Dancing With Wolves - Friday

The monsoon-like rain is lashing against the office window again, as I think of that outstanding planning application for a green field new-build site, just downhill from the river. Just hope once the money has changed hands that they don’t call the development The Meadows, or Waterside Gardens, because sure as night follows day the roads are going to flood and the thought of Kevin Costner resurrecting his sunken film career by jet-skiing through a forest of soggy For Sale boards, isn’t appealing. Waterworld II - just when you thought it was safe to throw up some cheap timber-framed homes, with no effective drainage system….

‘This weather is just the pits.’ Says trainee F, gazing at the downpour. I had penciled in a leaflet drop for the limp-brained buffoon, but even I have some conscience intact. Some.

‘Was it always like this?’ Asks negotiator S, looking at me with that disarming smile.

‘What’s that meant to mean?’ I demand. ‘I didn’t crew for Noah’s Ark you know.’

S goes slightly red. ‘I just meant you’ve been around for a lot longer….’

‘Careful.’ I caution. The leaflets are still on the printer and some people would pay good money to have a top-heavy woman in a wet t-shirt, run up their drive.

‘She means you are as old as the hills and might have seen a few floods and the odd ice age.’ Says lettings lush B, with a chuckle. She’s no spring chicken. Just because she shags blokes half her age, with names nobody can spell - including the owners - doesn’t make her the fountain of youth.

‘She has a point.’ Contributes fat finance fiddler M unhelpfully. ‘You have been in the business about double the time anybody else in town has. They’ll probably stick a blue plaque on the office when you finally move out.’ The others all laugh and I glance at the stack of A4 leaflets once more. It would be churlish - but tempting. Instead the phone rings.

‘Who’d like a viewing on the grumpy bloke’s flat in half an hour?’ Asks S once she’s fielded the call. The office falls silent, just the soft hum of the computer hub for company. Assistant manager T cracks first.

‘In this weather they must be serious.’ He looks at S and she blushes again. ‘Or complete time-wasters.’ He adds suspiciously.

That’s the problem with this business; you try and qualify people, ascertain their means and motivation but it’s an art not a science. Every agent has tales of afternoons spend with complete messers who have no intention of buying anything. They’ve been aroused by watching daytime televised property porn and fancy a ride in a base model Vauxhall with someone accommodating and well-dressed, who doesn’t charge by the hour. Conversely we’ve all dismissed someone as a fantasist, who promptly went along the road and bought a home you were also selling, from the opposition.

‘I think they are wasters.’ Says S, hesitantly. ‘Although….’

‘Although what?’ Demands T. He won’t want to get those designer-framed glasses steamed up, and the prissy over-priced raincoat he brings in each day has more absorbency than a sponge. Style over substance - pretty much sums-up T.

‘Why is everybody looking at me all of a sudden.’ Says F colouring up, though not as attractively as S.

‘Because everyone shafts the trainee.’ Says B with a smirk. Please, she can’t be doing him too? Not that I would accommodate her in a month of Sundays, but it’s bit hurtful not to be even asked.

B has a point, although a somewhat Dickensian one. When I started in the industry - in a drought as it happens, but a sales one rather than a water shortage - it was the hapless youngest, least experienced staff members, who did all the crap jobs nobody else would. Licking envelopes, franking mail, photocopying particulars and foot slogging to viewings in homes no other staff member would enter without rubber gloves and wellington boots.

I try to be a more modern manager. Try to be inclusive and even-handed.

‘Not that again ’ Says T looking at me dismissively.

Head or tails?

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My Back Yard - Friday

I see the earnest-looking woman making a bee-line towards me, even as I navigate past the less pressurised lunchtime shoppers. I’ve already dodged the wino in the empty shop unit doorway, and swerved the Big Issue salesman, who in truth has almost given up pestering me with his entreaties. I’ve told him at least once that I already help the homeless. It didn’t go down well.

There was a time when my wife used to lovingly pack me sandwiches, so I could keep going through the working day - after all many people want to view homes in their own lunch hour. But she tired of making them, just as I tired of eating them and I now welcome the chance to stretch my legs and walk to the shop for a meal deal. Of course I have the dilemma of the healthy eating - taste-free range - or something with flavour and big numbers on those nutrition information panels. Fortunately my close eyesight is failing, in line with my resolve.

