Big Bang Theory - Thursday

‘Here comes Sheller.’ Announces trainee F with unusual confidence. There’s a long silence, as we look at him, each other, then follow his gaze out into the high street.

Assistant manager T sighs then enlightens the imbecile. ‘It’s Bomber, his name is Bomber.’

‘The end result is the same though.’ Says negotiator S with a shake of her head.

‘That’s what I meant.’ Counters F defensively. ‘Bomber.’ He hesitates then asks. ‘Remind me why he’s called Bomber again? He’s too young for euthanasia but a controlled explosion at his desk might work.

‘Because he destroys sales.’ Answers S, saving me from some witheringly sarcastic response that might involve another re-education course with some touchy-feely woman from HR who doesn’t shave often enough.

Every town has a harsh-minded surveyor or two. Long in the tooth practitioners who were sued until their professional indemnity insurers threatened to withdraw cover, after the last property crash. Where lenders who were all to happy to advance money rashly to those with dodgy employment letters, or self-certificated borrowers proffering back of a fag packet first year accounts, decided to retrospectively blame the surveyor for signing off a value that some expected to only keep rising. 20-20 hindsight is a real gift.

‘The twat just down-values every sale he looks at.’ Snarls T. ‘We agree a house at £375,00 he’ll value it at £ 350,000,’ continues T hitting his stride as Bomber does the same across the road. ‘Tie a deal up on the same house at £350,000 and you can guarantee he’s value it at £325,000. Those bastards are frightened of their own shadows. I’m surprised he comes out in the daylight.’

‘I’ve complained about him to my panel of lenders.’ Contributes tubby mortgage man M as he waddles across the office something chaffing again unpleasantly. ‘Tried to get him struck off but they won’t play ball like they used to.’ There’s a reason for that, I think glumly. My memory and longevity is elephantine and I’ve repossessed more homes than I care to remember.

‘If the sale goes down the pan, could you ask the owners if they’d like to rent it out instead?’ Asks B from lettings unhelpfully. The dagger-shaped looks just bounce off her. ‘What?’ She asks with an air of innocence she lost a long time ago. ‘A girl’s got to make a living.’

‘Be nice to him.’ I counsel as Bomber approaches the door. ‘You never know, he might value it up.’

‘Fat chance’ Says M without a hint of irony.

M is right. But I can’t afford to upset the surveyor, despite the fact his caution, bordering on outright fear, has cost me thousands this year alone. But then if it’s not Bomber, it’ll be one of his partners in destruction. I know of a Dr Death, The Terminator and at least two Grim Reapers, from discussions with sister offices.

‘Morning everybody.’ Breezes Bomber as he enters the office. The response is colder than a long-abandoned house. I’m surprised his damp meter doesn’t start pinging off the scale. I beckon him over, and he gives me the address. Only two weeks ago I was punching the air with delight when the sale was agreed, now I’m imagining the fractious conversation with the owner and a call to the board man to re-erect the For Sale sign.

‘Set of the details and the energy performance report please.’ Says Bomber with a forced smile I’d like to force back down his throat. He’s the only person to show interest in an EPC since the last surveyor came in to cover their arse.

I hand Bomber the information and ask him to sign for the keys.

‘Got any comparable sales?’ He asks whiningly. So you can work down from those figures, less ten percent, I think angrily. If you put enough caveats and disclaimers in a survey it becomes as worthless as the EPC he’s clutching protectively.

‘Hmm, price looks a bit full,’ speculates Bomber to an audible pantomime-style hiss from stage left, right and centre.

‘It reflects the market. We had competitive bidding and two disappointed punters.’ I tell him artfully.

‘Reckon it’ll be ok?’ Asks F after Bomber leaves.

No.

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Red Card - Thursday

‘Call me old fashioned…’ I begin.

‘You’re old fashioned.’ Interjects assistant manager T to barely suppressed hilarity. Not sure what happened to the respect campaign but when you realise you are starting to sound like one of those grumbling pensioners you used to think euthanasia was a solution for, self-worth can be a dwindling commodity.

‘What is it?’ Asks negotiator S kindly. I reckon she was born too late or I was born too early. Unless I’m as delusional as all those old crumblies living in over-priced sheltered apartments, thinking they’ll be leaving a worthwhile asset to their beneficiaries.

‘A bloody email.’ I say contemptuously.

‘You get loads of bloody emails.’ Says T.

‘Not with a sodding digital Christmas card attached.’ I tell him witheringly.

T and S walk to my computer screen and scan the wretched download, something with all the, goodwill and peace to all men content of a land mine, as far as I’m concerned.

‘I think it moves.’ Suggests S leaning in and brushing my arm with her substantial frontage.

‘Click on it.’ Suggests T as I try not to gulp audibly.

‘Do you mind if I use your mouse?’ Asks S innocently. There’s only so much unwitting innuendo I can take with my blood pressure. I nod acquiescence and try not to let the aforementioned red-stuff rush anywhere but my head.

‘Look it’s rising up.’ Exclaims S to a momentary feeling of horror until I realise the tacky Santa and sleigh montage is moving in clunky fashion, as the reindeer take flight and a Merry Christmas message flashes on the screen like some virtual virus.

‘Seriously?’ I gripe in Scrooge-like fashion.

As the scene plays out to a tinkling digitised soundtrack, I read the attached message stating sanctimoniously that the sender company are saving the environment (their franking machine bill) by not using the physical postal system. Not content with expecting me to swallow that bullshit, the text informs me that any cost benefit from not mailing the traditional way will be donated to a charity. One I’ve never heard of.

Now I’m ambivalent about corporate Christmas cards at the best of times, as the sentiment is more about reciprocal business than Christian – other religions are available – goodwill. But if you are going to make a list of recipients who might be of use to you in the coming year, at least make the effort of actually buying and sending a touch me, feel me, put me in the office window, three-dimensional piece of tinsel-tinted-tat.

‘You don’t like it then?’ Concludes S moving back to her desk.

‘It has all the sincerity of a politician claiming they only do the job to serve their constituents.’ I tell her.

‘You’re so cynical.’ Replies S with a look of disappointment I’ve seen before.

‘You start idealistic, move on to brutally informed then migrate to pessimism.’ I respond before adding and instantly regretting: ‘It’s the circle of life.’

‘That’s more of a linear progression.’ Chips T with a smug smile.

‘It comes to all of us eventually, particularly if you stay in this business.’ I tell him, disliking myself even as I spout the bile-laced response. My romanticism withered after the first few sales fell through and I realised anyone who stated: “My word is my bond”, was a pathological liar.

‘So we won’t be sending out any company Christmas cards then?’ Asks S a hint of sadness in her eyes. I feel like I’ve just told her Santa won’t be coming to fill her stocking ever again, but I just end up fighting a shameful image. One that would give the harridans in Human Resources a whole new inappropriate behaviour chapter to write, on the company standing orders.

‘He’s got a list on the computer.’ Says T knowingly. He’s right and at first I believed in it. Thought it was a nice sentiment to acknowledge those you’ve dealt with all year and to wish them well for the future. But time, a bean counter boss and a less than healthy profit and loss account has chipped away at my belief. At best I’m agnostic now.

God help me.

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