You Move Me - Monday

‘Can you help us? Our solicitor and agent are useless.’ Pleads the red-eyed woman sat at my desk.

It’s not the first time I’ve heard that particular request. They say moving home is the third most stressful life-event after death and divorce - and I’m not convinced death fully-qualifies as a life-event….

‘They’re a bunch of idle f***wits.’ Says the husband, to a scowl of disapproval from his tearful wife.

I’m tempted to raise the old adage that public and government contract-awarders alike tend to forget - you get what you pay for. This couple are my buyers, so my duty isn’t to them it’s to my vendors, the people paying my fee, but unless I sort this mess my clients won’t move and I won’t get paid.

‘Our agent just never answers the phone and the cowboy who came round and over-valued our house has just disappeared.’ Moans the woman. Cowboys tend to get shot, I think fleetingly, but in this case I suspect he’s just ridden off into a purple-hazed sunset.

‘And the outfit he recommended as solicitors seems to be staffed by an ever-changing bunch of schoolboys who don’t do their homework.’ Spits the husband.

‘Like dealing with a call-centre?’ I venture mischievously.

‘Precisely.’

No surprise there. Maybe next time employ a traditional estate agent and a proper, local lawyer?

‘So why couldn’t our lot do that?’ Asks the wife an hour later, after I’ve spoken to the whole chain, three sets of solicitors and a reluctant lender, agreed an expedited mortgage offer and a proposed completion date. Because you paid a cheap fee up-front and they have no incentive to do anything, other that look for the next mug-punter to sign up? I think angrily.

‘If we ever move agin I won’t be using an on-line load of idiots.’ Says the husband, offering me his hand as the couple leave. Great, I think, maybe come back and see me next time?

‘Oh we won’t be moving again.’ Interjects his wife. ‘Never!’

Not so great.

Maybe one day, if a UK Housing Minister stays in post longer than a few months, we’ll have a joined-up policy for the industry. But I suspect I’ll be long gone. Other countries demand a minimum standard of education to practice as an estate agent - or realtor - and a sound form of licensing and monitoring. We continue to think cheap is value for money and when engaging a future service, you don’t find out until it’s too late, you’ve been duped.

‘Mrs Simmonds on line three.’ Announces negotiator S, later in the day. She’ll be ringing to say how delighted she is I’ve achieved a full-price asking price on her flat after just a fortnight of intensive marketing, five viewings and two competing offers, I think a little smugly.

‘I’m not really happy with the amount of fee I’m paying you.’ Says Mrs Simmonds by way of a greeting. The wind coming out of my sails is almost audible.

‘You don’t seem do have done a lot for the money.’ She moans and a lengthy diatribe about skill-sets, expertise, exam qualifications and the job being far from over, spools through may head. I should introduce Mrs Simmonds to the couple I had in the office earlier. They left singing my praises and wanting to bear my children - but then again they didn’t pay me a bean…

‘I wonder if I’ve undersold it.’ Continues Mrs Simmonds, in the time-honoured whine of an owner who is unhappy if you sell too soon and quick to change agents if you take too long. I’m tempted to give her the number of the on-line outfit my new friends employed, but they probably wouldn’t answer the phone.

‘What did Mrs Simmonds want?’ Asks negotiator S, after I’ve convinced the woman she won’t be paying me a penny until I nurse the deal through to a successful moving day.

‘What do they all want?’ I snap back.

‘Something for nothing?’ Ventures S, with a beguiling smile.

There you go.

--------

So What Do You Do - Wednesday

To the new chiropractor-come-sports injury masseur-come-witch doctor. Like a punter at the roulette table, I know the odds are stacked against me and this time I’m not expecting free food and provocative staff in low-cut tops. It’s me who is making a tit of myself.

But that’s the thing with long term pain conditions. You’ll try anything, no matter how seemingly obscure, for the faint hope of some relief from the constant, wearing, nagging discomfort that follows you like a sadistic spectre, from morning ‘till night.

