Start Again - Thursday

‘Oh for f**ks sake.' I exclaim angrily, hurling the phone handset down.

‘Problem?’ Asks idiot trainee F gormlessly. 

No, I always shout expletives in the open office and incur another office swear-box fine, you numpty.

I dislike January more than most months. The extra weight I’m carrying after the Christmas excesses, the dull, damp weather, the pressure to partake in Dry January and foreswear all alcohol, when all I want to do is drink - and swear.

‘The Patels buyer has pulled out.’ I finally tell F, head slowly shaking like a nodding toy dog, losing kinetic energy.

‘Why? They seemed so keen before Christmas.’ Asks F.

‘Worried about Brexit, think they may have overpaid, their buyer is stalling and being awkward on proposed completion dates, not sure if they can raise the deposit any longer……’ I tail off.

‘Which one?’ Probes F.

‘All of them.’

Property purchase has always been fraught with problems, if it’s not the legal mechanics with delays and incompetence, it’s the human component multiplied by however many people are in the transaction chain. That familiar old statistic - I’ve quoted before - that one in three sales founders, still holds true after three decades in the industry, two property crashes, and more booms than a Queen's birthday salute. It’s why the pay up-front, internet “agents”, are starting to unravel without ever really grasping the business.

‘I don’t know how you keep doing it year after year, with the constant setbacks and the targets just going up and up.’ States F, with unaccustomed insight. ‘ You must be so sick.’

‘Stoic?’ You mean, I ask frowning.

‘No, sick.’ Repeats F beginning to look unsure.

Is he insulting me or praising?

‘The good sick?’ I ask. ‘The way the youngsters use it, or the just not very well and in need of treatment variety?’ F looks worried.

‘It’s alright you can say.’ I urge, just wanting to know.

‘Bit of both.’ F finally says haltingly. ‘ Cup of tea?’

Yes please.

‘It’s really quiet isn’t it.’ States F, once he’s made the cuppa.

‘Nature abhors a vacuum.’ I tell him staring at the grease globules floating on the surface of my beverage.

‘What does that mean?’Asks F cautiously. I still wonder what he did in private school for seven years, this level of stupidity usually leads to a career in politics, not property.

‘I mean, everybody is waiting to see what happens with Europe, trade deals, the economy, interest rates, the whole nine yards.’

‘Nine yards?’

’It’s a sporting expression.’

‘Football?’

‘American.’

‘They don’t really play it that much,’ opines F before adding brightly ‘Although they have had Beckham and Rooney.’

See what I’m up against?

The door opens and in shuffles one of our elderly regulars. Time-wasters are the bane of an estate agent’s life. Advisors and so-called property experts will tell you every enquiry is a potential fee-earner and on paper, they are. But with only so many hours in the day, days in the week, months in the year, years in a decade, you have to make decisions to drop people who will only leave their home, feet-first, on an undertaker’s gurney.  

‘We’ll get plenty of valuations this time of year.’ I tell F. ‘ People wanting to split-up after spending too much time with each other over the holidays, but half of them will stay together when they realise what they’ll have to live in, once they paid expenses and moved to something half the size.’

F looks at me soppily. What’s the fool going to say now, I wonder?

‘You know so much.’ He says smiling. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever build-up that sort of knowledge.’

You won’t. Even if you had an IQ upgrade. Your generation don’t stay in a career, or company, for long enough. I wouldn’t say they are even wrong, it’s a different employment marketplace out there now. You can stay too long. I’m a living example.

‘I sometimes think of you as a bit of a father-figure.’ Muses F, unsettlingly. 

I was going for a more gifted, elder bother. But I’m used to disappointment.

---------

Groundhog Day Again - Wednesday

‘How do you do it boss?’ Asks trainee F, breaking a silence I hadn’t realised had descended.

I look across the empty office. How do I do what? I think. Put up with an idiot like you, when it’s clear I’m never going to need a silk coin-carrier, let alone try and fashion one from an even-toed ungulate’s lughole.

F looks back at me earnestly, the kind of doting gaze you might get from a slightly simple puppy  hoping for a doggy-treat, as opposed to a kick up the arse and a P45.

‘How do I do what?' I finally respond, wondering if F is going to ask, for the umpteenth time, how to re-set the colour printer, credit the franking machine, or make a cup of tea without those strange greasy globules floating on top.

