Back On The Chain Gang - Wednesday

‘Anything happening?’ I ask the assembled office, as I come back from an abortive valuation where the owners seemed to think their house was in a different location, to its actual address.

‘World is going to hell in a handcart.’ Says fat finance man M gruffly. Looks like he’s had more commission clawbacks from mis-sold policies, this month.

‘Bomber the surveyor came for the keys to number fourteen.’ Says assistant manager T, with a grimace, before adding. ‘We might as well put the for sale board back up.’

I glance towards lose lettings lush B’s desk.

‘What?’ She challenges aggressively.

‘Anything happening?’ I repeat.

‘Well I’ve got ungrateful landlords, three tenants in arrears, a complaint about loud parties and suspected drug dealing and every other deadbeat that comes in wants to know if we’ll rent to people on housing benefits.’

I turn to F, the idiot savant trainee. He frowns distractedly.

‘What was the question again boss?’

Some days I shake my head more often than one of those solar-powered nodding dogs. I look at negotiator S, for some solace. Not for the first time. 

‘I’ve chased the exchange of contracts on the Halls’ sale.’ She says glumly. ‘But two of the lawyers aren't talking to each other except by letter, there’s a local search that might take another five weeks and the couple at the top of the chain have been told they’ve undersold by an agent who knocked their door. They are thinking about taking the house off the market and putting the price up.’

If anybody tells you selling homes is money for old rope, tell them to spend a month in my office. I’ve had more disappointments in the last twenty years than the Aston Villa supporters’ club. Every reason for sales falling through that could possibly exist, has crossed my desk or polluted my phone. And the next tosser who puts in an offer, assuring me his word is his bond, is probably going to get punched. Because as sure as the sun rises in the east, he’ll be pulling out of the sale before any money changes hands.

‘Why does the sales’ process have to be so long-winded?’ Asks trainee F, after I’ve been given a calming cup of tea and my rant has petered out like an old man’s piss-stream.

‘That’s actually a good question’ Says S, with a disarming smile. God, if she ever goes on maternity leave I might just take the stairs to the top of that ex-local authority block of flats. The lift obviously won’t be working, but at least I can be sure the door to the roof will be unlocked.

‘They need to speed the process up.’ Suggests M pompously. A bit rich considering the outstanding mortgage offers we are waiting on for at least two buyers we put in front of him. 

‘They tried that with Home Information Packs though.’ Counters S, referring to the late and not very lamented attempt by the clueless last Labour Government. Despite widespread industry warnings of the unsuitability, one of the numerous housing ministers, who changed more often that F’s underpants, decided to railroad through a clunky piece of legislation that failed miserably. The incoming Conservative Government junked the process and proved to be equally as inept.

‘The problem with property is the people.’ I say obliquely. I get some quizzical looks, but I’m used to that. I tell people the real value of their homes every day, and the majority want to be lied to.

‘What do you mean?’ Questions F, frowning again. His face is going to look like Rip Van Winkle’s by the time he’s thirty.

‘He means the business would be great if it wasn’t for the public.’ Says M, with a jowly shrug.

‘That doesn’t make sense.’ Replies F, face creasing even deeper.

‘It’s not meant to.’ I say flatly.

‘He’s just being ironic.’ Soothes S towards F; with that dazzling smile.

‘I hate f***ing people.’ Spits B.

‘Not what I’ve heard.’ Mutters T, dangerously.

‘What was that?’ Snaps B.

I caution for calm and plead for another cuppa.

So, nothing happening then.

Just the usual.

---------

Enfranchise Me - Thursday

‘Fancy a valuation later?’ Asks assistant manager T as I return to the office. I’m immediately on my guard. T wouldn’t give away an easy instruction on a new property, so I’m sensing a curve ball. I sometimes wonder if pooling commission in the office is the best method. It’s less divisive and means fewer bust-ups over who won the business/sold the home, but it can benefit the lazy ones.

‘Where is it?’ I ask. T looks more sheepish than a Welsh shearer and negotiator S just looks down at her keyboard - which must be difficult with those huge breasts.

‘It’s somewhere naff, isn’t it?’ I say tersely.

‘Not exactly.’ Counters T unconvincingly.

‘Cough.’ I instruct. T tells me and I groan inwardly.