I approach the door with trepidation and a dull throbbing in my coccyx. As I walk in I’m greeted with the cool waft of air conditioning that actually works, unlike our ageing office unit that still pisses on your head, like some angry dominatrix, as soon as you heat up.

‘Hello.’ Chimes a soothing female voice and I spot a pretty twenty-something woman behind the fake timber-veneer counter. She’s slim and attractive so I know I’m not back with the NHS physiotherapist. She seemed to spend more time consuming pies than massaging thighs, when I was referred. I know the ailing health service is under pressure but a handout I could have printed from the internet and the offer of a daytime pilates class with a bunch of pongy pensioners, was never going to hit the spot.

‘How may I help you today?’ Continues the woman, standing to reveal a perfectly starched white top, of a semi official nature. The NHS biffer wore a creased nylon billowy blouse that might easily have doubled as a cheap parasol on a sunny day. I’m obviously paying through the nose for all this pleasantness, but at least she’s started well, with a open question. I give her my name - something I don’t do lightly - and appointment time.

‘So, if you could just fill out our questionnaire on your health background and doctor’s details while you wait, it would help enormously.’ Soothes the woman. Not bad, apart from the annoying habit of people under the age of thirty beginning every sentence with the word so, it’s a good start.

Half way through the form, with the scent of something resembling those joss sticks people burnt in the sixties, in my nostrils, I get to the occupation question.

‘How is my occupation relevant?’ I ask. I instantly regret it. The woman seems to quite like me. I know it’s sales too, just with more soothing music and less body odour - but as soon as she hears I’m an estate agent I’m expecting the atmosphere to become frostier than a butcher’s meat locker.

‘It helps us to understand any stress you might be under, whether you job is sedentary, and physical strains or posture issues.’ Reels of the receptionist smoothly. I’m pretty confident I tick all those boxes. So I do. Then pass her back the form, looking at my shoe laces. She scans it and I’m fairly sure I hear a sharp intake of breath, either that of their air conditioning is about to dump on me too.

‘So you’re an estate agent.’ She finally says, after an interminable silence, punctured only by the quasi red indian chanting, piping from some hidden speaker. No sign of the sperm whale, so far.

I fess up and get ready for the inevitable opprobrium, and a secret do not resuscitate style addendum being added to my notes, to forewarn the back doctor. I’m surprised.

‘I adore property.’ Gushes the woman, face coming alive. ‘I would really love to do your job.’ She continues animatedly. You wouldn’t.

‘I can’t think of anything more exciting than looking at people’s property all day long.’

‘It can be rewarding.’ I tell her neutrally. Best not to dash her hopes too much, not before her colleague gets their hands on me when I’m semi-naked and vulnerable.

Just then her phone chimes and a disembodied male voice asks her to send me in. Saved by the bell.

‘Do you need many qualifications?’ Asks the receptionist earnestly, as I hobble towards the appointed door..

No. Just open an office and get hands on.

Then the pain starts.

-------

Band Aid - Tuesday

A scream echoes round the office and nearly gives me a heart attack. At my age and with celebrities sharing the same birth decade dropping like flies, I can’t afford too many sudden shocks. As it turns out, F the idiot trainee, is the one risking electrocution.

‘What have you done now?’ I demand, as I enter the main office and see F hopping around his desk like some epileptic frog. 

The question is rendered as redundant as he should be, when I see a pool of hot coffee spread across his desk, seeping into his keyboard, as the free mug from a lending institution I really dislike, sits on its side almost empty.

‘He’s spilt his drink.’ Says negotiator S, as she moves to F’s work station and starts to dab at the puddle with some tissues.

‘Careful you don’t short-out the circuitry.’ Cautions assistant manger T, making no attempt to help. My circuitry is close to meltdown, I think uncharitably, and I can’t just be mopped down then switched off and on again.

‘How did you manage that?’ I demand, as F stops jerking around and patting at his sodden shirt sleeve. He won’t know.

‘I don’t know.’ He confirms, clutching at the dampened material, before saying pitiably. ‘I think I may have some sort of burns.’