‘Start again from nothing every year.’ Answers F, profoundly. He looks wistfully out the window where the last saps traipsing round the January sales are passing by, clutching goods they don’t really need and almost certainly can’t afford.

It’s a question I’ve been asking myself for more years then I care to remember. The lot of a salesman is one of those Sisyphean tasks, just when you think you’ve reached the summit, some weasel-faced accountant, whose been over-promoted because he can fiddle figures, shoves you back to the bottom again, with an extra 10% added to the mountain top, by next December.

‘You don’t want to overthink it.’ I tell F. Realising, even as I say it, that there’s no danger of that happening.

His face creases in concentration.

‘No you really don’t.’ I urge. ‘Or you might cry and that’s not a dignified thing to do. At least not before the end of the first sales’ quarter.’

‘Cup of tea?’ Asks F, brightening considerably.

‘Yes please, just maybe wash the mug first, it’s been there since last year.’

‘I’m not an idiot.’ Says F, disappearing to the kitchen, humming tunelessly.

Hmm. You say that…..

The phone rings and I nearly jump out of my seat. The dead zone between Christmas and new year makes you forget how an active office should sound. Now with the new year and the latest set of targets upon me, I can expect the traditional influx of valuations and new instructions where the proximity of family, in overheated houses, has tipped a fair few over into finally separating and selling the marital home - at least until the lawyers get involved and they learn what half their house will buy them in the real world.

‘Morning tosspot.’ Crows a familiar voice, after I’ve parroted the corporate telephone greeting. It’s H, my vertically-challenged rival manager. I need his juvenile crowing, like another chocolate from the depleted tub, sitting on top of the filing cabinet. Just those mini Bounty bars to finish. I still dislike them, but the influence of parents who remembered ration books, lives on long after you’ve buried them.

‘You busy yet?’ I ask, regretting the question before it has finished echoing round the office. Even if he hasn’t had a single punter through the door since 8.30 am, H will lie. He can’t help himself. It probably started when the lady in the shop with the monopoly on over-priced uniforms, asked him his height, as he prepared for infant school.

‘Having it away, already.’ Trills H, predictably. ‘Two sales agreed, four new sole agencies and a couple of lettings to losers who’ve been kicked out of their homes by angry women, who found out they’ve been cheated on. God I love, social media! It’s so much easier to expose adulterers.’

H didn’t do charm school. That was obviously too much of a reach.

‘Anything else?’ I ask, despite myself. I may not have the goth haircut and multiple body-piercings but I can do self-harm as well as any angsty teenager.

‘Three cheeky contracts exchanged, to get the January invoices off and running.’ Replies H.

I know most solicitors are still skiing, or holed up in second homes in the west country, so there is no way these deals have happened this year. He’s cheated the system again.

God, I hate estate agents.

Huge Issues - Wednesday

'Spare some change man?’ Asks the rough sleeper, propped in a grubby sleeping bag in an empty shop doorway. He looks suitably forlorn and judging by the damp piece of cardboard he’s lying on, the scattering of meagre possessions and the slumbering mangy dog, tethered by a piece of string, he’s genuinely been here all night.

‘Sorry pal.' I say, even before I’ve fully considered my thoughts, and I play out a familiar pantomime of throwing my hands apart, palms up, to signify I’ve no cash. Of course I do have money and if he takes contactless cards payments, as some professional beggars are rumoured to do - because the Big Issue man can seemingly afford a mobile phone - then I could help him with the price of a coffee. But conversely, if I can’t afford to buy my caffeine fix at  Costa or Starbucks why should I pay for his full-fat latte and slice of over-priced brownie?

‘Probably wouldn’t spend it on a hot drink anyway.’ I mutter to myself, as I continue towards the office and stumble across another homeless man, in another empty shop unit doorway. Pleasingly, it’s a commercial unit that not too long ago housed a fledgling, cut-price fee, estate agency firm. I saw them out of business, as I’ve done many others over my career. There are no short-cuts to good service and a good reputation.

‘Can you help me out?’ Pleads the second vagrant, lying on another bed of commercial packaging that isn’t going to be recycled any time soon. He has the sort of impressive beard, that with a little grooming, would put the second-coming hipsters who do buy coffee around here, to shame.

I could help the man out, I could point him in the direction of the job centre and let him know that if he applies himself, takes a bit of pride in his appearance and doesn’t spend all his benefit money on cheap cider and roll-up cigarettes, then I could possibly rent him a studio flat in six months time. But nothing is ever that simple.