My resolve to dodge street surveys and charity-chuggers trying to sign me up on a direct debit to support abandoned donkeys in Greece, hasn’t faltered though.  I can sidestep faster than a rugby wingback, even with my battered back, so I’m already dummying left, before zig-zagging right past the bloke in the disabled scooter, as the woman with the leaflets comes closer.

‘Excuse me sir.’ She calls stridently, before showing surprising agility and sidestepping to block my path. ‘I know you don’t I?’

This isn’t great. Telling a past client I haven’t recognised to push off, isn’t going to foster repeat business and if they are a buyer, or tenant, I might still be jeopardising office revenue. Reluctantly I stop.

‘Aren’t we near neighbours?’ Presses the woman waving a black and white, home-printed leaflet, in my face.

We might be, my wife tends to know the names and occupations of people in our road, I prefer not to intermingle. You never know when you might be repossessing their house. Fist name terms don’t always go well, when the locksmith is drilling through the front door and the kids are sobbing on the lawn….

The woman confirms her address - next road down - and smiles triumphantly.

‘Then you are just the sort of person who will want to support this.’ She says, handing me her leaflet. I scan the piece of clumsily edited A4 and my heart sinks. It’s an objection to a big new development, planned for a green space not far from my home. The stern-faced woman is looking at me challengingly. She’s a NIMBY - not in my back yard - protestor. They are all late middle-aged and have the glassy-eyes zest of converts, without any of the naive charm.

‘This is a scandal.’ She continues, blocking my path completely. ‘ There’ll be no green fields left in this area if they get away with building this monstrosity.’ I know all about the proposed development - it’s my job - and I’m conflicted. People need homes to live in, my two sons will need sensibly priced homes themselves. But I also know if planning is granted, the landowner will become a multi-millionaire overnight, and the prices will be astronomical too. Paradoxically, the social housing element the planners will insist on, also conflicts me. There are some people you’d rather not live in the same school catchment area.

‘We’ve put all the links on our leaflet and a draft objection letter template,’ Continues the woman, forcibly handing me the leaflet. ‘And it has the email  addresses’s of the local councillors, so we can make our feelings known’ She’s presuming she knows my feelings. Big mistake. Better not let her know I sell houses for a living. I’m hoping she’s unaware, or surely she wouldn't have stopped me?

‘I trust we can count on your support.’ Says the woman forcibly, as I make to leave. ‘We can’t let these people ruin our lifestyle.’

I know the developer won’t use an agent to sell the homes. I know they won’t put in sufficient flood prevention and the schools are already overflowing. I also know the prices will be unaffordable to most.

It’s objectionable.

-------

Band Aid - Tuesday

A scream echoes round the office and nearly gives me a heart attack. At my age and with celebrities sharing the same birth decade dropping like flies, I can’t afford too many sudden shocks. As it turns out, F the idiot trainee, is the one risking electrocution.

‘What have you done now?’ I demand, as I enter the main office and see F hopping around his desk like some epileptic frog. 

The question is rendered as redundant as he should be, when I see a pool of hot coffee spread across his desk, seeping into his keyboard, as the free mug from a lending institution I really dislike, sits on its side almost empty.

‘He’s spilt his drink.’ Says negotiator S, as she moves to F’s work station and starts to dab at the puddle with some tissues.

‘Careful you don’t short-out the circuitry.’ Cautions assistant manger T, making no attempt to help. My circuitry is close to meltdown, I think uncharitably, and I can’t just be mopped down then switched off and on again.

‘How did you manage that?’ I demand, as F stops jerking around and patting at his sodden shirt sleeve. He won’t know.

‘I don’t know.’ He confirms, clutching at the dampened material, before saying pitiably. ‘I think I may have some sort of burns.’

‘Well it won’t be first degree.’ Suggests loose lettings’ lush B. She knows F flunked an expensive private education and is also well aware you don’t need any qualifications to become an estate agent.

‘You’ll be alright.’ Soothes S as she finishes clearing up the spilt beverage and begins to lift the dripping keyboard.

‘Careful.’ I tell her. ‘It might give you a shock.’

‘It’s low voltage. Shouldn’t be dangerous.’ Opines T still sitting in his chair, some distance away from any potential electrical arc.

‘I’ll get the first aid box.’ Says S, dropping the stained tissues into F’s waste paper bin and heading for the kitchen.

‘Slim chance of anything useful in there.’ Says obese mortgage man M. ‘Health and safety Nazis took everything out of the box, last visit.’