‘Well it won’t be first degree.’ Suggests loose lettings’ lush B. She knows F flunked an expensive private education and is also well aware you don’t need any qualifications to become an estate agent.

‘You’ll be alright.’ Soothes S as she finishes clearing up the spilt beverage and begins to lift the dripping keyboard.

‘Careful.’ I tell her. ‘It might give you a shock.’

‘It’s low voltage. Shouldn’t be dangerous.’ Opines T still sitting in his chair, some distance away from any potential electrical arc.

‘I’ll get the first aid box.’ Says S, dropping the stained tissues into F’s waste paper bin and heading for the kitchen.

‘Slim chance of anything useful in there.’ Says obese mortgage man M. ‘Health and safety Nazis took everything out of the box, last visit.’

M is right. The paracetamol and Ibuprofen I left in the red plastic container were confiscated. The cream for minor cuts and abrasions removed, in case of allergic reactions and the scissors taken - presumably to stop me from stabbing someone from head office with a job title as meaningless as Esperanto.

‘Yep, he’s right.’ Confirms S, as she lifts the lid of the first aid box and pulls out a couple of faded bandages and square of linen that might double as a sling for a petite pantomime performer, should Snow White be playing at the local theatre.

‘About as useful as a chocolate tea pot.’ Confirms M, with a hearty chuckle.

‘That could cause even more nasty burns.’ Says T, with a smirk.

‘Good one.’ Says T.

If they high-five each other, I might really need to call casualty.

‘They’ve even removed the safety pins.’ Says S, with a shake of her pretty head, as she empties the useless contents on to the desk.

‘But surely….’ Begins F, still waving his arm around piteously.

‘Don’t even go there.’ Says T.

‘No point.’ Adds M, smugly.

Put your hand in the air and you’ll be needing a first responder, I think, scowling at the blubbery buffoon.

‘You’ll be wanting this.’ Suggests B, as she tosses an embossed A4 sized stationery item at me, while S tenderly inspects F’s arm, now his soggy sleeve is rolled up. Fleetingly, I wonder if I can produce a spillage she could attend to. Best not.

I Frown at B. She’s given me the company accident book. A journal where all incidents, no matter how trivial, must be recorded - for personal protection and insurance purposes. Translation: to cover the companies corporate arse cheeks, should someone wish to sue, retrospectively.

‘If I fill anything out there’ll be a load of pointless paperwork.’ I grumble.

‘Your shout.’ Says M, ducking responsibility with surprisingly agility, for one so bulky.

‘I think I’ll live.’ Says F, stoically.

I’ll be the judge of that.

I take a chance. 

If the ambulance chasers turn up, I’ll feign illness.

---------

Back in a week - download the ebooks if you miss me - or not...

Links on right, all formats via Amazon.

Regards to all those USA readers - still outstripping UK by five-to-one.

The Human Touch - Tuesday

‘Oh give me strength.’ Says negotiator S, as she replaces the phone receiver and puts head in hands.

It’s a familiar pose. When you deal with people and property, stress and disappointment is a permanent companion. It’s a wonder everyone’s cranium isn’t constantly cupped.

‘Vendor or buyer?’ I enquire, knowing either party is equally likely to disrupt a sale and just a likely to pull the plug on a deal with impunity - bar the lawyer’s bill.

‘Down the Hall’s chain.’ Replies S, referring to one of our owners whose sale has been moving at a geriatric mollusc’s pace. ‘Some numpties are using an on-line agent.’ Continues S, with a shake of her head.

‘Bit of a misnomer.’ Interjects assistant manager T. S raises a quizzical eyebrow and, distractingly, one breast.

‘Well,’ clarifies T. ‘A call centre with an automated switchboard and a cheap for sale board, isn’t a real agent, is it?’ He states semi-rhetorically.

He’s right. People have been predicting the death of the traditional, high street estate agent for the last twenty years. Ever since some spotty oik, with an algorithm and no sex life, thought writing a programme in his bedroom, would replace real people, with real knowledge and a wealth of experience. 

