Assured Shorthold - Tuesday

‘F***ing tenants!’ Screeches loose lettings lush B fiercely, as she bangs the phone handset into its cradle with plastic-shattering velocity.

I leap from my chair, rush to my door - always open - and hastily scan the office. Fortunately there are no members of the public to be seen, just a startled selection of fellow staff members.

‘What?' Challenges B angrily, seeing my face.

I don’t need another argument. I can have those with other agents touting my register, lawyers who don’t answer the phone and charge by the letter instead, surveyors frightened of their own shadow who still down value sales despite overwhelming evidence that the price is right. I could go on….

‘Expletives in the office.’ I say nodding towards the swear box, that to be fair I’m no stranger to when a sale falls through. But if captain’s of industry, politicians and ex-television presenters from the 1970s can all get away with saying one thing and doing another, I can afford some minor dual standards. 

‘What is it?’ Asks negotiator B, in a show of feminine solidarity.

‘They all seem to think it’s my fault personally that the weather is shit and their ceiling is leaking.’ Rails B. Shit is at best a 50 pence offence , so I let that one go.

‘And they expect someone to be at their door with a mop and some roofing felt before they’ve finished insulting me down the phone.’

‘That’s a bit unreasonable.’ Soothes S.

‘It is when it isn’t their bloody door anyway.’ Counters B

Bloody still count, I wonder?

‘You know which tenants are the worst?’  Snarls B.

Please don’t say anything racist or homophobic, I think nervously, then I will have to report her and the paperwork will be endless.

‘Who?’ Asks trainee F earnestly. I cringe.

‘The lazy sods on housing benefits.’ Snaps B. The prejudice rings around the office as awkwardly as her earlier F-word, pinging off the filing cabinets like a submarine echo-sounder.

‘That’s a hell of a sweeping statement.’ I manage to say admonishingly. S nods in agreement with me, as do her over-sized breasts. F just looks bemused, unless it’s the distraction S has just unleashed.

‘You don’t have to deal with the wasters.’ Answers B abruptly.

‘I though you advised your landlords not to take housing benefit tenants.’ Says S neutrally.

‘I do, but some of them don’t listen.’ Replies B with a sneer, adding. ‘And a few bleeding heart liberals who ended up accidental landlords seem to think they’re salving their conscience by letting a young mother with three children by three different fathers get free housing.’

Ouch. Prejudice no doubt. I’m just unsure which piece of legislation I need to look up, several probably…

True, when the authorities paid rent directly to landlords, or their agents, there were less cases of arrears, now the tenants get the money first it can end up being spent on drugs and alcohol - or nappies and basic foodstuffs. You pay your money and they take their choice. But equally, there but for the grace of whichever deity you subscribe to, goes you and me…

‘They’re not all on the take.’ Announces S curtly, the sisterly solidarity was pretty transient.

S is right, way back when the celebrities were taking liberties with young women, I was taking tickets for free school lunches. The walk of shame to the dinner ladies’ serving hatch still haunts me now.

‘You don’t have to deal with them in sales.’ Snaps B. She has half a point, we get a different class of waster - but they can be just as corrosive.

‘I just think you should treat everyone the same.’ Replies S doggedly.

‘They all want spoon-feeding,’ responds B. ‘Don’t seem to understand builders are busy and that I can’t stop the rain. I’m damned if I’m giving everyone a free ride.’

The silence lasts long enough to become awkward. From what we’ve heard she often does give free rides and I can see I’m not the only one thinking it. Although on reflection, it probably takes a couple of gin and tonics. Not sure which legislation that comes under….

Cheers for now.

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Deadlier Than The Male - Thursday

I’m sitting in my office watching the sales floor. My colleagues hate me lurking and observing but then some agencies monitor their staff remotely with closed circuit cameras, at least I go for a piss regularly. More regularly than I used to unfortunately.

B, the loose lettings lush, has a young hippy-looking couple in front of her and the discussion is getting heated. B isn’t even bothering to try and chat up the male as he has longer, glossier hair than she does and his girlfriend – the one who’d be wearing the trousers if it wasn’t for the flowery maxi skirt – is looking daggers at her. Not a lot of love lost for estate agents.

‘I’ve told you.’ Reiterates B sternly. ‘You won’t be moving anywhere until I get the employers references back and we sort out why you have a bad credit score.’

‘It’s just the man on our case.’ Replies the beta male dreamily. He’d still be smoking something in the office if it weren’t for the legislation. I stifle an audible scoff at his risible, persecuted lefty response just as M our fat mortgage man waddles by, scoffing more visibly.

‘My father will act as guarantor if necessary.’ Responds the flower girl in a cut glass accent that echoes privilege, a horse of her own and a private education. She must be shagging the shaggy-haired-loser just to piss of her parents. The same ones she expects to underpin her rental agreement. Age brings failing eyesight, but 20/20 insight.

‘He hasn’t responded to our correspondence.’ Snipes B, forgetting half a dozen customer service courses and countless reminders from me, to treat people she’s not screwing with a bit more courtesy. I hear a grinding noise in my head and realise it’s my molars again. A trip to the Polish dentist can only be days away.

Without consciously deciding to, I’m out of my seat and in the main office. If a complaint is coming I’d like to nip matters in the bud. The last thing I need is the bean counter and head office requesting reams of written reports on why someone wants to speak to the Property Ombudsman. You usually subscribe to an organisation for a benefit or two, but I get the feeling the Ombudsman’s office hate agents as much as everyone else does.

The straight A* girl is out of her chair and on her iPhone, moving towards the window imperiously while her slumming it f**k buddy looks pretty vacant and plugs in his MP3 headphones. B is visibly coming to the boil. I try to attract her attention, with a calming signal that makes me look - on reflection in the window glass - like a pianist with an invisible keyboard. The girl is speaking haughtily, her boyfriend tapping his fingers on B’s desk, while B shuffles paper at a speed that might cause combustion.

‘Daddy,’ urges the girl in a voice that has dropped a decade in age. ‘These beastly people are giving Virgil and me a hard time. You need to sign some silly undertaking before we can have our flat.’ I sense an overworked man, in an office grander than mine, trying to swallow his pride and an obligation to pay six months rent about five months after his daughter has dumped slacker boy and run home for mummy’s cooking and cleaning - and the chance to ride Dusky the gelding more regularly than Virgil.

‘Please.’ Inveigles the girl persuasively. ‘I just must have this place Daddy. I’ll die if we miss it.’

I sense but can’t hear another beaten man, on the end of the phone. Women are the decision makers where most property transactions are concerned. B is not even bothering to disguise her distaste but then she’s shafted plenty of men too. The boyfriend is oblivious to the drama, sat engrossed in his own audio-cocooned world, longhaired head nodding rhythmically. He’ll be bald and on the council accommodation list before his thirtieth birthday.

‘You could have been more understanding.’ I coax gently after they leave. B bites, as she’s rumoured to do out of hours.

‘I hate bitches like that.’ She snaps. ‘Manipulating, conniving, using.’

Put pot, kettle and black on the inventory.

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