Catwoman - Thursday

‘Why am I coming along, boss?’ Asks trainee F, as we pull-up outside the neat, turn of the 20th century, terraced house.

‘To help measure up.’ I offer unconvincingly. Since they perfected digital tape measures by adding a laser pointer - early sonar-based efforts tended to tell you a small lounge was the size of the Albert Hall - there really is no need for someone to hold the end of a tape measure.

‘And you know it’s aways useful for more than one person in the office to have seen inside a house.’ I add hurriedly. F looks unconvinced. My statement is true but even F, with the intelligence of a cranially-challenged goldfish, senses an ulterior motive.

‘Ok, fair cop.’ I tell him as we move to leave the car. ‘They have a cat.’

F frowns at me. ‘So I’m some sort of decoy.’ He surmises, not inaccurately. ‘I just want you to keep the little hairball away from me and distract it while I get the sole agency form signed.’ I tell him.

I dislike cats with the sort of passion only a small flightless bird could muster. They like to torment me in a similar way, sensing I’m not a feline lover the selfish little flea-bags gravitate towards me like magnets. And they make me sneeze. No matter how many pills, potions, nasal sprays or liberal applications of Vics vapour rub I try before visiting a home with a cat, I’ll be wheezing and dribbling snot before I’ve sat on the sofa - the invariably hair-covered sofa.

‘I’m not a big cat man myself.’ Whines F, as we walk to the front door.

‘That’s okay.’ I quip. ‘It’s not a lion as far as I recall.’

F frowns. ‘I don’t get it boss.’

And you never will.

‘Nice to see you again.’ I fib, as I shake hands with the owner and get the first whiff of pampered pet. They’ll tell you their homes don’t smell, but trust me, I go in more properties in a week than most people will live in in a lifetime. Dogs smell worse, but cats pong too and at least a dopey labrador tends not to walk along the kitchen work surfaces five minutes after ripping the head off a fledgling sparrow.

‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’ Asks the perfectly pleasant lady owner - if it wasn’t for her moggy myopia. F moves to answer in the affirmative but I manage to kick his shins sharply and answer in the negative. It would just mean sitting even longer in the fluff-filled air and sipping out of mugs the cat has probably rubbed its privates over as it patrols the kitchen drainer looking for food.

Details taken as quickly as protocol will allow we adjourn to the lounge. I look at the seating warily, it all has signs of shed fur and I’ll be filling with phlegm before my suit trousers have touched down.

‘Do you mind if I sit at the dining table?’ I suggest, hoping the hard-covered chairs will be less of a hairy allergy pit. The owner offers no objection and I direct F to sit in one of the comfy chairs while I do the paperwork. I can already feel my throat constricting, then as I try not to sniff like a cocaine-raddled Sloane, I see the ghastly creature slinking through the door. Please go for F, I think, eyes beginning to water.

‘Oh here she is, the little darling.’ Trills the woman, transformed into a cooing five year old who has just been given their first doll.

The snot-bomb looks at me with unforgiving eyes and heads straight for my lap, ignoring F completely. F**k off you ghastly bird murderer, can’t you see I hate you.

‘Oh she’s taken a liking to you.’ Says the woman, as the cat jumps firmly on to my lap and I just restrain myself for violently shoving it back down. I can feel the claws gripping through my trousers. It knows, it bloody knows.

‘Are you crying boss?’ Asks F, when we are finally back in the car.

Only in private.

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Price War - Thursday

Sat outside another identikit Executive detached home built in a bland, non-regional, style by one of the National house builders, about fifteen years ago. The only thing I know for sure, apart from the fact that the architects responsible for these charisma-free homes, never actually live in one, is the asking price is too high.

Negotiator S saw the fifty-something couple in the office and managed to deflect their initially combative approach, and palpable dislike for estate agents, in to a valuation appointment for me. She’s good like that.

They may think I’ll miss it, but I can see the opposition estate agent’s sun-bleached for sale sign tucked down the side path, a path with the minimum width allowed before the next house was built slap bang against it. Land with planning permission was at a premium a decade and a half ago, just as it is now. They’re not making any more of it, and it’s the reason several local planning officers are rumoured to have - paid for in cash - holiday villas in Spain.