I’m not one to blow my own trumpet - not least because I’ve heard it’s anatomically impossible - but I’ve lost count of the number of sales, I’ve saved over the years. Where the easy part is agreeing the transaction and the hard bit is progressing the deal to successful completion.

‘Some idiot thinks they are saving money by using a cheap outfit,’ continues S angrily. ‘And they are trying to do all the sales progressing themselves.’

‘Not good.’ Says T, unnecessarily.

‘And now they have pissed off everyone in the chain, the solicitors refuse to talk to them and the first time buyer at the bottom is threatening to pull out if they can’t complete before their planned wedding date.’

‘Even I know it’s a false economy.’ Says trainee F, as he opens a packet of own brand, basics biscuits, from the local supermarket. I haven't got time to point out the irony. They can train dogs to fly planes now, but flogging dead horses won’t keep me stable…

‘Someone needs to talk to them and explain you get what you pay for.’ Suggest T, walking over and helping himself to one of F’s biscuits. More irony than what’s left of the British steel industry, in my office.

‘I know,’ agrees S. ‘And remind them you only pay a proper agent a fee, when they get the deal done.’

‘Work your way down the chain and speak to as many people as you can.’ I counsel.

S looks at me with a hint of distain, before saying.

‘I know, I’m doing that.’ She’s good, I sometimes forget how good with the other distractions.

‘The point is, I shouldn’t have to.’ Continues S. ‘If the industry wasn’t full of shysters and charlatans who can set up and start trading without so much as an IQ test.’

No sale no fee, is a double-edged sword for the estate agent. It encourages reluctant sellers to come to the market with no cost - other than the widely ignored Energy Performance Certificate - yet it means owners can change their minds with no real financial penalty. We, on the other hand, can work for months on a sale only to have several thousand pounds worth of commission disappear with a phone call. It does mean we work damned hard to keep sales together though.

‘How you getting on?’ I ask S, when I return from an abortive viewing. If I had ten pounds for every time I’ve stood on a doorstep, like a poor man’s prostitute, waiting for punters who end up screwing me over, I’d be….well…. I’d be better off than I am now. And not feeling so soiled.

‘I’ve managed to track down the fiancee at the bottom of the chain.’ Answers S. If this career fails, she’d make a great private investigator.

‘And we’ve got a bit of leeway, she’s happy if we can exchange before the wedding and we leave completion until they return from the honeymoon.’

Try negotiating that with an answerphone.

---------

Back To Black - Wednesday

‘Here they come again.’ Warns negotiator S, as she looks across the high street. Everybody cranes their necks through the window display, to try and narrow it down a bit. You get plenty of wastrels and nutters through an estate agent’s door and it’s only worse in the summer, when you prop the door open because the cheap air conditioning the bean counter specified has pissed legionnaire’s disease riddled water, through the ceiling tiles again.

‘F**k no.’ Groans assistant manager T.

‘Swear box.’ Says S, indicating my one nod to charity collection after that disastrous bike ride a few years ago. A pedal where my group got lost, ended up with blistered feet, one suspected hernia and more sore bottoms than a Fifty Shades Of Grey convention.

Every estate agent has their regular time wasters, the perpetual lookers who always find fault with each new instruction you offer them and always say they’d move, if only they could find something as nice as their own home. In the end you realise they’ll only leave their existing house feet first in a box, but it doesn’t stop them pestering you.

‘They’re never going to buy anything are they?’ Says trainee F, with unusual insight.

Not unless some Russian oligarch with a sat nav failure decides to buy their house for several million.’ Chuckles T.

‘Even then they’d grumble about our fee.’ I say flatly.

‘You didn’t really do much for your money.’ Mimics S, to giggles all round.

Obsession about housing and prices has become as much a British pastime as talking about the weather. It’s not helped by endless variations of televised property porn presented by photogenic hosts. Hosts with about as much estate agency experience as those on-line outfits, sat in a large bedrooms staffed by spotty computer nerds with no social skills, but an in-depth knowledge of programming code.

