Oddball Out - Thursday

‘The creeper came in while you were out.’ Says negotiator S, as I return to the office. I seem to miss all the fun while on appointments, but I’d hate to be shackled to the desk nine hours a day like some call centre drone - or on-line estate agent, as they want to be called.

‘Which oddball are you referring to?’ I ask S, dumping my briefcase and scanning the message book for problems.

‘He has a point.’ Says assistant manager T. ‘There are plenty to choose from.’ And as he speaks trainee F returns from the gents’ toilets with that vacant possession look on his face again. ‘See what I mean.’ Continues T, with a nod towards the idiot savant.

‘What?’ Questions F, head on one side.

‘They think you’re a creeper.’ Says lettings’ lush B, unhelpfully.

‘I didn’t say that.’ Announces S, hurriedly. ‘I meant that weirdo from the flats off the high street.’

‘The creepy one?’ Questions F, to groans of despair.

Every agent gets them. The freaks and weirdos with a fascination for bricks and mortar, fuelled by endless daytime television programmes for property porn addicts with no real job to go to. The regulars soon become known to even the newest recruit, as they come in with disturbing frequency, proclaiming to be looking to buy, sell or rent. The only certainty, is they never actually do. It doesn’t stop them coming in though.

‘What did he want this time?’ I ask S.

‘One of us tied to his bed wearing his late mother’s dress, probably.’ Says T unpleasantly.

‘Don’t say that.’ Cries S. ‘He gives me nightmares as it is.’

‘I’m just saying.’ Defends T petulantly. ‘I bet there’s nothing good going on behind his door of an evening.’

We get to see some curious things, having access to the public’s homes with just a key and an inquisitive nature. It’s why I’m loathe to let F do too many viewings after the missing underwear controversy. I’m fairly sure it wasn’t him and the woman just misplaced some of her laundry, but you can’t be too careful.

‘Do you remember that repossession with a drawer full of girly mags for amputee fetishists?’ Asks T, with a smirk.

‘Oh, for goodness sake.’ Snaps S. ‘You made that up.’

Please don’t say it, I think. Looking at T firmly, but fat mortgage man M, beats him to it.

‘Don’t worry, he can’t prove it. Hasn’t got a leg to stand on…..’

Reprimand for inappropriate behaviour in the office issued and a quick check on the Human Resources handbook to ensure I don’t need to fill out some sort of incident report, and we’re back to the creeper.

‘He said you can value his flat again if you want to.’ Continues S, with a grimace. I’ve visited at least three times over the years and there’s no way he’ll move without the help of an undertaker. The stale-smelling home has curtains perpetually drawn and his late mother’s clothes hanging in the wardrobe.

‘I don’t want to.’ I announce.

‘Maybe he could rent it out?’ Suggest T, looking at B.

‘F**k off.’ Snaps B. ‘There’s no way I’m going in there without an escort.’

‘Nobody goes there, except me.’ I instruct sternly.

People don’t exactly put estate agents at the top of their most popular profession list, but I still remember a female negotiator who was kidnapped two decades ago, from a firm I worked for. And the infamous case of Suzy Lamplaugh the agent who disappeared without trace in 1986 after an appointment with a Mr Kipper, who didn’t exist.

‘We follow company protocol to the letter.’ I remind everyone citing the failsafe checks for outside appointments, particularly for our female staff.

‘If you do visit him you can borrow my pepper spray.’ Offers B.

‘And her handcuffs.’ Says T with a chortle.

‘The creeper probably has his own.’ Suggests S, with a visible shiver.

I decline the offer of a visit, with brush-off phone call. The creeper seems disappointed.

I just hope he hasn’t spent out on a body bag and wet wipes.

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Stairway To Nowhere - Wednesday

‘What’s this shared ownership all about?’ Asks trainee F as I bustle through the office door hoping for a cuppa, rather than a tricky explanation.

‘It’s a bloody nonsense.’ Answers tubby finance flogger M as he balloons past munching something sweet.

‘I don’t think it is necessarily,’ counters S my negotiator. ‘They have to do something to help people get onto the housing ladder.’

‘Maybe,’ muses M showering her desk with sugary particles. ‘But not by making them pay top dollar for only 65% of the equity.’

M has a point, I think, as I set about explaining the schemes - often a condition of granting new planning permission - which offer buyers the chance to purchase a percentage of a new home then rent the remaining portion. M’s gripe is based around the difficulty in getting lenders to provide finance, the reduced opportunities to flog pricey insurance products and the fact that more often than not, the headline price for only a chunk of the new home’s equity, is very top heavy.

‘So,’ muses F painfully slowly as I eye the kitchen and wonder if I can sneak in there and make a cup of tea just for myself. ‘You end up paying nearly full price but you only own part of it.’

‘Pretty much.’ Concludes M with a sneer, before adding unnecessarily. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’

M does his best to perpetuate the public perception of property people.

‘It’s not that simple.’ I counter weakly. Truth is no estate agent likes trying to value a shared equity home for re-sale. It’s complicated by the occupier not owning 100 % of the bricks and mortar. They have to agree a split with the authority that owns the remaining share upon which they have been paying rent. If they have the capital, they can buy out portions of that share - or indeed the whole amount - in a process known as stair-casing,. Usually they can’t afford to.

‘However you stack it.’ Continues M, warming to his theme. ‘Some mug punter has paid 90% of the real value for only about 50% of the equity. They usually end in tears.’

‘And it’s wrong.’ Says S earnestly. ‘The whole point is to try and get people on lower wages to gain access to decent housing.’