‘They wouldn’t say how much they’re on the market for.’ S had told me after she’d booked me the appointment. ‘But I’ll find out.’

‘It’ll be too much.’ I told her gracelessly.

It took her fifteen minutes and my thoughts were confirmed. Six months with the shitesters across the high street. £50,000 more than it was worth and a long, restrictive sole agency, finally finished. Got to love a challenge.

‘Come in.’ Says the husband flatly, a look of distain on his face. His wife hovers in the background but I’m pretty sure she’ll be more forthcoming when I tell her what the house is really worth. We’re not in Mayfair and I’m guessing a Russian Oligarch with state-plundered funds, isn’t going to be that impressed with the local schooling and transport links. There’s certainly not enough room in the garden for a helicopter pad and digging a basement would just turn up the old rubbish tip again….

Cursory tour of the accommodation and a glimpse at the garden, completed, I sit opposite them on the sofa. I have the floor-plans of these house types on file and unless they’ve diminished the saleability with some garish interior designer decor, I could tell them the price without leaving my office. The garden is north facing, which won’t help, but doubtless it “didn’t bother us” when they bought.

They say valuing property is more of an art than a science, and it’s true when it comes to unique, one-off homes but with the advent of Land Registry data and the transparency of prices paid, the arty bit isn’t quite as important as it was. Mostly Jackson Pollocks…

I’m fencing and pontificating and can feel they couple aren’t really taking in the comparable sales data I’m gently feeding them. Unless you’re on a riverboat cruise in Egypt, denial isn’t that attractive.

‘Yes, but ours is much nicer than those two down the road.’ Argues the wife. It isn’t and they’ve actually moved, lady. But at least she’s showing her true colours now.

‘It was more about that other bunch of useless idiots.’ Contributes the husband sourly. He’s referring to my competitors, whose board is down the side alley. They couldn’t mask the well-entrenched hole in the front garden though. If the for sale flag had been there any longer it would have sprouted leaves come the spring.

‘Yes, they completely duped us and they never kept us updated.’ Chirps the wife. ‘All they ever wanted us to do is reduce the price.’

Yes, that’s how they operate, I think dejectedly. Still no minimum standards in the industry - any low-life can lease a shop-unit and put a fascia up and don’t even start me on, so-called, on-line estate agents.

I’ve flogged more dead horses that a sadist in a knackers’ yard, but I’m beginning to feel this is another waste of time. These people want more than their home is worth and will only buy if someone undersells their own property. I decide to try just the £25,000 reduction.

‘We’re not giving it away.’ They chorus familiarly.

No. You’re not.

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Battle Zone - Friday

I’m outside a pleasant semi-detached house in one of the nicer parts of town. I want it on my books - but so will every other estate agent locally.

Preparation is everything in a sales situation. I have a briefcase full of promotional material, agency contracts, print-outs of suitable buyers I have registered looking for similar homes to the one I’m about to value - and most importantly of all, data on comparable properties sold recently.

I glance at my watch, then double check with the car clock. I’m at least fifteen minutes early after the last appointment turned out to be the biggest pair of time wasters since….well….since the previous ones.

In the days when I used to help train new recruits, before I was deemed too dated and dowdy, I would labour the importance of never being late for a valuation appointment. The owner - at least the house proud ones - would have tidied up and been looking at the clock for at least ten minutes before the agreed time. Run behind and turn up just five minutes late and your potential client may well have been looking out the curtains fretting about your arrival, for at least quarter of an hour.

This bitch clearly hasn’t though, I realise, as I look across the road and recognise a bitter rival’s company car. It doesn’t have the tacky paint job, or the corporate logo down the side but it’s just as conspicuous to me. Damn it. I’m on a beauty parade and having pulled down the sun vizor and checked a few moments ago, I’m going to need to labour the charity work and world peace angle. Calling it a vanity mirror was painfully accurate.

My mobile chirps insistently. I really need to change that irritating ringtone, but I’ll need to wait until one of my sons is back from University. I can’t have the office thinking I’m more of an inept Luddite than they already do.