‘Everybody wants to buy at Macclesfield money and sell at Mayfair prices.’ I announce, rather proudly.

‘You’ve been working on that one.’Says T, with a shake of his head. I have, but then these pearls of wisdom don’t just come out of a cracker.

‘You should write some of those down.’ Suggests S, with a winning smile.

If only she knew, but then again, probably best not…

‘Perhaps they are thinking of renting their house?’ Says T with a mischievous nod towards B, our loose lettings lady.

‘They can piss off.’ Snaps B grumpily. ‘I’ve got enough loony landlords to fill a coach trip to Bedlam.’

‘Is Bedlam that new development on the green field site they made all the fuss about?’ Questions F to groans.

Although, plenty of people were mad about it when the planning went through on appeal.

‘Perhaps they won’t come in.’ Says T unconvincingly, as the couple in question hesitate on the far side of the street and I pray for an ill-judged crossing attempt and a runaway juggernaut. ‘No they’re coming in.’ I say ruefully. I just thank God I managed to move the coffee machine from the front office to the kitchen. Start providing free beverages for these people and you’ll be tucking them in with a blanket and a hot chocolate every night, when you close.

‘Morning Mr and Mrs Godfrey.’ Says S with Oscar-winning sincerity, as the pair arrive with, sadly, no sign of any heavy goods vehicle brake failures.

‘Do you have anything new for us?’ Asks Mrs Godfrey with a condescending look. I nod towards them. I must have valued their home at least four times over they years and I know, in the unlikely event of the idiots ever actually placing their tired semi-detached house on the market, they’d opt for the most outlandish asking price and the cheapest fee. Not me. Never me.

‘Have you thought any more about placing your own house on the market? It would put you in a better buying position.’ Coaxes S, after she’s taken them through several perfectly acceptable replacements for their own home.

‘You find us something better than ours first.’ Says Mr Godfrey dismissively.

‘I doubt they will dear.’ Adds his wife. ‘What we’d really like to do….’

Yes, is pick your house up and move it.

F**k off.

----------

Perfect Day - Saturday

‘I’m surprised you agreed to go somewhere this close to home.’ Says my wife’s friend’s husband, as we head towards a nearby pub, with live music on offer.

‘I’m hoping it’s too dark to be recognised and too loud for conversations.’ I tell him bluntly.

He nods and shuts up.

That’s the dilemma of the estate agent. Local knowledge is a key ingredient to winning the business over younger, more tech-savvy upstarts. And living in the same town you work in can underpin that awareness of regional quirks such as; housing stock vagaries, schooling catchment areas, common problems on particular construction types, etc. Unfortunately, it also means people know where to find you and tend to recognise you out and about socially. If you’ve just informed someone they’ve been gazumped, or gazundered they don’t always take too kindly to seeing you in civvies, at the bar.

‘Sound like the band has already started.’ Says my wife, as we approach the pub door and a deep throbbing base stirs the ground beneath our feet, and probably causes a few more of those 1970s built bungalows with the flooring screed compaction problems, to require mini-piling.

‘At least I won’t have to talk about what the property market is going to do.’ I reply, as we push through the door and are enveloped with the warm fug of a crowded room and the pounding guitars of a punk-based band, playing loud and fast.

The room is literally bouncing. Floorboards springy from use and awash with spilt beer. But due to the demographic of ageing rockers with big bellies and little hair, it’s more likely arthritis causing the drinks spillage, and excess weight damaging the floor joists. Pleasingly, unlike the last time I heard The Stranglers’ Something Better Change being played, there’s not a hint of phlegm or menace, in the air. At least, not until I get spotted…

‘That man over there is waving at you.’ Bellows my wife, mouth to my ear, as drinks shoutily obtained, we stand and watch the band thrash out another three minute, three chord classic. We’re so near the big Peavey PA rig I can almost feel the air disturbance as the speaker cones pump in and out.