M is right. The paracetamol and Ibuprofen I left in the red plastic container were confiscated. The cream for minor cuts and abrasions removed, in case of allergic reactions and the scissors taken - presumably to stop me from stabbing someone from head office with a job title as meaningless as Esperanto.

‘Yep, he’s right.’ Confirms S, as she lifts the lid of the first aid box and pulls out a couple of faded bandages and square of linen that might double as a sling for a petite pantomime performer, should Snow White be playing at the local theatre.

‘About as useful as a chocolate tea pot.’ Confirms M, with a hearty chuckle.

‘That could cause even more nasty burns.’ Says T, with a smirk.

‘Good one.’ Says T.

If they high-five each other, I might really need to call casualty.

‘They’ve even removed the safety pins.’ Says S, with a shake of her pretty head, as she empties the useless contents on to the desk.

‘But surely….’ Begins F, still waving his arm around piteously.

‘Don’t even go there.’ Says T.

‘No point.’ Adds M, smugly.

Put your hand in the air and you’ll be needing a first responder, I think, scowling at the blubbery buffoon.

‘You’ll be wanting this.’ Suggests B, as she tosses an embossed A4 sized stationery item at me, while S tenderly inspects F’s arm, now his soggy sleeve is rolled up. Fleetingly, I wonder if I can produce a spillage she could attend to. Best not.

I Frown at B. She’s given me the company accident book. A journal where all incidents, no matter how trivial, must be recorded - for personal protection and insurance purposes. Translation: to cover the companies corporate arse cheeks, should someone wish to sue, retrospectively.

‘If I fill anything out there’ll be a load of pointless paperwork.’ I grumble.

‘Your shout.’ Says M, ducking responsibility with surprisingly agility, for one so bulky.

‘I think I’ll live.’ Says F, stoically.

I’ll be the judge of that.

I take a chance. 

If the ambulance chasers turn up, I’ll feign illness.

---------

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Tinderbox - Thursday

‘Here comes the postman with the hots for you.’ Teases assistant manager T, as he peers up a rain-swept high street.

B our loose lettings lush, looks up hopefully, but of course T is referring to S, my nubile negotiator and pretty much the best thing in our window.

‘He’s just friendly.’ Counters S with a hint of a rising blush.

‘He’d like to be.’ Chuckles T, as he tracks the mailman’s progress.

‘Thought he’d be more your bag.’ Contributes fat mortgage man M, nodding towards B. I’m not sure if he meant the weak pun, financial services staff have a charisma removal as soon as they sit their exams.

‘She prefers them younger.’ Says T, to a scowl from B, a look not enhanced when he adds: ‘That way she can help them with their homework.’

That’s the problem when it goes quiet in the office. Idle hands, latent keyboards and silent phones leads to unnecessary frivolity. It’s why I always have a planned leaflet drop up my sleeve. You can’t have people enjoying themselves at work…

‘What happened to the postman’s bike?’ Asks trainee F innocently and momentarily I glance across at B. Fortunately she’s filing her nails again. I’ve told her, but if she wants to inhale powdered cuticle, that will probably surface in some study as a pre-cancerous trigger at some stage, that’s her look out.

‘Health and safety.’ Replies T with a shake of his head. ‘Some dyke in the post office human resources department probably didn’t like anyone getting their leg over.’

‘That’s sexist.’ Snaps S. ‘And a lazy generalisation of personnel people.’

She’s feisty this morning. Definitely some cobbled together claims of buyers waiting handouts, for nearby letterboxes, later.

‘What do you think?’ Asks S, looking at me earnestly.

Does she mean about the lesbians in HR, or the postman’s missing bicycle? It’s tough being in management these days. I have to keep abreast of quicksand-shifting legislation and I don’t do touchy-feely. At least not without a reprimand and another re-education course…

‘I think you shouldn’t make sweeping generalisations about people’s sexuality.’ I say rather pompously.

‘Or their mode of transport.’ Adds M with a rumbustious chortle.

‘God knows what it was like in this industry when you two started.’ Says S with a shake of her head.

I look at M and he gazes back at me.

‘You really don’t want to know.’ I eventually tell her, just as the postman arrives.

‘Morning love.’ Says the man breezily, ignoring B and making a beeline towards S’s desk.

She nods a little frostily. Not sure love is an acceptable greeting any longer, in a world where you have to be careful not to discriminate against peoples’ pet porcupines, in case they get - ahem - prickly.