‘Yes?’ I enquire curtly, seeing it’s the office calling. I was about to turn the phone off. You don’t want it ringing when you are half way through trying to convince an intransigent owner their home really isn’t worth the £30,000 more a rival agent told them they could get.

Negotiator S comes on the line, her soothing tones a loss to the Premium Rate phone industry.

‘Could you fit in a late valuation this evening?’ She asks artfully.

I can’t afford not to, even though it could mean another charcoaled dinner when I finally get home - and my wife doesn’t do barbecues…

I jot down the details, hoping it won’t be me and several other agents this time.

‘Did you know I was going to be in a queue of oily liars in suits, on this valuation?’ I ask S. She laughs.

‘What?’ I demand.

‘Well that sort of indicates you’re a greasy bloke in a three piece.’

As it happens, I ditched the waistcoat after too much ridicule from my unsympathetic team. In truth, it was too sweaty anyway. Nothing worse then reeking of body odour when you are trying to appear fragrant and professional.

‘She didn’t say there’d be others.’ Answers S defensively. ‘But then there always is, isn’t there?’

There is. Unless it’s a probate sale. The dead are less argumentative than the living, although the squabbling beneficiaries more than make up for it.

‘Do you know who is in there?’ Quizzes S, as I look at the dashboard clock and wonder how long to give it before I cut short my opponent’s sales pitch

‘The shitester with the zero-fade haircut and loud ties.’ I tell her sourly.

‘God, you’ll not be able to breathe in there for aftershave fumes.’ Chuckles S.

More importantly, I’ll have to push my suggested sale price to stratospheric proportions. The outfit the man works for are notorious for misleading sellers to secure a sole agency, before starting to work on big price reductions.

‘We reckon you should sneak over and let his tyres down.’ Says S mischievously.

It’s tempting, but knowing my luck I’d be caught on someone’s home CCTV.

I’ll just pull his for sale board down after dark.

------

First Defence - Thursday

‘Can you squeeze in another valuation before lunch.’ Says negotiator S even before I’ve closed the office door.

‘Really?’ I reply, glancing at the wall clock and looking longingly towards the kitchen where there was just under half a packet of Malted Milk biscuits when I left.

‘She has to see you today.’ Continues S as I see tubby mortgage man M emerging, with a mug of something steaming and a fist full of curiously moorish baked product.

Now it’s a long time since any woman really had to see me at such short notice. But as M has finished all the Malted Milk, and has just as clearly only made himself a drink, it seems I’d be better off pitching for some business than pitching in head first against the morbidly obese finance-fiddler. I’ll sort him later.

‘Give me the details.’ I say to S curtly.

She reals off the  basic information. Address, property type, number of bedrooms, name and contact methods.

‘And reason for wishing to move?’ I say, wanting the most important piece of the puzzle.

‘They’ve outgrown their existing house.’

‘Partner?’ I probe. Hoping to know if I can get both parties together, then find out which one is the decision maker.

‘He’s at his office.’ S shrugs a semi-apology,. ‘I know, but she’s said it was the only time she was available and she’s off work today.’

I nod, look at the clock again, then accede. You can’t afford to turn down chances for business in any market place and valuations are the sharp end of property sales, no mater how many internet start-ups, or badly briefed journalists, tell you different. Without the homes to offer, an estate agent is dead in the water.

‘I don’t suppose she told you why it had to be today?’ I ask S, as I cross-check my brief case for sole agency forms, digital camera, calculator and laser-measure.

She hesitates.

‘What?’ I demand. I could do body language as a degree course after all this time.

‘You’re not going to like it.’ Ventures S timidly.

‘She’s off work sick, isn’t she?’ I state rhetorically.

S nods. Terrific.

I’ve picked up most minor airborne ailments known to man since I began valuing people’s homes. It’s why my desk drawer looks like a Heathrow airside, mini-version of Boots the chemist. I even had one of their loyalty cards for a while and come to think of it there’s a UK to USA plug adaptor in there too.

‘Just don’t get too close to her.’ Says S with a chuckle.