‘I’m all out man.’ I tell the bedraggled figure. I’m not. It’s a blatant lie, but I’m torn between wanting to help these people out and the nagging feeling I’m being played. Plus, estate agents do have a reputation to protect…

‘Have a good day anyway.’ Mutters the man into his voluminous beard. Bastard. He’s been on the guilt-trip-close, sale’s course. I’m half-tempted to turn around and give him a pound coin or two, but that nagging article a racist couple showed me in their Daily Mail a few weeks ago, as they bemoaned the country and planned their flight to somewhere sunnier, is lodged like a parasite in my brain.

‘You see that’s what they do.’ Said the husband earnestly, showing me the picture of some eastern European pair, parking their BMW on a meter for the day and heading to the west end of London for a lucrative day’s begging.

‘The country is going to the dogs.’ Echoed his sun-bleached wife. ‘That’s why we’re leaving.’

They’ll be back once one of them gets ill and they’ll doubtless wonder why the NHS can’t help them, because all the non-native care staff have also left the country. I’m not going anywhere. I had the chance long ago, and figured if you can’t make it here, in the birthplace of democracy, in one of the most - until now- welcoming and liberal societies on earth, you won’t be making it anywhere else, just because you need a stronger sun cream.

As I approach the office I notice two more commercial boards above recently vacated shops. A horrible feeling of deja vu engulfs me. I’ve seen decimated high streets before and failed estate agency firms, the whole thing has ominous portents. Maybe the only way to solve the UK housing crisis is for another big property recession? It’s like a turkey wishing for Christmas, I realise, and it could be me sleeping rough if it really bites.

‘Big Issue sir?’ Asks a gruff voice, from nowhere.

Yes it is.

---------

Goodwill To All Men - Thursday

‘The numpties up the road have a tawdry Christmas window display again.’ Says assistant manager T with a grimace, as he walks back in to the office.

‘I thought it looked sweet.’ Replies negotiator S. Sometimes - and it’s just as well with those breasts - she reminds me how much younger and naive she is, than me.

‘He won’t like it.’ Posits B from her lettings’ desk, scowling in my direction. She still hasn’t forgiven me for suggesting she might want to be a bit more polite to the stream of no-hopers wanting to rent a home on housing benefits. What goes around comes around and some day - like J K Rowling - at least one of them might make it big and buy that overpriced mansion in the wrong part of town, we’ve been quietly offering for the last three years

‘I just think a bit of restraint is a good thing.’ I say wearily.

‘Like in Fifty Shades of Grey?’ Asks trainee F, with an unpleasant chuckle. God knows what he’s bought his on-off girlfriend but I hope the hardware store issue gift receipts….

‘He’s a miserable old sod.’ Says bloated mortgage man M, joining in my festive character assassination rather too gleefully. ‘He never wants to even put up a tree.’

‘People already dislike us,’ I tell him. ‘A cheap nativity scene made with children’s farmyard animals and some lights from Lidl isn’t going to persuade the public to show us any goodwill.’

The chorus of “Bah Humbug” couldn’t have been any more co-ordianted if that annoying choirmaster on the television had conducted it. Three staff members in unison decrying my miserly spirit. Perhaps I have been here too long - I’m still not sanctioning a Christmas jumper day, though.

‘Morning everyone, happy Christmas!’ Chirrups the board man, as he enters wearing - predictably - some gaudy knitwear, flashing like an epileptic lighthouse.

‘He doesn’t do Christmas.’ Says S, with a petulant pout - quite an endearing one.

‘He won’t want these then.’ Says the board man, waving a tub of Quality Street totally inappropriate for the majority of homes on my register.

‘Is that the best he can do?’ I ask sourly, after the board man has left having spotted the traffic warden heading towards his double-parked van. ‘These are lovely,’ counters M, as he stuffs another chocolate into his fat face. The board man hasn’t even started his motor and M has managed to leave a trail of three sweet wrappers across the filing cabinet top. It’s not his fault though - it’s genetic….

‘It’s the thought that counts.’ Answers S, shaking her head at me.

‘And I’m thinking we pay him several thousand quid a year to put for sale and lettings boards up, and all he can get is a £4.99 tub of tat with about as much originality as filling station flowers.’ I reply.