‘Not much in your dangly bag today.’ Says T pointedly, as I fleetingly wonder if maybe the postie has spent time with B, after all.

‘Bit quiet at the depot.’ Replies the man, invading S’s personal space for longer than I’d like.

‘Did you need a signature or something?’ I demand.

‘No, just shooting the breeze,’ Replies the letter-lugger, with a yellowy-toothed smile.

‘That was a bit abrupt.’ Chides S after the postman has gone, looking rather crestfallen. God, you can’t win.

‘Those guys’ days are numbered anyway.’ Says M, with a hint of a belch. ‘It’ll be all email, and instant messaging before long.’

‘Or parcels in the DX.’ Adds T, referring to the private document exchange service beloved of solicitors and estate agents.

‘Change doesn’t come as fast as you think.’ I tell my team, glancing at the stack of A4 leaflets waiting to be hand delivered later.

‘That’s true,’ agrees T. ‘Or everybody would use those ridiculous on-line agents.’ 

The communal laugh-in rumbles around the office for longer than it should. But then if people think selling a home is just placing an digital listing, they will probably get the agent they deserve.

My phone pings with incoming messages. If it’s offspring they’ll want something costly, wife ditto, but it’s the bean counter boss bothering me with new technology.

I swipe left.

-------

Mystery Dance - Friday

H my vertically-challenged, rival manager rings. It won’t be a social call. He only makes contact to gloat over his office’s superior sales figure, or because he wants something. If he’s run out of stationery again he can twist. Just because I have supplies of A4 paper, printer cartridges and compliment slips that could stock a Government Department for a year, I’m not about to help him out again. Bad enough I have to applaud every time he gets the quarterly performance cup. Apart from my dentist, he’s the only one smiling every time he gets that prize.

‘How are things?’ Asks H flatly. He couldn’t give a toss, so he needs to cut to the chase before the truant officer asks for some ID. Unless the circus is in town and he’s running away to perform with Snow White and six other short arses, H won’t be be leaving  - he’ll be taking.

‘Not too bad.’ I lie.

‘Many sales in the bin?’ Persists H unconvincingly. He’s clearly on for a bumper week. Gloating is such an appropriately small trait.

‘I’m holding my own.’ I say, thinking that’s what he’s probably doing. If I wanted telephone sex I’d dial a premium number, or at least I would if the bean counter boss hadn’t put call-barring on the office phones. Still not sure who the biggest wanker is in my office, but my money is on F the hapless trainee - although with his timekeeping he wouldn’t come early…

The silence becomes uncomfortable.

‘What is it you’re after?’ I say, cracking first. H chuckles.

‘Am I that transparent?’

Plastic tends to be.

‘The thing is,’ says H. ‘Word on the street is there’s a mystery shopper doing the rounds. I shrug and there’s another long silence, until I realise visual clues don’t work so well over the telephone.

‘So?’ I reply. I don’t get bothered unduly by mystery shoppers - individuals employed by head office to test the performance of  staff - as I hope everybody gets treated with courtesy no mater how banal their enquiry. The bitching starts once they’ve been identified as time-wasters - and once they are out of earshot.

‘So, we need to get the jungle drums beating.’ Continues H, urgently. ‘Identify the tosser and circulate their description. Get some photos if we can.’

I can understand H wanting to avoid steep steps but does he really need to cut so many corners? He sails closer to the wind then Sir Ben Ainslie, but as long as he keeps delivering top sales figures -  to continue the nascent nautical analogy - the bean counter boss, makes like Lord Nelson.

‘I’ll put the word out.’ I tell H, tiring of the conversation. He doesn’t know he’s born. Not for the first time I start fantasising that if only I had his office, with it’s superior catchment area, prime position and less than effective competitors, I could…. well… I could be a contender….

‘Make sure you ring me if they come to your office first.’ Urges H.

‘Worried about how your team will perform?’ I goad. Like a bunch of in-bred central London estate agents, his staff are fat on commission and complacency - just without the double-barrelled surnames.

‘We’re too busy to faff about with pretend applicants.’ Snaps back H. ‘If they don’t want to buy, rent or take out a policy, on to the next mug punter.’

You can see why the industry engenders so much love.

‘What makes you think we’ll spot them any more than you will?’ I ask tetchily.

‘Well your lot are…’

‘Are what?’ I snap.

‘Well you’ve got more time on your hands..’

It’s not getting any better.

