtains twitching from at least three different angles, the door opens and a woman in her dressing gown emerges.

An awkward moment materialises as she clutches her robe and looks at the increasingly rare clutch of milkman-deposited bottles on the quarry-tiled doorstep. I proffer the tacky leaflet sheepishly, apologetic tilt to my head trying to convey I’m an upstanding property professional, not a washing line lurker.

‘Estate agent or Jehovah Witness?’ She snaps perfunctorily. I’m tempted to tell her salvation is at hand if she’ll just join me up a mountain top and wait for the flood. It’s about as believable as the, I have cash buyers waiting in the office willing to pay fifty grand over the odds, parable.

Awkward explanation over, I scuttle back to the car. She’ll call me if she needs my help, apparently.

It’ll take a miracle.

Our Survey Says - Monday

2011-04-04T22:11:00.005+01:00

I’m back at the dentist again. Just where does the time go to? I’ll be telling policemen they look young before too long.

The reception desk is peopled by a brace of Slavic looking girls, who weren’t there last time as far as I can recall. But then perhaps my memory is going now too?

‘How are you spelling your surname?’ Asks the one with eyebrows that need plucking, in a thickly accented voice. I want to say something sarcastic but I have gleaned one thing from experience, never piss-off anyone who’ll have you at horizontal disadvantage later. It’s why I try not to argue with my wife.

‘Take a chair.’ Instructs the girl, who if it wasn’t for the pubic eyebrow hair, I’d think should still be at school. The quirky instruction, that normally might warrant a witty reply or a faux exit clutching some seating, is complied with.

I surreptitiously scan the motley collection of fellow patients. Fortunately I don’t recognise anyone this time, but then as this is now one of the few NHS dentists remaining, the demographic is decidedly flea-bitten. I should really go private. But I can’t shake a stubborn latent socialism - not helpful in a salesman - telling me I’ve paid in, so I’m entitled to take something back. Plus the cost of a commercial dental plan had me gnashing more than normal.

I feel overdressed in a suit. The sullen bunch of fellow four-year-old magazine readers all sporting the sort of baggy track-suit trousers, common logo, sports casual look that screams: I can’t afford anything but social housing. No point handing out business cards here.

A small child is running round ankles, both ears pierced, snot dripping from her nose and totally ignored by her chavvy-looking tattoo-sporting mother. The kid is out of control already and a judgemental man might already have her pigeonholed for teenage pregnancy, four children by four different fathers and a life on benefits. I decide to put down last week’s Daily Mail and watch the murky fish tank instead.

‘Hello how are you?’ Asks the dentist when I finally make the chair, forty minutes after my appointed time, with a valuation booked in half an hour. It’s hard enough to win the business as it is, offering a disturbing grin and dribbling on the carpet isn’t going to shorten the odds. ‘I’m fine.’ I lie, as the chair tilts back with a tired sounding whine. It’s the Polish woman again back from maternity leave, at least I think it is. Is it racist to say they all look a bit similar? I must need another reorientation course run by a girl fresh out of university with a 2.1 and an attitude.

The woman’s nursing assistant is definitely a different one from last time, nowhere near as hot. Probably just as well as I seem to remember I was dangerously close to sporting a semi-detached in the chair, last outing. I wonder if they get these girls from one of those dubious dating style websites. Former communist hotties drilling for gold.

On instruction I open my mouth almost as shamefully as if I actually had an erection. Time and targets have taken their dental toll. It’s the sort of jagged grin that if they allowed you to smile for the photograph, would prevent you from getting a US entry visa.

I think I hear an intake of breath from both women, but I’ve no need to check my trousers. ‘How often do you floss?’ demands the one who is still breast-feeding. And I’m thrown. She might as well have asked how often do you jerk-off? As I panic over the correct answer, I realise it might be one and the same. I mean what is the norm? Once or twice a month, seem a bit sad? Or is that normal after twenty odd years of marriage?

‘What’s the average?’ I hear myself ask pathetically. ‘At least once a day.’ Comes the reply. So you’re not such a wanker after all, taunts my inner voice unhelpfully.

'You’re going to need to try a bit harder.’ Instructs the female voice dismissively before adding. ‘What is it you do again?’

I decide to come clean.

Following In Footsteps - Thursday

2011-03-31T18:45:00.005+01:00

Back in another old person’s home with trainee F assisting in lieu of a laser tape measure – the batteries are really expensive and I never truly trust the reading after that studio flat registered a quarter acre living room.

This old girl is still alive apparently, but she’s racking up care home fees at an alarming rate, her bank balance emptying faster than a footballer’s wallet - and scrotum - in a nightclub.

‘They always smell don’t they?’ States F vaguely, as I think not as much as when they’ve been dead in the bed for a fortnight. ‘The old people or their homes?’ I ask, as I gaze at another mantelpiece populated with fading photographs of 1970’s fashion and bad hair cuts. Styles that I sadly recognise.

‘Both I guess,’ muses F blankly. ‘Do they eat a lot of cabbage or something?’ Perhaps I will replace those batteries after all, or perhaps I could register as a charity and get some sort of tax break?