I look furtively across the room and see an ex-vendor of mine. He is rather incongruously wearing a blazer, with jeans and a formal shirt. He’s a colossal time-waster. The type that periodically puts their home on the market only to take it off again, once you find a buyer, citing the old chestnut, “there’s nothing a nice as ours on the market, now if we could just pick it up and move it….”

I give a half nod of recognition, one calculated not to encourage the twat to fight his way through the crowd to bellow an update on his house value request, at me. Then I see a local solicitor with a woman who is definitely not his wife. I’m hoping she isn’t his daughter either, the way he is holding her. A few rows over, the postman who always grumbles about our franking bag is stood next to the decorator who made a shoddy job of painting my barge boards.

‘This is one you might remember, by The Clash.’ Announces the lead singer, as the elderly band stumble in to I Fought The Law which amusingly sees the local beat policeman pogoing in a rather stiff-limbed fashion. I’m a teenager again, as I keenly try to work out which chords the guitarist is playing, while endeavouring not too spill my beer Meanwhile, a crowd of fifty-something career-drones all pretend they are proto-anarchists rather than mortgage slaves. 

‘It’s too loud to talk.’ Shouts my wife, as a Lou Reed number pounds out and my fillings rattle.

That’s the best bit, I think, nodding in agreement. Then I spot the fat building surveyor, wearing a Ramones t-shirt. In my mind, I’m still elegantly wasted, but he is most definitely corpulently-waisted.

‘You going to answer that phone?’ I say, stumbling up to bed later. My wife looks at me quizzically.

‘It’s not actually ringing, is it?’ I eventually mumble, as a beery belch bubbles up.

Only in my head.

 ---------

Licensed To Thrill - Sunday

So the holiday that seemed to be forever over the horizon draws to a close and with it comes the inevitable darkening of mood as thoughts turn to work and just how much damage limitation my team have managed, without my increasingly unsteady hand on the tiller.

‘You alright?’ Asks my wife as we meander along a row of sun-drenched shop units. Not really, I want to scream, but I answer in the affirmative. Few people are lucky enough to do a job they love which still remunerates sufficiently to provide the standard of living aspired to. I’ve seen enough impoverished musicians, painters and, yes, writers lose their homes to know following your creative urges can lead to the council house waiting list.

‘Oh don’t do that again.’ Chides my wife, bringing me back to the present. Momentarily I’m befuddled by her admonishment. Earlier by the pool I’d found myself idly rubbing my trunks in a half-baked drowsy stupor. Fortunately I’m not fiddling with myself in full view of the promenading public. Worse in some ways, I’ve stopped in front of another realtor’s window.

‘How many times do you have to check property prices?’ Asks my wife with a distinct chill to match the air conditioned office I’m peering into. 

It’s a good question. The paradox is, I’m fascinated by homes and values, even in Euros or Dollars. I still get a frisson of excitement to match the languid enjoyment of lying in the heat and watching the less obese bikini clad ladies round the holiday pool. It’s a thrill I’ve enjoyed since I didn’t need to shave every day - face or ears. And yet I yearn to break free from the damaging obsession. Property is a cruel mistress.

‘See, he looks good in a short-sleeve shirt.’ States my wife, not for the first time. I glance away from a villa with infinity pool and no asking price - if you have to ask you can’t afford it - to see an impossibly handsome man with dark mediterranean looks, emerging from the office, carrying a man bag. The swarthy swine gets away with that effete monstrosity and effortlessly carries off the chino trousers, deck shoes and polo shirt. The expensive looking sun glasses the man dons are definitely not the “ genuine thing mister” Ray Bans the African guy on the beach tried to flog me for 10 Euros, earlier.

‘You have to live south of the Isle of Wight and still be living with your pasta-making mother to get away with short sleeves in my business.’ I tell my wife curtly, as I watch the realtor stroll across the road and blip his keys to reveal the bastard is smoking a top-of-the range Alfa Romeo. It’ll break down and cost you a fortune in garage charges I want to sneer. But he’s gone with a screech of tyres, plus I can only just mange to order a beer in his native language.