‘If they get good service you’ve got nothing to worry about.’ I tell H. I may not be able to hear it, but I can feel my head banging against another wall.

‘Do you realise the number of tossers that come through my office door?’ Demands H.

Excluding staff members? I think sourly. Actually I do know, I see the weekly sales data - and that’s after H has sanitised it to make his conversion rates look better.

It’s a game, a numbers game.

-------

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The Threshing Machine - Wednesday

‘Oh come on, who hasn’t topped up the franking machine?’ I grumble.

‘You, probably.’ Fires back assistant manager T, cheekily. He knows I can’t work out how to reload the unit on-line, but that’s not the point.

‘There was a time when I stared in this business we didn’t have franking machines.’ I tell T sagely, as we puzzle over the convoluted instruction manual and look in vain for any sign of negotiator S returning from lunch. She knows how to top up the mailing machine remotely. T and I clearly don’t - remotely.

‘Well we won’t need a franking machine for much longer anyway.’ Opines T, as he stabs at the reset button aimlessly. 

‘Why’s that?’ I ask, knowing the answer, but not liking it much.

‘Because hardly anyone doesn’t have an email address now, wait a few years for the old buggers to die off, or be shipped to nursing homes, and we can send everything out electronically.’

I’ve only just got used to having a franking machine. Technology keeps galloping past. I feel like a carthorse on a racecourse.

The door opens and trainee F rolls in, whistling in a key no musician has ever heard of.

‘Can you top the franking machine up?’ I ask plaintively

F frowns, then says hesitantly.’ I’m a bit short this month, can’t we use petty cash?’

Sometimes I wonder if it’s just me? Perhaps the world has moved on to another level and I’m some anthropological throwback just waiting for the mercy killing of extinction.

‘He means how to reload it on-line.’ Says T coming to my rescue and saving another expensive trip to the office swear box.

’S usually does it.’ Replies F unhelpfully.

‘What if she’s run over by a bus?’ I snap angrily.

‘She hasn’t been has she?’ Says F, eyes brimming up. Good God. In the office, out with pernickety punters, in the high street battling shoppers - you are sometimes never more alone than in a crowd.

‘These were new fangled not that long ago.’ I tell T and F as collectively we stare at the franking machine handbook. It might as well be written in Swahili for all I can fathom. 

‘What did you do. Deliver by hand?’ Asks F to a snort of derision from T.

‘Stamps!’ I shout with more volume than I intended and a side-order of spittle. ‘We used to get A4 sheets of stamps from the Post office and fill, fold then stick.’

‘It must have been like the dark ages when you started.’ Says F after we’ve given up hearing a Fax machine screech every time we unsuccessfully tried to credit the franking machine. S will be back soon, unless the Number 10 really does wipe her out.

‘Well,’ I begin warming to a theme. ‘You didn’t just push a button and upload details to a property portal.’

T moves away, saying flatly. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘And you couldn’t take a dozen photos on a digital camera and retouch them when you got back to the office.’

‘Did you still get dustbins in the foreground back then?’ Shouts T from the kitchen, impertinently.

He knows I hate badly framed photos, with no thought taken before snapping. Company cars in the picture, or the numpty taking the photo reflected back in a window, are two other pet hates.

‘We used to have a film company collect the 35mm rolls every day and bring them back twenty-four hours later.’ I tell F, as he stifles a yawn. ‘So you had to make sure you got a good shot or you ended up with fifty sticky-backed mini-prints to go in the bin.’

‘Did you have one of those retro black and white numbers?’ Asks F, seemingly interested again.

‘He means Polaroid, the instant ones.’ Says T plonking two mugs of grease-flecked tea on the desk.

‘I did as it happens.’ I answer dreamily. Fondly remembering the huge plastic cameras and the excitement of waiting for the pull out print to develop.

‘Good for revenge porn shots and selfies?’ Asks F lewdly.

Never more alone.

--------

Drip Feed - Wednesday

‘How many more of these flyers do you want?’ Asks trainee F, as he leans over the chugging colour printer. It seems to be working for once. If the engineer spends any more time in the office he’ll want his own coffee mug.

‘How many homes in the catchment area we’re going to mail drop?’ I respond. Answering a question with another question is an annoying management trait but the query is out before I realise it.