We creak along a darkened landing, floorboards groaning like a pensioner with bedsores. The bathroom is a miniature time warp. An ancient green suite, circa 1930- odd, with chipped edges and vast cumbersome taps - one of which is inevitably dripping - dominates the stuffy space. A sludgy brown stain cuts through the enamel marking a few decades worth of leakage and underlining you never could get a reasonably price plumber.

A solitary toothbrush, bristles worn and thinning, sits in a porcelain mug with the incongruous sight of Charles and Diana’s wedding date etched on the side. Idly I wonder what would have happened had the princess lived? And then how much the souvenir mug might have been worth, had it not had years of lime scale markings down Charles’s in-bred face. He won’t need to worry about care home costs – particularly if his mother is still on the throne.

‘What do you think this place is worth? Asks F, interrupting my reverie. It’s a question the old woman’s two sons are anxious to have answered, with estimated annual costs of a cramped room and a soft food only diet, circa £35,000 a year.

I gaze out at the jungle-like garden. It’s big but the planning rules around here mean at best a one-for-one on the plot, so there’s no obvious development potential. It’s a case of how much the house is worth up together, minus the update cost, less a chunk for aggravation or profit margin. Not an exact science but then house valuing has always been more of an art.

‘What do you think, bearing in mind the condition?’ I ask F, ducking the question but trying to educate at the same time. He frowns, the audible whirring of confused cogs nearly overriding a noisy carriage clock, that if I could be arsed to turn round, probably has the retirement date of the long-dead husband engraved on the back.

F is still pondering when we move into the gloomy bedroom, unmade bed an uncomfortable reminder of how swiftly your circumstances can change with a fall or a fracture. F idly opens a wardrobe, a habit I’ve been trying to stem since the complaint about the missing underwear – I’m reasonably sure someone just stole the panties from the washing line…

‘Whoa, it pongs even more in there.’ Grimaces F recoiling physically. I sniff the air cautiously but it’s a familiar aroma and far from the worst one. ‘Those are probably mothballs.’ I tell him, spying a couple of ancient, politically incorrect animal pelts. And the imbecile stares at me head cocked to one side. I get it just before he says it - but it doesn’t make it any better.

‘You can actually smell them?’ Queries F hesitantly, as I jettison any hope of him guessing remotely near the correct price for an ideal refurbishment in a sought after area, with good schools and transport links.

‘Oh right.’ He finally says sheepishly, after I’ve explained no matter how cheesy an insect’s gonads might be you’re unlikely to smell them against a backdrop of ancient footwear, unwashed surgical stockings and bath salts.

Of course, it’s all bollocks at the end of the day.

Clear As Mud - Monday

2011-03-28T21:06:00.005+01:00

‘Some posh-voiced bloke on line two wants to know who our Data Protection Officer is?’ Announces assistant manager T and I feel my shoulders sag. ‘Do we even have one?’ Asks negotiator S with a beguiling tilt of her head. ‘What’s a Data Protection Officer?’ Asks trainee F, with an exasperating shake of his cloth-eared cranium. ‘That’ll be him.’ Chortles morbidly obese mortgage man M, indicating me with sadistic glee as he waddles past, face fixed lustily on the greasy Greggs the baker bag in his hand.

‘Take a number and tell him I’m out.’ I tell T using a standard stall I’m never proud of and few believe. ‘He’s with someone at the moment.’ Offers T down the handset as I hop in exasperation and the caller says he’ll hold. ‘I said out!’ I snap, face flushing hotly, as T waves a half-hearted apology and F giggles like a mental patient.

I hurry back to my office trying to remember just what the hell my response is supposed to be on a Data Protection query? I remember the part about me being the Protection Officer – that being a default chore as Branch Manager – and I recall you have to keep records for up to six years, hence the boxes of spent files cluttering up the stationery room. After that it all becomes a little hazy.

‘He’s still holding.’ Says T when my line jangles and I answer reluctantly. ‘Persistent f***er isn’t he?’ ‘Did you get who he is?’ I ask, fumbling in my filing cabinet with one hand. ‘Sounds like a lawyer.’ Guesses T portentously. ‘One of those long company names with three or more geezers in the title - that or an undertaker.’

I instruct T to buy more time and try and get the man to accept a call back, as I fail to locate the copious notes on the legislation, seemingly at direct odds with the Freedom Of Information Act. I have a horrible feeling I’m responsible for that too, but the paperwork I need certainly isn’t freely available. I haven’t a clue where I filed it.

‘What would you have tagged it?’ Asks negotiator S as she bends distractingly to the bottom drawer. She’s supposed to be helping but I’m not sure she’s raising anything other than my blood pressure. ‘It’ll all be on-line somewhere anyway won’t it?’ Shrugs S as she eases herself upright and I hold a file in front of my trousers.

‘Isn’t that the point?’ I ask voice croaking alarmingly. ‘That you can’t have people accessing digital data readily? Isn’t that why I keep tripping over dusty brown boxes every time the photocopier runs out of paper?’ ‘Not sure.’ Shrugs S with an impish smile - her attention span not as long as her legs.