Now, you’d think any new home to sell on your books would be welcome and in general that’s true. You can’t sell it if you haven’t got it and a shortage of units to sell is the perpetual problem for most agents - until the market really turns. But T has just named a crumbling block of flats, with a short lease and a notoriously difficult absentee freeholder. Leasehold is a secondary form of tenure endured primarily by Londoners and flat owners. Only they don’t own their flats, they lease them for 99 years or more and in theory have to give them back at the end of the term.

‘You know they’ve got short leases don’t you?’ I tell, rather than ask, T.

‘Yeh, but they can use the legislation to extend.’ Counters T.

He’s right. Leasehold Reform laws offer a route for lessees to compel freeholders to extend their lease, or sell the freehold to a collective of residents, but it’s arcane, complicated and expensive. Particularly with a reluctant landlord intent on milking the building for all the income he can extract.

‘Isn’t that the block where there’s a huge hole in the sinking fund?’ Asks S. She’s right, the maintenance has been neglected and rumour has it a new flat roof is required at a six figure sum. A sum to be divided between the luckless owners.

‘And you won’t get a mortgage any more if there’s less that fifty years to run on the lease.’ Adds financial services man M, as he waddles towards the kitchen. ‘Cash buyers only.’ He adds, as I hear the kettle being filled with just enough water for one.

‘Is it even worth having on our register?’ Asks S after some protracted discussion on the inequities of leasehold and the number of rogue freeholders we’ve dealt with over the years.The shitesters who have separate building companies under a hidden ownership, that always get the overinflated maintenance work needed on the building. Not to mention the slyly written leases that have inflation-busting rises in ground rent designed to milk lessees until they are dry. And it’s usually the elderly.

‘We’re hoping to move into one of those nice new retirement flats.’ Says the ancient husband as I sit in the run-down block, later. Endearingly the old couple are holding hands and looking at me earnestly, as they perch on the saggy sofa.

Out of the frying pan into the fire, I think glumly. Assuming anyone will buy there cobwebby home, they’ll sell low and buy high at an overpriced retirement block and the extortionate maintenance charges will still be with them. I’m getting a stair lift and staying put, when my time comes.

‘I don’t understand.’ Says the wife, eyes rheumy and watering, after I’ve explained how lenders won’t advance funds until the lease on their flat is extended, or the freehold owned by the residents.

Neither do I grandma.

‘But we can’t afford to pay him any more.’ Says the husband angrily. ‘There’s already a huge bill coming for the communal boiler.’

Shit, I didn’t know that. I only just stop myself from looking at my watch - a cardinal sin. And I assume the impoverished pair don’t even know about the roof replacement.

They’ll be staying - until the undertaker comes.

--------

Flying High - Thursday

A scruffily dressed man in his twenties peers in the office window. I’m sat at assistant manger T’s desk, as he’s out lunchtime shopping. He’ll come back with something else unnecessary on his credit card, no doubt.

‘Lettings customer?’ I whisper conspiratorially, to negotiator S. She looks up discretely and clocks the guy, who is shielding his eyes and looking in, grinning slightly insanely.

‘Bit judgemental isn’t it.’ Says S, looking towards lettings’s lush B’s vacant desk.B’s been out for over an hour, supposedly helping a landlord with a tricky check-out. Not sure who is checking who out, with B you never know.

‘More about his age than dress sense.’ I hiss, as the man starts chuckling to himself. Terrific, all I need is another nutter coming in. I often wonder if they bus them in for a day out from the padded cells.

‘Is he laughing at us, or himself?’ Whispers S.

‘Probably the asking prices.’ I reply, as the man moves away from the window and towards the door.

I sometimes wish there was a remote controlled deadlock I could activate, to stop the drunks and deadbeats coming in. I only just managed to get the keys in the barrel and the door secured, that time an angry evicted tenant turned up intent on breaking heads or furniture. Twenty minutes for the police to arrive - you’d have thought they didn’t like estate agents…

‘He’s coming in.’ Says S between a forced smile. ‘You want him, or me?’

I’d rather she spoke to the man if I’m honest, but then if it turns awkward I’m going have to go across anyway.

‘Me.’ I tell her and she visibly relaxes. Quite pleasingly, as it happens.

‘You lot trying to hurt the locals again?’ Cries the man, by way of a greeting. Wonderful. If I wanted an argument I could post something provocative on Twitter. I don’t need some grinning gonad with no job, and no prospect of any commission for me.

‘I’m sorry.’ I say neutrally.