‘Nonsense,’ continues my wife. ‘You’d be so much cooler if you just wore a summer shirt when it’s hot.’ Pointless telling her you are never going to look cool with a fading suntan, post holiday stomach bulging over your too-tight waistband, while driving a bog-standard mass-market saloon to a repossession in an ex-local authority tower block.

‘Lot of people reading Kindles and the like.’ Reports my wife as we take the last rays of our two weeks. She’s right. At least two-thirds this year are holding up e-readers, although it’s a fair bet not one of them has downloaded any of my output. Writing anonymously seemed a good idea, but in terms of marketing yourself it’s akin to not putting a photograph of the house you’re selling, in the office window.

‘I wish we’d met you before the last night.’ Chortles the woman sitting at our table as the sun sets. I’ve been avoiding this couple for thirteen days but relented, having drunk too much. I’ve fed her and her fat husband a few anecdotes for amusement and to see if I’ve still got it. Inevitably, she asks what I do? I give her my default evasive answer.

‘Why, are you a secret agent then?’ She responds jovially.

Something like that.

Accompanied Viewing - Thursday

‘You’re never going to believe the latest.’ Says Assistant manager T as I return to the office.

The choices are endless, so in the end I drop my briefcase, sit at the spare desk and spread my arms.

‘This is classic.’ Begins T as the office falls silent and I notice everyone has stopped to listen, even bloated mortgage man M has waddled out to hear the story. This must be good.

T grins in anticipation and I can see he’s relishing an audience. At the end of the day all good estate agents are just frustrated thespians - with an income that fluctuates just as wildly. T begins by naming the local estate agent with the poorest reputation out of a bad bunch, quite an achievement with the sort of publicity the profession garners.

‘No hang on, let me get to the best bit.’ Presses T as the pantomime boos echo around the office.

‘He’s behind you!’ Shouts M to his own booming guffaw. Everyone looks disdainfully at the fat figure-fiddler as negotiator S says flatly. ‘He’s not.’ And given how the tail unfolds you wouldn’t want him to be.

T embellishes the story in a manner that makes me rather proud I’ve trained him. The intakes of breath and the hands clasped to mouths show he can carry an audience, it’s just a shame he’s not so good at maintaining his average fee and getting a board up. He finishes with a flourish and the office falls silent again

‘That can’t be true.’ Ventures S hesitantly.

‘True as I’m standing here.’ Counters T with a grin.

‘In their flat?’ Asks trainee F incredulously.

‘In their double bed.’ Answers T with a prurient chuckle.

‘Doesn’t surprise me.’ Says loose lettings lush B with a shrug. No it wouldn’t I think, not if the rumours are true.

‘Let me get this straight…’ Begins S.

‘That’s what he said.’ Interjects T to riotous laughter. I hold a hand up to restore some decorum. There’s a couple looking in the window and seeing a group of estate agents all rocking with laughter isn’t going to restore their confidence in the profession - particularly if they think we’re chortling about the asking prices they’re perusing.

‘So he shagged the office secretary in a client's apartment?’ Questions S, shaking her head in disgust.

‘While they were away on holiday.’

‘My God that shouldn’t happen.’ Sates S grimacing.

‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’ Says B scornfully. So the rumours are true, I think grimly, But she’s right. Clearly - and thankfully as it happens - none of my team have read my book. They’re in good company…

‘That sort of story has been a regular over my years in the business.’ I tell S. ‘It’s just the owners don’t usually have motion sensor cameras set up.’

‘Imagine how they felt when they say that on the hard drive.’ Says T with a laugh.

‘Don’t even go there.’ I caution F swiftly, as he lifts a hand to say something inappropriate.

‘They were sacked of course.’ States S rhetorically. ‘For gross misconduct and inappropriate behaviour?’

‘More for being caught, I think.’ Replies T.

‘What the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t grieve over.’ Offers M.

‘True,’ concedes T. ‘But you can’t ignore the evidence.’

‘The video footage?’ Says F.

‘That and the sheets.’ Answers T, to a communal groan of distaste.

‘It’s no wonder the public hate us.’ Muses S as the phone rings and the office tempo picks up.

