Learning Curves - Thursday

‘Want to hear the latest rumour?’ Asks assistant manager T as I enter the office.

Not if it involves vapid celebrities, profiled in some journalistic-ability-free magazine airheads read at the hairdressers, I don’t. If I wanted to see overblown tits on a Caribbean beach, I’d rather it was me on holiday, taking a selfie. 

‘Is it relevant to the business?’ I ask T flatly.

‘Of course.’ He fires back, with a hint of irritation. Well he did waste ten minutes, earlier today, discussing some C-list celebrity and her latest flesh-revealing turn on some ghastly fly-on-the-wall television programme. I’m all for diversity in scheduling but I do sometimes yearn for a simpler time, when everyone sat down to watch the Generation Game, even if I could never remember what tat was on the conveyer belt.

‘A new agent is supposed to be opening in town.’ Says T, with a half-concealed sneer.

‘Where abouts?’ Queries big mortgage man M, as he saunters across the office, floorboards creaking.

T reveals the location, a tertiary position at best, one where numerous retail mis-adventures have foundered on poorly written business plans, plus the mistaken believe that just because your friends buy overpriced pushchairs and you love babies, a shop selling kids’ clothing will survive.

‘They’d need a change of use from A1 to A2 planning status.’ I tell T. He looks at me blankly, designer frames catching the light. I’ve urged him to sit some Estate Agency exams, to learn about the legal, financial and construction process but he hasn’t seen the point up to now. And to be truthful, who can blame him when nobody feels it necessary? After all, whoever the new agent in town is won’t need qualifications either.

‘It’s a terrible position. ‘ I tell the team, having informed them a planning notice, for change of use, will have to be posted outside the empty unit in question. Nobody has spotted if there’s one up already, so I guess it will be up to be to swing by and check on my next outside appointment. They’ll miss me when I’m gone. Probably….

‘I’ve heard it might be some sort of hybrid set-up.’ Continues T earnestly. ‘Part on-line estate agent, part traditional.’

‘Fat chance.’ I snap back, just as M waddles back from the kitchen. No, of course he hasn’t made anyone else a drink, he’s a financial consultant. A morbidly obese one.

‘Why so?’ Questions negotiators S earnestly.

‘Because you can’t practice estate agency like a call centre.’ I tell her frostily. She should know my views on this by now. I studied and struggled with my industry exams and even now, after several decades, I come across problems and situations my knowledge is tested by. 

Property is a complicated business, and if you retain me as your agent you are buying my skill-set, both negotiating and professional. The problem is, you only realise the quality of agent you have after the buying event. Once you’ve instructed them to sell your home.

‘You don’t think on-line agents will ever catch on then?’ Asks trainee F, mouth slightly ajar.

He could work for one, I think uncharitably, that way nobody need see his face. But on reflection, F with all his faults, is already way better than any bucket shop outfit whose naive investors think selling homes only entails placing an on-line listing on the Internet. That’s the easy bit, the problems start after that.

‘On-line agents and cheap fee outfits have been the next big thing for the past fifteen years.’ I tell my team decisively. ‘And here we are, still conducting viewings, holding keys, re-negotiating sales after surveys and cajoling lazy lawyers.’

‘Problem is the public don’t see that.’ Counters T, accurately. ‘They think it’s money for old rope, one upload onto the portal and we get thousand of pounds.’

‘That’s why we need to stress the points of difference, ‘ I urge. ‘Let people know they get what they pay for and that they only pay when we get them a result.’

The conversation dries up.

Not sure anyone is listening.

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Starting Gun - Wednesday

‘I want to lose some weight, obviously.’ States negotiator S. It’s not that obvious to me, she has the sort of curves race track designers and anorexic models yearn to acquire and I’m fairly confident there’s no silicon involved.

‘Load of twaddle.’ States bloated mortgage man M as he sways towards the kitchen with that rolling gait only truly morbidly obese people can display, short of a bumpy cross-channel ferry ride.

‘You won’t be cutting back then?’ I ask, trying to mask any irony.

‘You seen my targets?’ Replies M from round the door, echoing sound of the biscuit tin popping. ‘I’ve got no time for faddy diets. I need all the energy I can get if I’m going to flog that much unwanted insurance.’ From the mouths’ of….

We’re doing the New Year’s resolution thing, while the office door rattles in its frame and biblical levels of rain scour the pavements of congealed vomit and solidified chewing gum.

‘I’m going to try and pay off some of my credit card bills.’ Says assistant manager T with less than convincing authority. The man runs a bigger percentage deficit than most European countries – apart from the French obviously.

‘Really?’ I probe, hoping if he comes to terms with reality on the APR he’s suffering, he might take some ownership of the office objectives I’m labouring under. There’s more chance of M making the second WeightWatchers’ meeting - the one after the weigh in.

Everyone turns towards B, our loose lettings lady whom I’m fairly sure she hasn’t sobered up since New Year’s Day. I’m not expecting much perspective viewed through the bottom of a gin and tonic glass.

‘I’m going to attempt the impossible.’ Announces B rather sadly. You can almost hear several estate agents’ minds spinning rapidly, bit like an ailing hard drive on an elderly PC if I had to articulate it audibly.

‘So what is that exactly?’ S finally ventures.

‘Find a good man who isn’t gay or married.’ Replies B, to an unwelcome nod of recognition from S.

She has a point. I see a lot of low-life’s representing the male of the species, on weekly matrimonial valuations and regular fractious family disputes over the deceased’s home and chattels. Plus, B has screwed her way through most of the penis-toting Marriage Guidance members’ list, and rumour has it has woken, fuzzy-headed, with more than one camp man who agreed to try and be turned after several Campari’s and the promise of trying on B’s high heel collection….

‘Good luck with that.’ I tell B, thinking M has more chance of ditching the doughnuts and becoming slimmer of the year, than B stopping serial swigging and shagging

‘What about you?’ I ask F, our intellectually challenged trainee. F looks at me with those little boy lost eyes. They don’t work. I’ve tried dumping him on a leaflet drop at the far end of the office patch, but he still finds his bedraggled way back to the office. I guess that’s care in the community for you.

‘I want to get my own flat and maybe even….’ F tails off.

‘What?’ Ask three voices at once.

‘No, you’ll only laugh.’

‘They won’t.’ I tell him encouragingly.

‘Well maybe get on the company car list?’

Okay. I was wrong about the hysterical giggling.

‘And what about you, boss?’ Asks T, after the exaggerated rib clutching has subsided and the ladies have worked their way through several tissues. F is looking forlorn, but it’s a tough business. Although curiously, he’s the only staff member whose aspirations have revolved round their working life. If F hits his targets and his colleagues do too, an ageing sign-written Mini might not be out of the question.

I realise all eyes are on me now, as I ponder the question. Yes, we’ve done the weight loss and reduction of alcohol intake thing at home, and I realised long ago, after too many house repossessions, that living on credit you can’t afford is a short cut to a lengthy local authority housing list, or a crummy bed and breakfast.

I yearn to say, quit the property business and become a successful writer. I actually say:

‘Beat last year’s office turnover.’

Loser.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

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