‘I bet you are,’ continues the idiot. ‘You must love it every time prices go up.’

He couldn’t be more wrong.

‘No chance for local people to get on the housing ladder with your prices. We just have to buzz off!’

My back isn’t what it was and this bell-end has a couple of decades on me. I’m not sure I can throw him out on the street without embarrassing myself and with the time the constabulary take to arrive, I could be at the emergency dentist by then. And yet, I’m not sure this guy is a complete lunatic, nor can I smell any alcohol.

I rise and an awkward Mexican stand-off begins. I can see S has her hand poised over the fast-dial button but a pizza would get here before any help does. I need to deal with this myself. The man looks at me, then at S before turning back to me.

‘It’s a joke.’ He says, hands held wide.

‘The prices are dictated by the market.’ I tell him robotically.

‘No.’ Says the man raising his eyebrows as if I’m the shabbily dressed wastrel with no job and housing prospects. ‘In your window…’

‘In my window what?’ I snap.

‘There’s a wasp.’

‘That was awkward,’ I say to S after the man has left. ‘I thought he wanted a fight.’

‘Why did he bother to come in?’ Asks S bemused.

‘Some people just think they’re funny.’ I tell her, as I remember the number of times I’ve wanted to go into a baker’s shop and ask how much for the wasps buzzing around the pastries?

‘Could you get it for me?’ Asks S, as I locate the errant flying menace. Fittingly it has landed on an over-priced apartment with a short lease. Someone is going to get stung.

‘How stupid are these creatures?’ I ask exasperated, as the wasp refuses to be guided out the door by a copy of the local free paper. The angry insect just keeps banging it’s dozy head against the glass.

I know how it feels.

----------

Pimms O'Clock - Friday

‘We going to the pub tonight, boss?’ Asks trainee F. It’s as enthusiastic as he’s been all day, but then free drinks keep their allure a little longer than posting: we have buyers urgently looking in your area, leaflets through doors, endlessly.

‘Probably.’ I tell him, deliberately opaque. F frowns and looks at negotiator S - most people do - and she gives him a reassuring nod, as do her breasts. So we’ll be going then.

‘Any news on the survey for number twenty-four?’ I ask assistant manager T, in an attempt to try and make some progress before I have to start buying beers. T looks at me with barely disguised distain. ‘Nobody except estate agents will still be at work at this time of day.’ He says, tilting his head towards the clock. I look at the numerals in surprise, that’s what you get for studying the office P&L accounts doggedly, when you failed O-Level maths. 

‘Time flies when you’re having fun.’ Says loose lettings lush B, sourly. She’s been battling with an angry landlord and two nightmare tenants who are due to be evicted, all afternoon. I can see why she’ll need a drink by closing time. It’s the several more gin and tonics and casual sex with a stranger she probably could do without. Probably.

‘Those wasters are threatening to go to the local papers, when they’re kicked out.’ Continues B, referring to the soon to be evicted pair. ‘God knows why the taxpayer has to fund their drugs and nicotine habit. I hope they get the shittiest bed and breakfast in town.’

‘It’s the kids I feel sorry for.’ Says S compassionately.

‘He should put something on the end of it.’ Snaps B, like a female Jeremy Kyle. The voice of experience, I think, trying not to grin. She’s avoided unwanted, or otherwise, pregnancy so far. Just as well, because I’m not sure I could ever fake another smile and enthusiastic response, if I’m told I’ll need to run an office with another staff member on maternity leave…

‘If you save and spend sensibly you just end up funding pissheads’ lifestyles.’ Grumble obese finance man M, as he waddles across the office.

‘Not sure anyone would underwrite accident sickness and redundancy policies for any of B’s housing benefit tenants.’ Says T with a wry laugh.

‘They’d need to have a job first, before they’d qualify for redundancy protection. Fat chance of that.’ Replies M with his enduring lack of self-awareness. Even then the policy wouldn’t pay out, I think.

‘They are all scum.’ Says B angrily.

‘They’re not all.’ Counters S. ‘They’ve just had a hard time of it.’

‘How hard is it to got to the cashpoint at midnight in your pyjamas, once your free money is in, then go to the all-night off-licence.’ Says M sarcastically.

‘I think you reap what you sow.’ Pronounces F obtusely. That stops the conversation in its tracks. God alone knows what goes on in that head of his.