‘We’re not all the same.’ I tell her in a dignified response. Yep, thank God she hasn’t downloaded the book. Some things need to stay secret - or at least anonymous.

‘They should be banned and never allowed to be estate agents again.’ Continues S censoriously as another unlikely fantasy withers and shrinks.

‘That’s not going to happen.’ I reply, killing two birds with one stone. ‘He’ll be back flogging homes and cutting corners within the month.’

‘He shouldn’t be.’ Says S pouting distractingly.

She’s right, but all the time there’s still no licensing for estate agents in the UK and no minimum standard of entry - well, people are going to get shafted.

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Come On In - Thursday

‘Come on in, I won’t bite.’ I mutter under my breath as I sit at the front desk covering what in the public sector would be a lunch hour, but in sales is usually a snatched sandwich at our desk, or in the case of S my well-upholstered negotiator, in the kitchen standing up.

Her seat was warm when I sat in it, something I could have done without – you don’t want to be distracted when you are setting a forward-thinking, modern manager’s example.

‘Looks like they might come in.’ Says S from the back of the office, speech slightly hampered by whatever she has in her mouth – best not to imagine.

‘They’re wavering.’ I tell her, projecting my voice like a third-rate ventriloquist. I don’t want the punters to think I’m talking about them; the door is a big enough barrier.

‘Do you want me to relieve you?’ Asks S.

‘Not really.’ I eventually splutter after a head-spinning scenario involving adults’ only material, not suitable for family consumption.

‘I don’t mind.’ Continues S as the seat below me warms up even more. Fortunately the young couple and their child decide to cross the threshold. I’m up out of the seat like a greyhound from the traps, only without the mechanical stuffed rabbit obviously. That would just be ridiculous.

I know S is watching, as is B now from her lettings’ desk. Chances are the loved-up pair will want to rent not buy, but either way I need to step up to the plate.

I grab the door and usher the young family in. A little voice inside is telling me they won’t be able to afford anything we have in the window, and rather censoriously, that maybe they should have thought about some family planning precautions ahead of sorting out somewhere to live. I must be getting old.

‘How may I help you?’ I enquire, after giving them the time of day. It’s an open question, one I drill into the junior members of staff. Qualifying applicants is the first filtration we apply, you’ll spend every waking hour dealing with time-wasters otherwise. Moments later they are sat at S’s desk, with me back in the hot seat.

The baby in the pushchair looks at me with that fixed guileless stare only an infant can maintain. She doesn’t know I’m an estate agent yet, so she’s smiling more than her parents are. I can sense the antipathy mixed with caution the young couple are exuding. Their daughter might like me, but they aren’t so sure.

‘What do you think you can set aside for monthly housing expenses?’ I probe, thinking if they have a decent income and jobs that aren’t on a zero-hours contract, I might be able to wheel them into fat man M, our financial advisor, except he’s not in his office. There’s a man who does take his full lunch allowance, mid-morning, midday and mid-afternoon.

It turns out they have already been to the bank of mum and step-dad. A 10% deposit can unlock a few doors now lending has eased a little. The trouble is their spending power finishes far short of a two-bedroom unit their family situation probably demands.

Names, numbers and contact details harvested and a commitment to at least a phone call from M when he returns, I’m feeling quite smug, particularly as I can still feel S watching and judging me. B lost interest as soon as the couple were buyers not renters. She’s filing her nails again noisily, much to my irritation. I try for a solicitor referral but they draw the line at that.

‘We saw one in the window we might be able to afford.’ Says the woman, confirming another pre-conception, always sell to the decision maker - invariably the female.

I know the property she’s talking about, it’s the only one on display suitable for first-time buyers’ budgets.

 ‘A studio flat, what’s that?’ Asks the young woman. Her daughter is now eyeing me with suspicion too. Innocence doesn’t last long.

I explain the living, eating, sleeping and virtually dumping in the same room, concept. 

‘That’s ridiculous.’ States the man, finally engaging. 

Welcome to my world.

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