‘I wish someone would buy me flowers.’ Says B wistfully. If you knew them long enough to learn their name they might, I think sarcastically, assuming they could get the time off school…

‘But I love this time of year.’ Counters S, as I slip into rant mode about false bonhomie and overspending on jacked-up credit cards. Not sure when I turned into a Grinch-like curmudgeon - probably about the last time Jim Carrey made a decent movie. Then the bean counter boss rings.

‘Are we going to get any more contracts exchanged before Christmas?’ He wheedles. Don’t know what he means by we, the figure-fiddler is usually about as inclusive as a 1950’s golf club. The chances of getting any solicitors on the phone this side of the new year are slim to zero, at least one local firm is closing for over a week. I really should have paid more attention at school.

‘You are going to be short otherwise.’ Continues the frustrated accountant - he failed the charisma test. In the absence of a cheap box of supermarket sweets, I offer platitudes. He turns sour.

‘Any chance of the Harrison’s chain exchanging before shut down?’ I ask S, phone still rocking in its cradle.

‘More chance of an immaculate conception.’ She answers playfully.

Merry Christmas.

-------

Have a great holiday season and thank-you for reading.

See you in the New Year.

S.A.

False Bonhomie - Wednesday

‘Anyone want to go and collect a set of keys from that lot over the road?’ I ask, nodding towards one of our, less loved, competitors. Not that there’s a lot of love lost towards any rival outfit trying to take money out of your bank account. Unless that rumour of B, our looses lettings lush, shagging the assistant manager of the cut-price fee cowboys, after the last annual Estate Agents’ Dinner, is true…

‘Rather not.’ Says S, with a winning smile.

I look at T, my own assistant manager, who is so laid back he wouldn’t shag anyone - unless they did all the work.

‘Got a viewing in a minute.’ He says, unconvincingly. I could check the system to see if he’s lying, but I get enough conflict with those outside the office, without bringing it indoors.

I look hesitantly at F, our dozy trainee. He seems to gently chewing, in that bovine manner that indicates a lower form of intelligence. He can’t be chomping on gum again, because he’s on a final warning. F eventually feels the weight of my gaze.

‘What?’ He asks, looking up gormlessly. At least he’s confirmed there’s no chewing gum in his mouth. I look at him and, not for the first time, wonder what I was thinking of when I recruited him? Best of a bad lot, probably..

‘He was asking if you could collect a set of keys from those tossers across the road.’ Says S helpfully.

F looks out the window and focuses on a middle-aged couple about to cross to our side. His face creases up.

‘Never mind.’ I bark. ‘I’ll go.’

There’s an uneasy truce between estate agents at the best of times. It’s witnessed on Friday night’s, when traditionally most firms adjourn to the pub to disseminate sales and to bray as loudly as they can towards the opposition huddle, about what a great week they’ve had. There’s more bullshit flying around than a fight at a stud farm, but some of it sticks.

The gritted-teeth politeness tends to continue at business functions and the aforementioned annual Estate Agents’ Dinner, where several score of property pugilists wrap themselves in alcohol and diner jackets and try not to start fights until they’re in the car park.

The fragile truce is strained to Lebanon levels, when you enter a rival’s office to relive them of keys to a home they’ve failed to sell, prior to you taking up the marketing. You feel as uncomfortable as most men - apart from the crossdressers - do when they make their furtive annual trip to the M & S lingerie section each Christmas. ‘Well, she’s about you size actually, Miss….’

I can see them  watching me through the window even as I move to their side of the street. If looks could kill no amount of adherence to my old Green Cross Code would save me from a nasty accident. Pausing as long as I can, to scan their window display and to try not to fret further at the sight of two homes I tried to list, still on display and still 20% over-priced, I bustle through the door. False smile pasted on.

The manager looks at me as if a large unwanted turd has just popped back around the u-bend.

‘Alright?’ He says, more by way of a challenge than an enquiry into my wellbeing.

I can feel his staff looking at me, almost physically.  There can’t have been this much tension in the air since the last time the founder members of One Direction were together in one room.

‘I’m here for the keys to number twenty-three. Mr and Mrs Stephenson.’ I tell him flatly.

‘You’re welcome.’ Sneers the shitester in a suit, nodding towards a minion, who scuttles off to the key safe. ‘They are pair of wasters.’

Only because you misled them on price and spent the next twelve weeks trying to get them to reduce by £25,000, I think sourly. I obviously don’t say that. There’s a facade to be maintained, not to mention some expensive dentistry to be protected.

Still smiling.