‘Good week?’ Asks the opposition manager, when I finally lead my team into the pub, like some cut-price messiah. I still don’t know why the majority of estate agents share the same watering hole, something to do with posturing and false bravado. I puff up my metaphorical tail-feathers and lie enthusiastically.

‘Yeh, us too.’ He replies, visibly crestfallen. It’s a game, but I still like to win.

‘How did they do?’ Asks T, once I’ve bought the drinks and we’ve circled one table like a motley tribe of Red Indians. I look across at the opposition.

’How did they do, or how did they say they’ve done?’ I answer.

‘Good point.’ Concedes T.

As I buy the second round and wonder if I should go home before my tea is in the bin again, B’s mobile phone rings insistently. She glances at the caller display and grimaces. ‘Shit, it’s the lairy landlord.’

‘Don’t answer it.’ Suggest T.

‘You have to,’ counters S. ‘It might be about the tenants getting kicked out.’

‘Tell him they can sleep in our office doorway.’ Says M with a rumbustious chortle.

Just one more drink then.

-------

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Dark Weekdays - Wednesday

‘They looked quite young to be at your desk.’ I say to negotiator S as a fresh-faced couple leave the office clutching several sets of sales particulars.

She looks at me and smiles. ‘What instead of being across at the lettings desk?’ And she nods towards B’s vacant station. B has been missing for several hours, ostensibly to do a landlord’s check out, but with her it might just as easily be a liquid lunch - then doing a landlord.

‘They have the Bank of Mum and Dad on their side.’ Says S ruefully.

The phenomenon of parents helping children with their first home deposit is not new, but with rising prices it’s become much more common. If your parents have never been able to option a right to buy on their council house, have failed marriages and the accompanying financial hit behind them, or are just plain skint, it’s not quite so easy to place a tentative foot on the property ladder.

‘Did you get a FS lead?’ Says a muffled voice from behind me. I realise M the portly purveyor of dubious financial services has snuck up behind us, while eating something crumbly.

‘They were all fixed.’ mutters S unconvincingly. 

I should press her on the oversight, after all there are office targets as well as personal ones. But in truth I’ve never liked the conflict of interests flogging products to buyers produces, when you are acting for the homeowners. Probably why my career in corporate agency hit a ceiling so low I’m stooping prematurely.

‘You could have got me in there for an alternative quote.’ Grumbles M shedding flaky pastry on the office carpet again. He’s right. The consultants are trained to do a bit of disturbance selling and to knock competitors out of the equation with promises of “exclusive rates” only available to them. Traditionally, it involves smoke and mirrors and insurance products designed not to pay out, or to wriggle more than a snake in a bag, once you try to make a claim. I still remember the endowment policy and payment protection plan fiascos.

‘They were adamant.’ Counters S with a rather fetching pout. I almost believe her.

‘I’m not happy.’ Mutters M waddling away. Try some more comfort eating then, fat boy, I think sourly before turning back to S and asking.

‘Did you book any viewings for them?’

'Three on the trot this afternoon.’ Says S with a triumphant smile.

I could almost kiss her - almost.

‘Not sure my Mum will ever sub me for a deposit.’ Says trainee F who has been stuffing envelopes at a snails pace throughout the conversation. That’s because she’s on her fourth partner and wasted tens of thousands on a private education for you, I think. I still reckon she could get a refund. If they can claw back thousands in compensation for mis-sold insurance products, surely a law firm could stop chasing ambulances for a while and try suing the school for turning out a well-spoken dullard, after six years of tuition?

‘Of course it must of been easier back in your day.’ Says F, adding patronisation to crinkling sales particulars in envelopes unnecessarily, on his list of misdemeanours.

‘It didn’t seem like it when my mortgage went up three points to 15% in the course of an afternoon.’ I snap back, referring to the chaotic day when Britain was thrown out of The European Exchange Rate mechanism and my complete sales pipeline collapsed overnight. It was named Black Wednesday and I’ve had a few of those in my career, not to mention Thursdays, Fridays…

‘Fifteen percent?’ Echoes F incredulously. ‘You are having a laugh.’

I wasn’t chortling at the time.

‘Were they really ever that high?’ Asks S gently. I forget how young my team are compared to me - except when we go out for the increasingly rare, sales award evening. Then I feel like their dad and dance like it too.

‘They were.’ I confirm, before adding. ‘I don’t think it’s ever easy to buy when you first start out.’

‘I’m going to wait for prices to crash.’ States F moodily.