F stares at me with that vacant possession look he’s perfected, as an unpleasant grinding noise fills the air. It takes a moment before I realise it’s the printer, not F’s overworked grey matter, producing the distressing sound. He pushes the stop button and lifts the lid to expose a mangled piece of A4 with a familiar storyline about, homes wanted in your road, sale just arranged, disappointed buyers offering sexual favours to estate agents for first chance of a viewing….

‘F•••ed again.’ Says loose lettings lush B from her cluttered desk. It could be a statement about her activities last night, but I’m hoping she’d referring to the over-priced heap of electronic tat the bean counter boss made all the offices instal. No doubt it saved him a few pence on leasing costs and produced an attractive bottom line, I think, as appropriately enough negotiator S sways across the office distractingly.

Attention jerked back towards the troublesome machine I continue my internal dialogue. The number crunchers love to fiddle with suppliers to justify their existence, but at the coal face it means multiple jams, and call outs so regular that we all have the engineer’s mobile phone on speed dial. Still, here’s hoping the bean counter gets some more sponsors’ corporate tickets to those major sporting events.

‘So how many do you think we need?’ I say to F, once he’s tugged out several mangled sheets of paper and re-set the printer, with a little help from S.

F looks at S despairingly, as she tries to mime something to him. His frown lines deepen as I begin to lose my cool.

‘Electoral roll!’ I bark aggressively, immediately regretting the phlegm-flecked verbal assault.

F looks at the floor and for a moment I thinks he’s about to perform some sort of gymnastic head-over-heels carpet tumble. Fortunately S steps to the filing cabinet, bends over athletically and brings out the list of names and addressees for our office area.

‘In here,’ she says soothingly, handing the thick printout to the thicko. ‘You’ll find the information in here.’

‘Not sure this is that great.’ Says assistant manager T, as he reads one of the less mangled leaflets, with the fact meets fiction claims and a photograph of a house we sold recently in the area.

‘And why’s that?’ I ask him frostily. I changed it three times before giving F the go ahead to copy scores of them. I also remembered to add the warning paragraph about potential vendors checking terms and conditions before instructing us, if they have another agent already retained. Got to keep the Property Ombudsman happy.

‘I’d think we should have the price we sold number seven for.’ Replies T.

‘New owners get a bit pissy about that.’ I tell T, knowing of several complaints over the years.

‘It’s a matter of record.’ AnswersT. ‘Anyone can check with the Land Registry.’

T is right, but the data takes a while to come through and some buyers are a bit cagey about letting the world know their business - and the transaction is called ‘Private Treaty’.

‘I think this is the best way for now.’ I tell T. I might be wrong, the goalposts have been moved on me so many times, I feel like a forgetful council groundsman. But as we now have several hundred copies of the leaflet I’m happy to take a flyer…

‘It’s starting to chuck it down.’ Announces T, as I come back in to the main office post-piss. F and T are standing by a pile of the aforementioned leaflets. S is manning the phones, B is filing her nails.

Not sure where it goes on the profit & loss account, but I take a rain check.

------

Can't Always Get What You Want - Wednesday

‘So how much you going to sting me for selling my house?’ Challenges the husband as his wife nods in passive-aggressive agreement. I’ve done the preliminary chat, establishing motivation, and the walk-round what is a pretty average semi-detached house from an uninspired architectural period. Now for the tricky bit…

‘If I could just run through the marketing we’d recommend for your home.’ I begin, trying to keep any trace of weariness from my voice. Those that have the fee-blinkers on won’t often be distracted, now matter how financially destructive their obsession with charges alone, might turn out to be.

‘Never mind all that nonsense.’ Interjects the man, clearly enjoying showing his nodding dog wife he’s an Alpha male. He’ll be doing her from behind later suggests a distracting inner voice I could do without - particularly as the wife is staring at me earnestly. She’s either attentively awaiting my reply or I’ve left my flies open.

‘I know you lot are all the same.’ Continues the man, smirking at his wife before adding. ‘I’ve done my research.’ For a moment I wonder if my huge internal groan has verbalised externally. That would be almost as bad as that awkward moment in a client’s house when I made to discharge a gaseous build-up silently, only for a light-fitting-rattler to blast from my nether regions. It was one of the few times I was glad there was a pet dog in the room. God bless you Buster….

One of the most demoralising customers, are those with a little knowledge and a similar amount of intellect. The type of individual who wield a clipboard, with a self-made grid listing the pros and cons of each agent and tick boxes with comment spaces. Ultimately though this guy will be only thinking, price and fee. The future service element and how much an experienced professional operator could save him, doesn’t have a place on his form.