After she’s gone I trawl my faltering memory for the information I’m trying to retrieve. There was an assimilation course - of course. But I have a feeling I spent most of the time looking out the window watching lumbering 747s approaching Heathrow. Up until now I haven’t felt the need to re-read the notes, figuring as Data Protection Officer I already do my bit by being the last out of the office most days, and usually setting the alarm. ‘He was pretty pissy when he eventually rang off.’ Confirms T when he hands me the telephone number. ‘He wasn’t Trading Standards was he?’ I ask suddenly fearful. The taped interview something I’ve no wish to re-visit. ‘No,’ assures T. ‘Far too well spoken. Anyway,’ he continues breezily. ‘Don’t we just stall and tell then there’ll be a fee if they want any files?’

And now I’m even more confused. ‘I think that’s for Freedom Of Information.’ I falter unconvincingly. ‘Sounds like the same whore in a different dress.’ Proclaims T with the conviction of youth – and the bloke who won’t be named in the writ. ‘I thought I’d do the three viewings last thing.’ I announce later, striving for casual and convivial. But they all start laughing. ‘Won’t be calling back the angry solicitor then?’ Chuckles T, rumbling me comprehensively.

Transparently not.

Case In Hand - Wednesday

2011-03-23T19:38:00.008Z

‘What is that relic?’ Asks assistant manager T scornfully. Once I’ve quickly checked my flies aren’t open, I feel a little hurt. But then if an agent took every putdown and setback to heart he’d be having a by-pass operation before his first grey hair.

‘It’s a portable radio.’ I reply testily. The little battery-powered AM/FM unit has relayed over twenty budget speeches, whilst I’ve huddled up to the speaker anxious for some sort of fiscal fillip that might help me flog a few more homes. So far, it’s only ever delivered disappointment. Ill-thought out artificial stimuli that do more harm than good in the long run, meddling in market forces that have all the effectiveness of sandbags against a Tsunami, and another pompous prat who’ll be working in the City with an index-linked pension, by the time their asinine accounting skills are rumbled.

‘Why don’t you just follow it on-line?’ Asks T with a puzzled look. ‘This is traditional.’ I chip back. ‘Like the briefcase.’ ‘Didn’t they retire that?’ Asks negotiator S. She has a point. Two outstanding points, as it happens.

‘You should retire that thing too.’ Sneers mountainous mortgage man M, gesticulating towards my battered radio. ‘Get updates on your phone man.’ Man? Who does he think he is? Just because you consume the calories of an American teenager and have the waist size to match, doesn’t mean you have to sound like one. He’ll be calling me “Dude” next.

‘My phone doesn’t do updates.’ I finally offer defensively. ‘I think it might do.’ Suggests S tentatively. ‘I had that model three or four changes ago.’ Now I feel like a Luddite again. I can only just manage to upload property details on to the mainframe unaided, the digital camera seems to hate me with more vigour than an inanimate object should possess, and don’t even start me on laser tape measures.

‘It doesn’t matter what medium I use to learn the details.’ I say wearily. ‘The end result is always the same. Petrol up, alcohol and tobacco up, pensions plundered and property pilfered.’ ‘They wouldn’t put booze up again would they?’ Slurs loose lettings lush B from her desk. She can’t have been drinking this early in the day, so I’m guessing it’s a residual thing. That or she still has an unpleasant taste in her mouth.

‘What about Stamp Duty?’ Asks trainee F. ‘I’m not sure,’ I falter. ‘They might tinker with it but you end up with the law of unintended consequences coming in to play.’ F looks at me vacantly before saying. ‘No, I meant what is it for? What is Stamp Duty for?’

It’s probably the best question the imbecile has ever asked. M is there before me. ‘It’s just a tax on moving.’ He proclaims sourly. ‘It has nothing to do with housing and everything to do with maximizing revenue.’ ‘That doesn’t seem fair.’ Ventures F naively. He probably still believes in the tooth fairy and expects fuel tax and car licence costs to be spent on the roads.

Undeterred but none to hopeful either, I clear my desk, open my daybook to a fresh page and crouch before the wireless like some wartime patriarch listening for updates from the battlefront.

‘So that wasn’t too bad was it?’ Asks T when I emerge from my sanctuary. ‘Nothing on alcohol.’ Says B chirpily. ‘Still didn’t get the Stamp Duty thing.’ announces F. ‘How did people avoid it anyway?’ ‘Had to be a Muslim or a Russian Oligarch. Or both.’ Gripes M. ‘I don’t think you can say that.’ Ventures S hesitantly. You’ve got to love her.

‘Is that first time buyer scheme to bung £250million in the pot going to help?’ Asks T. ‘Might help builders get over the odds for unsold stock.’ Says M. ‘It’s a pain in the arse trying to explain a home with shared equity.’ You try valuing one, I think glumly, as S asks how it works.

Halfway through a stumbling explanation of part purchased, part rented from a Housing Association, I founder on stair-casing. ‘Is that a bit like tea-bagging?’ Asks F with a grubby grin.

I need a drink.