Be careful what you wish for.

--------

Sleight Of Hand - Friday

‘Guess who I just saw moving out? Asks assistant manager T as he hurries back into the office, face like thunder. The choices are wider than I’d like, with upwards of twenty other estate agents working my area. T needs to narrow it down a bit.

‘Give us a clue.’ I tell T, conscious that everyone else in the office is listening. Sales people get paid predominantly on commission and want to know who is taking: food from your mouth, rental payments from your landlord, credit card fees from your lender...

‘You hated them.’ Says T earnestly.

‘You’ll need to narrow it down for him love.’ Suggests B from her lettings enclave. She can be cutting, but it’s normally third party damage rather than self-harm – although the excessive drinking and serial shagging is pretty destructive.

‘Have a look in there.’ Instructs T, grabbing the viewing book, flicking back through the pages then plonking it on the desk in front of me. I glance down at the smudged entries, unable to stop myself from getting angry over the largely empty column where the vendor feedback should have been noted. I recognise one wobbly entry though.

‘Not number thirty-three?’ I ask, hackles rising as I read my note stating the viewers I took round on the soggy Saturday in question, were having a second viewing direct with the owners on the Sunday.

‘The very same.’ Answers T smugly. ‘And the removal van is outside now, bold as you like.’ I scowl and feel the frown lines deepen further. Any longer in this business and I’ll need decorator’s filler rather than that scent-free “man cream” my wife bought me and I refuse to wear.

‘But they took it off the market and said they weren’t selling any longer.’ Says negotiator S naively. She’s still got a lot to learn, some of it I can help with but the more tactile lessons are off-limits.

‘Not selling with us you mean.’ Counters T sarcastically.

I knew something didn’t smell right - and not just the daughter’s hamster cage. The viewers had been almost evangelical in their praise for the house when I showed them round, suit dampened, hair dripping. All the buying signals were there, plus a second viewing direct with the owners on the Sunday. Then, after the weekend, the viewers told me rather curtly they’d found something else and asked to be taken off the mailing list.

‘We need to find out who has bought that house.’ I say sternly.

‘Pretty sure no other agent had it on their books.’ States T. With property portals easy to access, agents no longer have to fraudulently register as buyers on the opposition mailing lists, we just point and click to see who has what.

‘Maybe they’ve rented it out.’ Suggests B with a disinterested shrug.

‘Were any competitors offering it?’ Asks S, just ahead of me.

‘How should I know?’ Snaps B. The opposition awareness has passed B by, unlike the gin bottle and at least one rumoured STD.

‘Finally stopped raining.’ I say cheerily as I wonder up the drive of number thirty-one, leaflet in hand. The owner is fortuitously in the garden raking, or spiking, or hoeing the lawn. I never did have very green fingers - apart from that time I tugged another agent’s long-standing for sale board out of the ground, after dark.

‘Oh they’ve moved. Sold it to a lovely couple.’ Says the horticulturist to my seemingly innocent enquiry about next door.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Answers the man to my next question. ‘A black BMW on a new plate. Do you know them?’

In passing.

‘So the vendors have cheated us out of the commission.’ Says S incredulously, back at the office.

‘It happens.’ I tell her, adding. ‘Only with open Land Registry access it’s easier to catch them than it used to be.’

‘You’ve had it before?’ Questions S. ‘What do you do?’

‘Try the reasonable approach and ask for the money, then get my Magistrates’ suit out.’ 

‘Well?’ Asks T after my brief phone call, everyone watching.

‘Said they can’t pay, as they sold cheaply with no agent’s fee to settle.’

‘Bastard.’ Says T angrily. ‘What did you say?’

‘See you in court.’

----

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Hungry For Business - Tuesday

‘Could you do a viewing at lunchtime?’ Asks negotiator S as I come back in the office stomach already rumbling. The bran and suspect dried fruit offering I had at breakfast, in solidarity with my wife’s family diet, has proved an inadequate substitute for a full English.

I move towards the viewing book, before spotting S’s reproachful look. I shouldn’t be cherry-picking the viewings, not a great example to the staff. Treat them as you’d like to be treated yourself I think, as another unhelpful image of S treating me, as I’d like to be indulged flits through my mind.

The silence has gone on too long and as I’ve often told S, as well as the other team members, silence is a powerful tool in selling. Make your pitch then shut up. People always feel compelled to fill a conversational void. I’m paused halfway towards my target and she’s waiting, knowing, looking. Looking pretty good, as it happens. I crumble.