I get colds and throat infections much more regularly than offers of casual sex. Although there was that one time when the divorcee wanted to negotiate a fee reduction - I didn’t really fancy him though…

‘I won’t, don’t worry.’ I tell her, going back to my office and taking two big snorts from the exorbitantly priced - but clinically proven - First Defence bottle. Immediately my eyes water and I start sneezing. God knows if it really helps, you immediately get most of the symptoms of a streaming cold so it’s hard to tell.

‘Don’t stay too long.’ Suggests trainee F unhelpfully. 

‘And perhaps refuse to shake her hand too?’ I counter sarcastically.

‘That’s a good call.’ Answers F.

I sometimes yearn for the days when you could sack someone without months of negotiations with Human Resources.

If I want the business and sense it’s there to be had, I’ll stay the night and clamber in to bed with  both of them if I have to. Anything to stop another agent getting their For Sale board up. It’s dog eat dog out there and a snottily proffered hand, a germ-ridden cup of coffee, or even a dribbly threesome won’t deflect me from signing up a sole agency.

The chances are it won’t be an easy sale. Experience tells me I’m just being called out at the owners’ convenience. Moving home isn’t a snap decision, at least not a successful move. I’m probably just going to be used at a time when someone is at home with a box of tissues and a DVD.

Might as well have another tosser join them.

----------

Back In The Doghouse - Wednesday

No sooner have I rung the doorbell than the frantic barking and scrabbling of paws on parquet begins. Behind the glass panel I see a huge hound bouncing up and down with excitement at the thought of biting – or at least slobbering – over a man in a suit. Great.

Now, we had pets when I was a child, dogs and a cat, but now I detest the creatures with a vengeance. They shed hair on your clothes, dig their claws in when the owner isn’t looking and invariably try to shag your leg. And the owners wonder why the house won’t sell? No matter how much they are is in denial, the house will reek of dog, or cat. The litter tray in the kitchen doesn’t exactly help viewings either. And my pet hair allergy just seems to get worse with age.

‘Get back Buster.’ Yells a harassed female voice as a shadow appears at the door and stoops to tug on, what I hope, is a very robust collar. I can already feel my eyes beginning to water and the first sneeze can only be minutes away. Nothing worse than trying to get a sole agency form signed with drops of snot leaking from your nostrils, on to the paperwork.

‘Who is it mummy?’ Calls a young voice and my enthusiasm falters further. Surely it can’t be half term again?  It’s not, as becomes apparent as the door is opened to a stressed looking lady in her late thirties struggling to hold on to a vicious looking mutt that if it isn’t on the dangerous dogs list, bloody well should be. The hound is looking at me as if I’m one of those cartoon steaks in a butcher’s window. It’s dribbling some sort of pre-rabid froth from its mouth. In common with the public, it seems dangerous dogs don’t like estate agents.

I make my introduction warily, as the dog strains at the collar eyes alight with bloodlust while the owner of the younger voice reveals herself. The little girl is clad in pink pyjamas that might be My Little Pony, or some sort of Barbie princess line – I have boys and girls are a mystery to me – and she’s clutching a fistful of tissues. Her eyes are red and she already has a trail of mucus sliding from her nose, before me.

‘Who is that man?’ Asks the virus-filled brat, coughing in my direction, as I imagine the millions of spores spiralling across the hall looking - like the owners – for a new home.

‘The estate agent Emily,’ replies her mother wearily. ‘I told you to stay in bed.’ The woman turns to me with an apologetic shrug. ‘Sorry, she’s off school with a cold so I thought it would be a good time to get you round to value the house.’ I’m beckoned in to the warm fug of cold germs and doggy smells. I feel a tear welling in my eye.

‘What does an estate agent do?’ Quizzes Emily with a phlegm-filled persistence. It’s a question I’ve been asked a thousand times. Often when we’ve arranged a quick sale and the vendor is fussing about the fee. You wanted me to sell it and now you’re complaining I’ve done my job Sir? Got to love the public.

My initial pitch and confirmation of the lady’s requirements over, we embark on the tour of the house, dog and little girl snapping at my heels. Not sure which one will bite me first, or which will be the more infectious. Upstairs we troop into the master bedroom and the mutt bounds free from the owner’s hand and attempts to push me on to the bed. It’s not the first time a dog has tried that move, but that’s another story.