--------

It's Christmas - Wednesday

‘Anything happening?’ I ask, returning to the office. The annual stumble round the shops looking for last minute presents didn't go well. I was stopped in Marks and Spencer for the umpteenth time and asked where the ladies’ coats were? Now if they’d asked where the underwear department was, I’d have been more accommodating. Funny how when I’m bumbling round the main store in a suit everybody assumes I work there, but when I linger too long by the lingerie, the actual staff members look at me with suspicion.

‘Not much.’ Answers assistant manager T with a barely stifled yawn.

‘Nothing but time-wasters this time of year.’ Says lettings lush B with a sneer.

‘Or desperate to buy, or rent, people.’ Counters negotiator S.

‘Yes, but the trick is to tell the difference.’ I add sagely.

‘How do you tell the difference? Asks trainee F.

Telling him to put the kettle on was a bit harsh, but the paradox is, you often can’t sort the genuine punters from the complete nutters - at least not until they are on a viewing, in your car, sitting behind you and making you feel nervous. Best that F perfects the art of the perfect brew, before trying to decipher a perfect property storm.

‘Did you have any luck?’ Asks S, nodding towards the shopping bags I’ve deposited beside the desk. 

‘I’ve got a few presents but they are mostly pants.’ I say wearily.

‘Oi, oi,’ chortles fat finance man M, with an unpleasant gullet-rasping sound. ‘Got the red basque and suspender set too, did you?’

‘You haven’t a clue, have you?’ Says S, scowling towards M. You can see why his wife left him.

‘Bean counter rang when you were out.’ Says T, referring to my figure-fiddling boss. 

‘Where did you say I was?’ I ask urgently.

‘Don’t worry,’ soothes T. ‘I told him you were on a valuation.’

I was pricing up, I suppose, so I’ll settle for that.

‘What did he want?’ I ask. Looking at the day and date on the nearest computer screen. I can already guess.

‘If we were going to have any more contracts to invoice this month.’ Confirms T with a shake of his head, adding. ‘Has he never tried to get a solicitor to answer the phone in December?’

He’s never even sold a doll’s house, let alone a real one. But he’s good with numbers. Accountants will inherit the earth, the fact that they are meek and terminally dull is just a lucky coincidence for Matthew, or whoever ghost wrote his bit of The New Testament.

‘You could pretend you were The Pope asking for an update on your sale and most lawyers would still not take your call at this time of year.’ Says S ruefully. It’s too late for divine intervention to save my sales figures this month. Better to hold some deals over until January and have a flying start. I just need to keep it a secret from the boss, he want to have his Christmas cake and eat it.

‘Hi everyone.’ Says the board man as he breezes through the door. He clearly knows the bean counter is looking at board movement costs again, as he’s wearing an unconvincing smile and clutching an even less plausible tub of those Celebrations chocolates every shopping outlet has piled high, throughout the month.

‘All ready for Christmas?’ He asks chirpily, before adding a cheap looking card to the bounty he has deposited. And Bounty is about right. It used to be bottles of whisky, or a good red wine, now we share some crappy chocolates in the sure and certain knowledge that we’ll have loads of the coconut ones left come next year.

‘Thought he’d never go.’ Says T after the board man has indulged in some stilted chit-chat for five minutes before realising he’s about as wanted as another estate agent in town.

‘I felt a bit awkward we didn’t do a Christmas card for him.’ Says S sweetly.

‘Why should we?’ Quizzes B, with a scowl. ‘He wants our business, not the other way round.’

That’s B, goodwill to all men - at least when she’s pissed.

Happy Christmas and a prosperous New Year everyone.

---------------

End Of Days - Tuesday

‘Good Christmas?’ Asks trainee F, after the shortest morning meeting on record. It’s the graveyard shift between the birth of Christ and the birth of another almighty hangover.

I ponder F’s question. Pleasingly, my sons were both home for the festivities, an increasingly rare occurrence. Equally gratifyingly, I wasn’t forced to mingle with too many unwanted family members and friends, death and an increasing propensity to not return non-business calls, saw to that.

‘Pretty good.’ I tell the failed Mensa applicant, apart from some joker seemingly swapping my favourite suit trousers for a pair 2 inches tighter, over the festivities. ‘You?’

F looks at me with those puppy dog eyes that usually make you want to chain him up outside and leave him to scare off unwanted visitors.

‘Bit rubbish.’ He finally says dolefully.