‘No problem. Where is it?’

She tells me, with the hint of a triumphal smile.

‘You’re kidding?’ I grumble, stepping to the diary and confirming the worst with my own eyes. It’s a grotty converted flat in a shabby part of town, currently let to a couple of scruffy students – although I suspect there are more than two occupants most nights. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had sub-let the couch and the carpet. The landlord wants to sell when the tenancy expires, but the current occupiers have no interest in helping him - or us.

‘Have you told the tenants?’ I say cursing this wretchedly misplaced socialist attitude towards my colleagues. A dictatorship works best in sales. I should have ordered someone else over the parapet and stayed at the back like a First World War General, sipping red wine and screwing the locals.

‘They are going to be out so it’s ok to use the keys.’ Says S a trifle smugly. I scan the other appointments, short of re-arranging the diary in an obvious ploy to avoid the smelly socks and unwashed dishes I need to go. I take a sulky walk to the key-cupboard grab, a set of the details and the viewers contact details. I won’t need the rape alarm, I think absurdly, seeing the spare unit alongside the other dozens of sets of keys, but I might need the flea-spray. I’m already starting to itch.

‘Oh it’s a bit dark and dingy.’ Says the girlfriend of the slightly effeminate, posh-vowel city boy alongside her. He has that weak-chinned overfed and overeducated look of someone used to privilege and spending his parents’ money. If he works for one of Daddy’s friends, as he’s unemployable anywhere else, I suspect they’re not paying enough if this dump is all he can afford for his weekend shag-pad.

‘The communal areas are due a spruce-up.’ I tell the woman with a smile I hope isn’t as sickly on my face as it feels looking out. They’ve been due a redecoration for at least three years but the residents are in dispute with the freeholder. He wants to appoint his own building company to do the work, then doubtless stiff the sinking fund with an over-inflated invoice. No change there then.

Dodging a couple of grubby prams, both empty this time, and a rusty bicycle, I reach the landing just as the light-timer pops off and we’re plunged into semi-darkness. Hurriedly I stab the button and the greasy landing light wheezes back to a low-energy, low wattage puddle – it’s certainly not a pool – of light. My stomach rumbles like a Tube Train passing under the foundations.

I tap the door than work the flimsy lock.

‘I’m really not sure about this one already.’ Trills the girlfriend with the double-barrelled surname. God, if he ever does marry her they’ll need a whole page in the phone book to themselves.

‘It’s nicer inside.’ I say then remembering how quick people are to sue now with all the no-win-no-fee shark solicitors around, I add. ‘Or will be once you’ve decorated to your own taste.’

‘Did they like it?’ Asks S on my return.

 Not a lot.

-----

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Adverse Conditions - Monday

‘For crying out loud, is it ever going to stop raining?’ Asks assistant manger T, as he stumbles through the office door, hair unusually ruffled, designer glasses steamed up, sang-froid a little soggy.

‘I’m not doing outside appointments if I can help it.’ States loose lettings lush B to a mixture of bemusement and resignation – unfortunately not hers.

‘You can’t just stay in the office because it’s a bit damp outside.’ Chides negotiator S, a step ahead of me as usual.

‘You don’t have to go out there and meet the weirdo tenants and cheapskate landlords I have to deal with.’ Snaps back B. ‘They dampen my spirits enough as it is without ruining my outfits and making my mascara run unnecessarily.’

I’m spoilt for choice. A torrent of lines featuring B spending most of her time indoors, studying more ceilings than inventories and having damp clothes and tear-flushed make-up even on sunny days, washes around my head. But the desire for no more hysterical sobbing and the dawning realisation B is becoming a bit like me- just with more alcohol and casual sex – makes me keep my powder dry.

‘I reckon those new homes they built near the river will be getting a bit twitchy.’ I state, with more than a little relish. It still rankles the slimy local developer didn’t give me the business.

‘Do you think they’ll flood?’ Asks T shaking his raincoat and sending water droplets onto the window display with a hint of electrical arcing. If I have to replace another low-voltage lighting transformer at exorbitant cost I’ll hot wire into the mains and just take the consequences, however shocking...

‘You build on a flood plain what do you expect?’ I tell T sagely.

