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.

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

See you in the New Year.

S.A.

Cat In Hell's Chance - Friday

‘God that house on the Barratt development stinks something terrible.’ Complains assistant manager T as he comes back in the office vigorously brushing hair off his suit jacket. I made sure he did the viewing as I had the misfortune of listing the house. I was so busy trying to avoid the two yelping dogs and mopping my streaming eyes, that I pitched a little high on price and ended up with the instruction. Prospective buyers have all turned their noses up at the grubby two bed, timber-frame, architecturally bland box but the owners are in denial. How to you broach the subject their home stinks of unwashed pets when every owner is convinced the pong doesn’t apply to their Pongo?

‘They just don’t seem to notice.’ Continues T polishing his glasses fastidiously. ‘I mean how do they expect us to sell it when it reeks like Battersea dogs home?’

‘I could probably let it if you like,’ suggests lettings lush B. ‘I’ve got some pretty scuzzy applicants who wouldn’t notice the odd turd on the carpet as long as they got housing benefit.’

I tell B the owners don’t want to let their house. They could do with letting some air into it though.

‘What did the viewers say?’ I quiz, as T gets his germ-killer spray from the top drawer and rubs his hands together so fast I fear he might spontaneously combust. God knows how much paperwork that would generate - assuming the sprinklers actually worked.

‘Said they’d have to redecorate throughout, change all the carpets and relay the back lawn where the grass has gone piss-stained yellow.’

‘Not about to make an offer to take that in to account, then?’ I ask optimistically.

‘No,’ corrects T. ‘The owners would have to do that before they’d even consider looking again.’

I’ve learnt from long and painful experience pet lovers just won’t accept their beloved bundle of hair and excrement might be a hurdle to top dollar for their home, even when prospective buyers are hurdling poo on the patio. They just don’t get it. Dogs might seem friendly but if they salivate or ejaculate on your trouser leg it doesn’t usually result in a deal, unless you cater for a very specialised market. Cat owners think their feline friends are a cut above canines but in truth I dislike them even more. The fine hair has me sneezing and wheezing like a peanut allergy sufferer who has face-planted a plate of dry roasted. Plus I need to remain polite and don’t carry an adrenaline stick. And cats know you hate them, I can fool the owners most of the time but an overindulged Tabby will clock my discomfort before I’ve handed over a business card.

‘My cat doesn’t smell.’ Says B a hint of steely challenge in her voice. I’m just glad she said cat not pussy so I’m not about to argue. I’ve had the same problem with staff members who reek of body odour over the years.

‘You’re just the same as all the other owners.’ Taunts T unhelpfully. ‘God, some of them even let the fleabags sleep on their beds.’ There’s an awkward silence as B glares at T. She’s rumoured to be fairly relaxed about just who squats on her duvet.

‘You let your cat on your bed don’t you.’ States T with a grimace of realisation.

‘They’re cleaner than some men.’ Snaps B angrily.

Why didn’t I pay attention at school? If I could come round again, if I had nine lives…

‘How are you going to broach the subject when you do the viewing feedback?’ I ask T, coming back to the more immediate problem of the house with a litter tray in the kitchen and more hair on the sofa then the husband’s head.

‘You tell me.’ Counters T. ‘You’ve been doing this for like ever, and you put it on the market.’

‘Gently mention punters are showing a bit of resistance to the dogs?’ I say weakly.

‘They’ll have to take us as they find us.’ Mimics T in a parody of a hundred other vendors who want maximum money without using a vacuum cleaner.

Won’t be cleaning up this week.

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