‘I’d like to think not all agents are the same any more than every car, or television is identical.’ I tell him, regurgitating bits from several courses. He has a BMW on the drive and one trainer recommended disparagingly telling owner’s with prestige cars and an aversion to sensible selling fees, that they could be driving a budget brand motor but they’d actually recognised a difference there. To be honest some sales scenarios are best left for the classroom – particularly with dental costs as high as they are.

‘You just stick a photo in the window and put it on a website.’ Goads the man, ruffling towards his wife like the cock I’ve decided he is. And to think I sat exams to try and differentiate myself from the wide-boys and girls with sign-written company cars.

I try to point out that the value of an agent’s expertise often comes during the negotiation phase, or the protracted post sale, pre-exchange period. Endeavour to enlighten him on chain delays, down-valuations, bad survey reports, unhelpful local searches, covenants and deeds of variation. I might as well be conversing in Swahili.

‘You’re having a laugh.’ Snaps the man when I finally tell him my recommended asking price and suggested fee.

‘That’s several thousand pounds.’ Says his wife. ‘Just for advertising it.’

It’s not just for advertising it, plus it’s No Sale No Fee. And I have a feeling it would be the latter in the unlikely event I get the instruction to sell.

‘I’ve been offered way more than that on the selling price.’ Begins the man, showing his grasp of the property market hasn’t been improved by wielding an A4 self-penned comparison sheet.

‘Yeh and we can use an on-line agency for next to nothing.’ Adds his wife, as I think, that’s what you’d get lady.

I’ve seen more on-line agency outfits that have ‘spotted a gap in the market’ come and go in the last decade than we’ve had Baby Clothes shops in the High Street start and fail. The sort of ill-researched enterprises favoured by smart-suited, dim-headed candidates from television’s devoid-from-reality show, The Apprentice.

‘How did the valuation go?’ Asks negotiator S, fifteen later.

They are probably assembling their own for sale board about now.

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Black Pudding - Friday

‘If I see another f***ing PowerPoint presentation I’ll top myself.’ Hisses my vertically challenged rival manager H as we settle into another bland hotel meeting room and the bean counter boss unfolds his laptop.

He has a point. The graphic of the be-suited man climbing some sort of snakes and ladders sales mountain had a certain novelty value about a decade ago, but now I just long for an old-fashioned overhead projector and a couple of acetates. Maybe even some A4 handouts.

‘The first and last refuge of the terminally dull presenter.’ I tell H, as I sit reluctantly next to him after missing out in the unseemly scrabble to be seated by the new and smoking hot female manager, who is having some early sales success in an office where the last incumbent spent more time downing measures, than measuring up.

‘She won’t last long on top.’ Sneers H, conjuring up a vision I have trouble shaking, until the eastern European girl with the embryonic moustache and the unflattering nylon housecoat turns up, with pots of stewed tea and coffee strong enough to strip the enamel from your teeth.

‘She’s producing some good instruction figures.’ I tell H, pouring a dark and suspicious smelling brew into the already stained cup in front of me. And I look at my new colleague and give her, what I judge to be, a companionably but in no way salacious smile of encouragement. She smiles radiantly back and I realise why she’s getting quite a few sole agencies with boards - at least from the male vendors.

‘It won’t last.’ Gripes H ungraciously. ‘They always get hormonal or pregnant once the first flush of enthusiasm goes.’

He really is a whole heap of chauvinistic unpleasantness for such a small package. It really irks me his office outperforms mine, ten months out of twelve.

I watch the bean counter as he fiddles with his tracker pad and tries to line up the first image, one his secretary probably prepared for him, with the portable projection screen. Despondent, as I imagine scores of slides a ten year old would be ashamed to produce flashing before my eyes for the next ninety minutes, I look at the pile of dusty Imperial mints in the saucer in front of me and wonder how long it would take to overdose on sugary spheres?

How did I get here? Asks that annoying inner voice, one that grows in intensity with each passing year and each newly increased sales target. A salesman’s career is finite, like any other, but unlike say, a doctor or lawyer improving with the accumulation of age and knowledge, estate agency is essentially a young man’s – or woman’s – game. There are only so many late night viewings and valuations you can do with utter wasters before you start to lose that youthful enthusiasm. Next time round I’ll definitely pay more attention at school and try not to grow up in a dysfunctional family.