‘Think I flogged some home and contents insurance to one of those buyers.’ Muses fat finance man M while munching on a slice of microwave pizza. I’ve told him about eating in the office and I’ve told him about the smell, but I might as well be King Canute trying to hold back the tide.

‘Will it pay out?’ Asks trainee F.

‘The thing about insurance.’ Says M between mouthfuls. ‘Is they like to take premiums but are not to keen on settling claims. Kind of mucks up their business model.’

‘That’s wrong.’ States F naively.

‘You don’t get commission clawbacks when some dickhead dies in the first few years of life cover.’ Retorts M witheringly.

I don’t know why we have such a bad reputation.

‘I suppose that leaflet drop is out of the question now?’ I muse semi-rhetorically, as the rain cascades down the window later.

‘You are kidding right?’ Questions T warily. His umbrella is still propped-up by the door, a small pool of water around it accelerating the warping of the cheap laminate fake-wood flooring the corporate cowboy builders fitted, on the last botched refurbishment.

I’m only half in jest. The leaflets have been printed-off. The mystery couple that urgently want to buy in your road obliquely sourced from the mailing list. The target areas identified. It’s just the shoe leather and desire that needs to be furnished.

‘In my day.’ I begin to a chorus of groans. ‘I went out rain, snow or cyclone.’

‘Aren’t they only found in tropical areas?’ Snipes M.

‘You can get them in the UK too.’ I tell him with more conviction than I feel. I don’t have a smart enough phone to Google and check, like those spotty students who keep winning the pub quiz by on-line cheating.

‘Not sure you can.’ Carps M as F looks on in bovine bemusement. I’m still not sure if I could use a bolt gun on F, with those big Friesian eyes.

‘Don’t you remember the great storm of 1987?’ I snap to instant regret.

‘I wasn’t born then.’ Says F after a long hesitation, presumably while he tried to recall his date of birth.

‘You must remember.’ I tell M but he shakes his fat head.

‘You then?’ I say towards B as she files her nails aggressively.

‘Not really.’ She answers disinterestedly.

‘Michael Fish.’ I continue almost pleadingly. ‘Said it wasn’t going to be windy.’

Blown out again.

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Big Bang Theory - Monday

‘That’s the third for sale board that has gone missing.’ Says trainee F, look of puzzlement on his face. God why didn’t I see that when I interviewed him? He was the best of a bad bunch and if you don’t set a minimum standard for entry in to the industry I guess you keep getting in-bred public school boys not smart enough to be surveyors and solicitors - or chancers with the gift of the gab who didn’t pay attention at state school…

‘The time of year isn’t it.’ States assistant manager T. It’s not nearly enough to illuminate F. His face creases into the sort of frown I use for fractions and algebra. Some people dream of being naked in a public place, I just have nightmares about being exposed anywhere without my calculator.

‘What because the clocks have gone back?’ Questions F hesitantly. Oh for the days when you could sack someone with just a letter and a bin bag for belongings. I can’t face another session with the lesbians in Human Resources and the chairwoman of the industrial tribunal had a distinct dislike of estate agents. In fact all three on the panel did, even the token guy who supposedly had some experience of running his own business.

‘Never heard of Guy Fawkes?’ Asks lettings lush B, voice thick with sarcasm.

‘I don’t watch gardening programmes.’ Replies F in seeming sincerity. A stunned silence engulfs the office until a phone rings.

‘Fireworks night, you plonker.’ Says T as B answers her line and begins a fractious conversation with a tenant too lazy to turn the stopcock off herself, despite the woman downstairs needing an umbrella in her living room.

‘They steal the boards to put on bonfires.’ I tell F wondering, not for the first time, why I bother. If it takes months in a laboratory and half a ton of bananas to teach a chimp to push the right button, I’m not going to train F to function properly without another five years and my own greengrocers.

‘You see them in back gardens on waste ground, even at organised displays.’ Adds T. ‘Some they’ve had since they moved because the agents forgot to collect, some they keep out of spite because they hate the agent they bought through and others they nick in the night when they’re short of firewood.’

‘Loads of people dislike us don’t they?’ States F pensively.

‘It’s because the home moving process is stressful and adversarial.’ I tell F, wondering how much of a hit the office profit and loss account will take when the new board order comes through in a few weeks time.

‘The best thing to do,’ advises T. ‘is to hate them right back. Most of them wouldn’t put us out if they saw us burning. Make the feeling mutual and it’ll help you get through the day.’