Probably the mad mother falling out with another “Uncle”, or one of his half-brothers taking his room and the contents of his wallet again. I should call Social Services but he’s a white male, so probably won’t match any quotas…

I hesitated before taking the working days between Christmas and New Year. But every now and then some long-distant socialist in me decides to lead by example and insist staff shouldn’t be given a job you aren’t prepared to do. I’d make an awful City banker. Politics is a no-no too.

‘Where’s B? Asks F as if he’s only just noticed our loose lettings lady is not at her station. I clocked it as soon as opening time arrived. I consider the options. Drunk still, almost certainly. Horrendously hung-over, a given. In a strange bed with a strange person - about 50/50 depending on how harsh the lighting was at her last port of call.

‘She’ll be in about lunchtime, I guess.’ I tell F. In the meantime we’ll field calls from irate tenants who had no heating over the holiday period, or suffered damp, either rising via the floods, or falling through the ceiling where someone’s washing machine overflowed. Not that F and I are busy. The diary has more gaps than a wino’s teeth. I’m only here because the bean counter boss insisted all offices had a skeleton staff and judging by the way my waistband is digging in, that shouldn’t have included me.

‘Is it always like this?’ Asks F mid-way through the morning as the procession of shoppers clutching sales bags flow past the door, but nobody actually comes in. The phone has only rung, as predicted, with problems for the still absent B in lettings. I’ve wandered to the back of the office several times to look at the diary, as if consulting it might magically provide a nice probate valuation or even a divisive matrimonial dispute. I’ve even been tempted by the dozen or so mini Bounty bars still sitting in the tub on top of the filing cabinet.

‘Pretty much.’ I tell F still irked he hasn’t offered me a cuppa, particularly as I made the drinks before he even arrived. I might be audibly dehydrating, unless the tinnitus is back.

‘I could have covered it this morning.’ Suggests F breezily. He couldn’t. Then the phone rings. It’s the bean counter boss. On a sun-bed somewhere hot again, judging by the reception.

‘How is it going?’ Probes the figure-fiddler. He knows how it’s going. He has the P & L accounts, the weekly key performance indicators and my invoice register. All I can add, is I’m half a stone heavier, tens of thousands light of the year end target and liable to die of thirst while a borderline retard looks on wondering why I’m lying on the office carpet leaking tears I can ill afford to shed.

‘Not too bad.’ I tell him. What does that mean? Screams a voice inside my head, as the bean counter echoes the thought, word for word - with just a hint of satellite lag.

‘Getting a few bites.’ I tell the boss, hoping a malarial mosquito is chowing down on him even as I prevaricate.

‘How was the boss, boss?’ Asks F, after I’ve ended the call.

‘We need to do better in the next twelve months.’

‘Isn’t that always the case?’

Yep.

Happy New Year.

Sale Or Return - Thursday

Diverted to some early doors Christmas shopping, after standing on a doorstep for twenty minutes waiting for a viewer who didn’t turn up. Must remember to delete them from the mailing list when I get back to the office.

‘Big issue madam?’ Asks a swarthy Eastern European man in heavily accented English. I’m just forming a sarcastic reply, when I realise he’s addressing the woman hurrying the other way. She’s late for work; the Bulgarian is looking for work – and of course, a home. Not sure any Government can solve our burgeoning housing crisis. I certainly can’t, so it’s a supermarket sweep style dash round the department store to buy presents for my wife.

This early, the road sweepers are still brushing up the detritus from last night’s takeaways. And delivery vans are disgorging pallets of cheap Chinese tat for the pop-up shops in vacant retail units, to flog.

Stepping round a coagulated slick of vomit even the pigeons aren’t eating, I make a beeline for the opposition agents’ windows. I prefer spying on their displays when there is nobody in, but some are still holding their morning meetings and some clearly don’t bother. Irritatingly, I spot several homes I valued and failed to get instructed on. They are all on for too much money – at least I hope they are…

‘Morning Sir.’ Trills an overdressed girl on the perfume counter as I enter the dated store, one whose days must surely be numbered as the march of Internet shopping continues. But then they said that about estate agency a decade ago and we’re still here. I grunt an acknowledgement back. At least she got my gender right.

‘Can I help you with anything?’ Presses the assistant. Good persistence, but a closed question - my sales head is always on. I bought the perfume at duty free in the summer, this is a much more challenging task. I ask where ladies lingerie is, cheeks blushing already.