‘Financial service performance is far from acceptable.’ Drones the bean counter, as I begin to yearn for the temporary high of the soggy bacon butties that we’ll be having at the comfort break. I already have virtual indigestion, the physical version might as well accompany it once the industrialised white baps and water-pumped bacon arrives. When the absurd, Americanised, breakfast meeting idea arrived on these shores, it seemed radical and not a little exotic. But budget cuts soon ditched the full English for poor man’s transport café fare and the realisation that the whole charade of shared sustenance and team-building was just an excuse to get you out of bed a couple of hours earlier, and back in the office before opening time.

‘I hate clapping for someone else.’ Gripes H as I think welcome to my world short-arse. The pretty new manager has just collected a bottle of cheap bubbly and the embarrassingly naff, new instruction performance cup. At least she has the good grace to blush – it will soon fade.

‘We’ll see if the bitch has sold any of them next month.’ Says H poisonously.

The Imperial mints are rattling around in the car coin tray. Not sure I’ve stolen enough.

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Bean Counter Blues - Friday

Apart from the thrum of the central heating pump – it’s on the way out I just can’t face another plumber’s bill – the house is as silent as the night before Christmas. Both boys are home for the holidays as the rapidly emptying fridge and the array of unwashed plates and glasses in their rooms will testify, but they’ll be asleep until my third cup of office coffee.

‘You off in a minute?’ Murmurs my wife as I lurch from leg to leg trying to pull on socks in the dark without fully waking her.

‘Go back to sleep.’ I instruct her. ‘I’ll be gone in fifteen.’ At least I will if I can get my suit trousers to do up, I think glumly, as I hop to the bathroom.

I read somewhere the average calorie intake on Christmas day is 6,000 and I’ve been eating and drinking enough for a week’s worth of Christ’s birthdays. I’ll need to diet until Easter before these trousers will resurrect into something resembling a decent fit.

The belt is an old one, as witnesses by the worn holes I’ve been letting out annually. I look at the last available setting and try to tug back to the early December notch, but it’s a losing battle. My stomach feels like a fermenting vessel. There’s decidedly more gas in there than the office air conditioning units manage to retain. And as I look down gloomily I notice I have unmatched socks on.

‘Morning boss.’ Chimes trainee F as he hurries through the door with seconds to spare. I’ve been watching the clock and gently deflating for fifteen minutes. It’s just him and me with the short straw slot between Christmas and New Year. What you might term a skeleton staff if it wasn’t for my resemblance to that fat laughing policeman – only without the joviality.

‘God what’s that smell?’ Asks F as he takes of his coat to reveal the sort of ‘comedy’ tie I’ve warned against countless times.

‘I think the bins haven’t been collected.’ I fib, feeling another home brew bubbling up like those horrendous beer making kits people used to buy in the eighties. It only costs 15p a pint and the specific gravity is almost the same as Bass Special…

I reach into my drawer and select one of the spare neckwear items I keep for these occasions. The movement makes an audible sloshing sound and I feel as if I might actually burst. Even my shoes feel tight. Can your feet put on weight?

‘Oh come on, it’s a present.’ Moans F as he sees the paisley offering I’m going to insist upon, just so he learns a lesson.

‘Homer Simpson isn’t appropriate for the property market, no matter how laughable it’s going to be next year.’ I tell him churlishly, as I multi-task and reluctantly open an e-mail from the bean counter boss. It’s the final edition of my much argued over targets for the next twelve months.

‘For f**ks sake.’ I say angrily.

‘Ok I’ll wear it.’ Says F, hurriedly removing the offending item.

‘I meant this, not a fat man drinking Duff beer,’ I say, vaguely aware of the irony but still distracted by the latest inflationary figures. I push print and nearly fracture the keyboard.

The figures are more comedic than F’s tie and I watch as the laser printer churns out three pages of statistics. I didn’t need to physically manifest the nonsense on to A4 but there’s more warped satisfaction in actually ripping up something tangible in anger, than ranting at a 1920x1200 pixel-enriched screen.

‘He’s having a laugh isn’t he?’ Suggests F once he too has perused the office targets and the absurdly optimistic assumptions on average price and average fee, driving the whole work of fiction. One, even the Grimm brothers would have balked at.

‘It’s the same every year.’ I tell F regretting it instantly. It took a while to explain, but then I had plenty of time. The pavements might be teeming but the only units in the high street not promoting sales and big discounts are the estate agents.

Limited offer. Must end soon.

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