You’ve got to love her - only it’s frowned upon in working hours…

‘It seems a good idea though.’ Persists F. ‘You know, for people like me who don’t earn much.’

‘If you sold a bit more you’d get more commission.’ Snipes B from her lettings desk. The hangovers are getting rougher and rougher. I decide to ignore her. If I wanted a shouting match followed by tears, I’d have it in my own time.

‘It is as good idea.’ Argues S, eyes shining zealously. ‘It’s just been highjacked by greedy developers conning vulnerable people.’

‘They are a nightmare to try and re-sell.’ I tell the group cautiously. I’ve never managed to get a consensus between all the interested parties.

‘So they can’t sell on if they want to upgrade?’ Quizzes F.

‘Not easily.’ I concede.

‘Not ever in my experience.’ Carps M.

‘So you wouldn’t recommend I try and see if I’m eligible?’ Asks F flatly. 

‘You’ll need a decent employers reference.’ Says M woundingly. F looks at me and I don’t exactly administer first aid.

‘I’d wait until you have a decent deposit.’ I tell F neutrally. ‘Then buy a conventional way.’

‘That might be for ever.’ Answers F, eyes blinking rapidly.

If I wanted to work for The Samaritans I’d volunteer for their switchboard - at least someone might make me a cup of tea.

‘Anyone who buys on a shared equity should remember the old adage.’ Says M. ‘Caveat Emptor.’

With all the hand-holding consumer regulation and little Latin taught at school, the phrase Buyer Beware isn’t always recognised. F looks confused and M pounces.

‘You don’t know what Caveat Emptor is, do you?’ He mocks cruelly. I look at F, just for once I hope the dullard paid attention in class. He hesitates and the office falls silent. Finally he’s ready.

‘Is it one of those Pokemon characters?’

About 50% is missing.

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About 50% and more is missing from the cost of an ebook download - links to Amazon on the right - you need to do some work....

Weather With You - Sunday

‘Here comes the prat with the ponytail.’ I tell my wife interrupting her reading. We both have Kindles and pleasingly about a quarter of the sun-frazzled bodies grouped around the pool are also using digital e-book devices. I can’t help wondering if any of them might be reading my book? It’s statistically unlikely. The majority of women using analogue technology – paper and ink – are conspicuously reading Fifty Shades Of Grey, enough to truly depress any wannabe writer. I should do soft porn S & M, not hard-core bricks & mortar.

‘Don’t make comments about people so loudly.’ My wife chides as the grey-haired man with the single plait walks by in too-tight Speedos and enough gold jewellery to fund a third-world coup.

‘He’s old enough to know better.’ I whisper, thinking you can’t Blog loud enough. Not nearly loud enough.

‘And now it’s the ugly sisters.’ I tell her, comment as involuntary as a nervous twitch, as two gruesome women in their thirties, with matching stomachs and spectacles, wobble towards the all-day buffet.

‘You are so rude.’ Pronounces my wife disapprovingly. What she seems to forget is I spend 48 weeks of the year being polite to oddball members of the public. In sales you are acting a part. It’s nice not to be a thespian occasionally I think, as right on cue the lesbian couple stroll past. Now I’m all for equality, some of my best customers have been gay, but I’m still bristling at the trousers only dinner rule, for men. Last night as I sweated in heavy jeans I only brought for the flight, the crop-haired masculine half of the pairing - the one who wears the strap-on I’m guessing - bounced in to the restaurant wearing grotesque shorts and nobody objected – other than me.

‘This is a people watching paradise.’ I tell her as the two women take the sun beds they’ve had reserved with towels since a pre-dawn sortie, despite it being early afternoon.

‘You might actually want to meet a few people, not just critique them.’ Sighs the missus, pushing the page-turner on her Kindle and tutting loudly. I don’t. I’m luxuriating in not having to talk to new people. Not having to flatter them on personality, price and property. Not having to explain what I do for a living. It’s far more fun to observe.

‘German.’ I hiss, as an old leathery-faced man bent double by his belly, shuffles past clutching a beer, incongruously wearing a £150 pair of Nike running shoes, presumably to help him get to the free bar faster. All-inclusive is proving to be a mistake, as even I have broken a cardinal rule and started drinking in the daytime. You can tell from what’s on their plate the sort of personality traits individuals have. Narcissistic, control-freak types hold plates bearing a few frugal fruits, and have the body shape to match. Greedy, weak-willed characters can’t help piling the food so high it totters as they waddle to their table. I just get pissed.

‘Check the t-shirt out.’ I tell my wife and she raises her eyes reluctantly. A woman with a lithe-figure but certainly not English as a first language, is wearing a capped-sleeve number with the legend Make Love Baby picked out in diamante.

‘Should I tell her?’ I ask mischievously.

‘Don’t even think about it.’

‘There’s a whole book, right here right now.’ I announce incredulously, but she just clicks to another page.

Then some arsehole’s phone rings loudly and I growl in anger. I’ve tried not to think of work for five days. I’ve studiously avoided the free Wi-Fi area by reception where saddos with no life and a handful of ginger-haired people who should have booked the Scandinavian cruise, gather to check their messages and avoid the sun.

‘Tell them I want the contract exchanged by close of business or the deal is off.’ Barks the man into his BlackBerry to some far-off subordinate, possibly his estate agent. My heart sinks faster than the bloater who just attempted to mount an airbed from the poolside and bounced straight off.

Until now it had been going swimmingly.

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Poolside reading with an anonymous front cover.

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