‘Third floor sir.’ Says the girl with a knowing smile before adding. ‘Do you know her size?’ I answer in the affirmative. I imagine she gets a fair few blokes buying for themselves – one way or another.

I hobble up the stairs. I’ve been in enough dodgy lifts to last a lifetime, and with the shop girl’s question ringing in my ears, I remove the hand-written note from my wallet. Ferreting in the airing cupboard, then my wife’s underwear drawer for sizes wasn’t the most relaxed start to the day. I really don’t need to answer a withering: ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing in there?’ question, more than once in my life.

I should just get a voucher, or if it must be clothing take a safer option, but there’s only so many scarves and pairs of socks you can buy. I walked straight past Ann Summers though, their outfits I find a bit tarty and the material is unbelievably scratchy. What? It was a fancy dress party actually – so don’t judge me.

‘Terrific.’ I mumble to myself. The nightwear and underwear section is on the far side of the floor. I can feel the underemployed assistants watching me as I shuffle towards the big pants section. Worse still there’s a pretty woman holding a bra and knickers set against herself as I walk past the designer gear. I strive for eye contact in sales situations, but my head is so far down I barrel into a dummy in a basque and find myself grabbing a rigid pretend woman by the waist to stop her tipping over - again not for the first time...

‘Would you like a gift receipt with that?’ Asks the young girl packing my purchase. Is it that obvious the item will be coming back on the first shopping day in January? I tell her yes.

‘And you’re sure on the size?’ Continues the assistant breezily. Not really. Why are they always between sizes? Either way I’m likely to cause offence. I plumped for the larger. Psychologically, it’s a better fit.

‘How did it go?’ Asks negotiator S, back at the office. She’s probably referring to the aborted viewing, but I cover it.

‘A bit of a let down.’

----

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Until You Drop - Saturday

‘What do you think?’ Asks my wife. It’s a question more loaded than the potato skins I was daydreaming about, before she emerged from the changing room. My stomach rumbles and my brain stumbles as I try to take in the first dress she has tried on.  Unhelpfully another question forms in place of an answer: Does her arse look big in that?

I knew as soon as the shopping trip for a Christmas party frock was suggested I was on a hiding to nothing. I’m all for equality of the sexes but there are some things a man just can’t do. Like childbirth, advising on women’s clothes - unless you’re a camp fashion designer - isn’t something a male should attempt.

‘I like it.’ I say unconvincingly. I’m usually better at flattery. After all I value people’s homes six days a week. Something you learn fairly swiftly in the property industry is very few people want the unvarnished truth, when it comes to their number one asset.

‘You’re just saying that because it’s the first one I’ve tried on.’ Says my wife, spinning, quite elegantly I think, on her shoeless feet and disappearing into the changing cubicle. Another browbeaten bloke is sitting opposite me in those chairs I imagined were only for dizzy pensioners waiting for an ambulance, or perverts trying to get a glimpse through the curtains. The man is clutching a mass of expensively branded shopping bags. He clearly started earlier than me.

‘What can you do?’ I say with a shrug.

‘Just pay the bill.’ Answers the man ruefully.

‘I’d happily do that,’ I fib a little. ‘But she wants my advice.’

‘Poison chalice’ Replies the man with the sort of certainty drawn from bitter experience.

When this unwise expedition was first mooted and after I’d hoped the weekend staff would ring to say they needed me in the office, I turned to Twitter for advice from fellow members. The perceived feminine wisdom boiled down to: don’t ask the price, don’t ogle other women in the changing area and don’t expect to get home in under four hours. The blokes said: go to the pub then come back with your credit card when she rings.

‘There are no prices in the window.’ I caution, as we stare in Karen Millen’s shop-front. Top-end agents do that trick with country homes. One’s where they haven’t a clue on value, or where they want to deter time-wasters and dreamers. It’s called POA – price on application. The marketing thrust is, if you have to ask the price you can’t afford it. Now I can just about stomach that for substantial bricks and mortar and a forty acre estate with servant’s quarters, but for half a yard of taffeta and a few sequins I’m wanting to know the downside before I step over the threshold.

‘What about this one?’ Questions my wife, with a slow spin. We’re in a department store now on a floor I’ve never felt the need to visit. It seems each designer outlet has rented a bit of square footage so you can pad from one overpriced range to another without replacing your high heels. I haven’t been so out of my depth since that brief, dunk-a-baby fad of throwing learners in the pool so survival instinct taught them how to swim – rapidly. It was pre- health and safety rules, obviously.