I never knew T was becoming such a protégée. And I thought he didn’t care that much.

‘You do fireworks at home?’ Asks negotiator S looking me in the eye as I strive to reciprocate. I’m hoping her bra has some sort of super-strength carbon fibre inserts because there’s a strong gravitational pull going on.

‘Not since both boys went to University.’ I tell her wistfully, feeling old all of a sudden. There was a time when I was the youngest, sharpest, best salesman in every firm I worked for. That flame has long since guttered.

‘Do you remember those jumping jacks that leapt round your ankles and those hover fireworks that came at you at head height?’ I ask big mortgage man M. He shakes his vast jowls and waddles to the kitchen. ‘Before my time mate.’ It wasn’t - and he isn’t my mate. I turn to B who has just finished arranging the landlord’s plumber.

‘Don’t look at me either.’ She growls menacingly, as a line about old bangers spins wildly in my head like an ill-attached Catherine wheel.

‘Health and safety wouldn’t allow any of those munitions now.’ I say to the ether, a man out of time.

Rest of the day a bit of a damp squib too.

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Strange Town - Saturday

‘Don’t embarrass me Dad.’ Hisses my son with a line I’ve been hearing ever since both lads reached the age where they realised what I do for a living.

I’m in a strange town, doing a familiar thing. Amazingly the youngest lad has nearly completed his first year at university and already he needs to throw his lot in with a bunch of fellow grant-grabbers he barely knows and whose parents I’m going to be co-guarantor with. Time to choose a student-share house.

‘And don’t tell the landlord who you are.’ Adds my son earnestly, as we clamber out of the car and move towards the terraced house to meet the middle-aged man who is standing on the doorstep, looking officious. ‘Just let him do the talking,’ suggests my wife. ‘And don’t ask any technical questions.’

Terrific. I’ve finally found myself in a position where I might be the most knowledgeable person at a meeting - and not trying to sell something - and I’m not allowed to flex anything.

The area is typical university town, student ghetto stock. Tightly packed terraced homes, chock-full of cars, on streets that were designed for foot traffic, or the odd horse and cart at best. I can spot dormer windows and Velux roof-lights in the loft areas, where every bit of space has been converted to milk maximum revenues from minimum square footage. Greedy landlords at it again, I think, as I curse the fact I didn’t ride the buy-to-let boom myself. The yields here must be pretty impressive.

‘He’s already chosen it.’ Reminds my wife as my son does the introductions and the landlord greets us warmly. I’m looking for deception after years in the business, but he seems a nice guy. Seems. ‘Yes and I’ve signed the guarantee and I’m jointly and severally liable.’ I tell her, still wondering if the co-tenants are going to prove reliable enough to make it to the end of their course - and the end of the agreement.

I follow my family and the landlord up surprisingly airy stairs to the upper flat. One with three bedrooms and one bathroom, something I’ve reminded my son of to his obvious annoyance. His first year room had, of all things, its own en-suite. He’ll have to learn better bowel control when he finds someone in the bath for an hour when he needs a dump. But this place is turning out to be far from a dump.

‘This is way too nice for students.’ Gushes my wife to my annoyance, as we look round an airy lounge with a pretty bay window, original fireplace and most importantly a huge plasma television set with broadband router winking underneath. Enthuse too much and the landlord will put the rent up, I think defensively, as I start to scan for smoke alarms and wonder if I should ask about the pointless Energy Performance Certificate?

‘You’ll supply a detailed inventory won’t you?’ I ask, to looks of admonishment from wife and son. The landlord confirms affably, as I add. ‘And a gas safety certificate at the start of the tenancy?’

‘This seems too good to be true.’ I tell my wife softly as we look at my son’s room. A large loft conversion, with roof lights and twin double beds. I’m already thinking my homes for the first five years of our marriage weren’t as well presented as this. ‘Where’s the catch?’ I whisper to my wife, with the sort of mistrust of humanity my third decade of dealing with people and property has engendered.

‘God you’re so jaundiced.’ She says, with what I detect isn’t concern for my health.

We say our goodbyes on the doorstep as I wish I’d brought my calculator to work out just what sort of return the man is getting out of these kids - far better than on a conventional let of a family home in the area. But then the property is far better than I expected.

‘I bet you wish you could have lived somewhere like this when you were my age.’ Suggests my son, as despite myself I wave at the departing owner.

They learn fast, these students.