‘Well does it flatter me?’ Continues my wife, as I splutter back to the surface, another unwanted childhood memory banished until the next nightmare.

It makes her look a little bit pregnant I think and the hesitation does for me. She spins, a little more clunkily this time.

‘Well you needn’t say anything.’ She huffs and disappears inside the curtained inner sanctum.

‘Are you waiting for someone sir?’ Asks a frosty, mutton dressed as lamb, assistant at the next emporium. My wife is in the nearby cubicle. I can see her ankles through the cut-off door. I put my phone away, realising it might look as if I’ve been taking surreptitious video clips for ChubbyCalfs.com. I tell her my wife is trying on a dress – her ninth.

We bought the first one.

Eventually.

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Market Forces - Thursday

‘So is the message clear?’ I conclude after what I feel has been a dynamic and uplifting morning meeting. Short of tumbleweed blowing across the office, the silence could not be more vastly all encompassing – unless you include the workdays between Christmas and New Year.

‘Anybody?’ I plead, looking at negotiator S for some sort of solace, one that doesn’t risk inappropriate workplace behaviour.

The verbal void hangs unpleasantly, like a turd from a shaggy sheepdog’s arse.

‘Someone say something.’ I rasp in anguish.

‘Well the punters are as confused as we are.’ Ventures assistant manager T timidly.

‘Here we go.’ Mutters lettings lush B to a scowl from me.

‘What’s confusing you?’ I ask, mind already racing through plausible answers. This is worse than bluffing you know the right price on a valuation, which turns out to be nothing like you’ve expected – or researched.

‘Everything is confusing me.’ Answers trainee F, to an ill-suppressed giggle from B. I scowl at her and she pouts back. That look might work in a wine bar when a bloke is a pissed and hasn’t had a shag for months, but I’m sober and…..well I’m sober.

‘You have to admit the media are giving out conflicting signals.’ Continues T, looking around the table for support. S nods vigorously and I can see her support working vigorously. Not helpful.

‘They have always done that.’ I tell T with a sigh. ‘They just need something to print, blog or tweet.’

‘If the public need advice wheel them in to me.’ Suggests fat financial man M. Hmm, we did that for endowments, payment protection insurance and interest only mortgages, I think glumly, and look how that turned out. Seems I’ll be working until I’m seventy-five, as it is.

‘What?’ Challenges M, to looks of communal distain. ‘I need to eat.’

‘Everyone is aware of their personal target for financial services leads.’ I tell M, toeing the company line reluctantly. I still wish those banks; building societies and insurance companies had left the industry alone in the nineties.

‘Mad woman peering in the window.’ Warns S through pursed lips.

‘Could you narrow it down a bit.’ Quips T to giggles. I turn my head slightly to se the grey-haired, whisker-chinned drunk lady again. She is still pushing the saggy-springed pram full of plastic bags, but devoid of a baby.

‘Don’t catch her eye.’ I hiss.

‘She might want a draw-down mortgage.’ Says T, on a roll.

‘Piss off.’ Responds M, clearly needing a roll.

The nutty lady tries the door handle, but luckily I haven’t unlocked yet, with five minutes to go before opening time. After a couple of feeble bangs on the glass, the old girl moves on. She’ll be back. I drag myself back on topic. Something that becomes harder and harder - as everything else goes softer and softer – with the passing years.

‘We’ve got five minutes.’ I say, scanning the group and feeling like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible - only without the happy ending and shoe lifts.

‘You have to admit there’s a lot of conflicting signals.’ Proclaims T.

‘Yes, people are confused as to what is happening.’ Adds S.

‘I haven’t got a clue.’ Contributes F.

B begins to file her nails, the rasping like a bass version of the scraping down a blackboard thing.

‘Bring them in to me, like I told you.’ Says M doggedly. ‘I’ll show them a few pie charts.’

From Greggs the baker probably, I think sourly. The problem is you can produce a survey, vox pop or market prediction to suit all needs.

Buyers look at the doom-monger predictions and refer to sites like House Price Crash, where men of a certain age spend daytimes in chatrooms talking to other like-minded forty-something’s still in “full-time education” - and still living in their parents’ homes. While the sellers, latch on to the latest asking price data disingenuously published by some right of centre tabloid with lazy copywriters. You make your choices…

‘So is the local market going up or down?’ Pleads F as the phones start to jangle and S unlocks the door.

Good question.

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