‘Get down Buster.’ Screams the woman in a voice that could crack crystal. The dog ignores her and jumps on to the bed and sits panting, watching me warily and depositing drool onto a grubby-looking blanket on top of the duvet.

‘He’s not supposed to sleep on the bed.’ Says the woman, with a shrug. ‘But he’s a big softy really, so we let him if he’s feeling down.’

Room for one more?

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Black Pudding - Friday

‘If I see another f***ing PowerPoint presentation I’ll top myself.’ Hisses my vertically challenged rival manager H as we settle into another bland hotel meeting room and the bean counter boss unfolds his laptop.

He has a point. The graphic of the be-suited man climbing some sort of snakes and ladders sales mountain had a certain novelty value about a decade ago, but now I just long for an old-fashioned overhead projector and a couple of acetates. Maybe even some A4 handouts.

‘The first and last refuge of the terminally dull presenter.’ I tell H, as I sit reluctantly next to him after missing out in the unseemly scrabble to be seated by the new and smoking hot female manager, who is having some early sales success in an office where the last incumbent spent more time downing measures, than measuring up.

‘She won’t last long on top.’ Sneers H, conjuring up a vision I have trouble shaking, until the eastern European girl with the embryonic moustache and the unflattering nylon housecoat turns up, with pots of stewed tea and coffee strong enough to strip the enamel from your teeth.

‘She’s producing some good instruction figures.’ I tell H, pouring a dark and suspicious smelling brew into the already stained cup in front of me. And I look at my new colleague and give her, what I judge to be, a companionably but in no way salacious smile of encouragement. She smiles radiantly back and I realise why she’s getting quite a few sole agencies with boards - at least from the male vendors.

‘It won’t last.’ Gripes H ungraciously. ‘They always get hormonal or pregnant once the first flush of enthusiasm goes.’

He really is a whole heap of chauvinistic unpleasantness for such a small package. It really irks me his office outperforms mine, ten months out of twelve.

I watch the bean counter as he fiddles with his tracker pad and tries to line up the first image, one his secretary probably prepared for him, with the portable projection screen. Despondent, as I imagine scores of slides a ten year old would be ashamed to produce flashing before my eyes for the next ninety minutes, I look at the pile of dusty Imperial mints in the saucer in front of me and wonder how long it would take to overdose on sugary spheres?

How did I get here? Asks that annoying inner voice, one that grows in intensity with each passing year and each newly increased sales target. A salesman’s career is finite, like any other, but unlike say, a doctor or lawyer improving with the accumulation of age and knowledge, estate agency is essentially a young man’s – or woman’s – game. There are only so many late night viewings and valuations you can do with utter wasters before you start to lose that youthful enthusiasm. Next time round I’ll definitely pay more attention at school and try not to grow up in a dysfunctional family.

‘Financial service performance is far from acceptable.’ Drones the bean counter, as I begin to yearn for the temporary high of the soggy bacon butties that we’ll be having at the comfort break. I already have virtual indigestion, the physical version might as well accompany it once the industrialised white baps and water-pumped bacon arrives. When the absurd, Americanised, breakfast meeting idea arrived on these shores, it seemed radical and not a little exotic. But budget cuts soon ditched the full English for poor man’s transport café fare and the realisation that the whole charade of shared sustenance and team-building was just an excuse to get you out of bed a couple of hours earlier, and back in the office before opening time.

‘I hate clapping for someone else.’ Gripes H as I think welcome to my world short-arse. The pretty new manager has just collected a bottle of cheap bubbly and the embarrassingly naff, new instruction performance cup. At least she has the good grace to blush – it will soon fade.

‘We’ll see if the bitch has sold any of them next month.’ Says H poisonously.

The Imperial mints are rattling around in the car coin tray. Not sure I’ve stolen enough.

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Touch Me Feel Me - Monday

‘Have you made your vendor contact calls?’ I ask my team irritably. I’m fed-up with looking out the window willing someone to come in yet half-hoping they won’t – particularly as 90% of the people we deal with are time-wasters. Not in their own eyes obviously, but in the final analysis, in the brutal spotlight of the sales figures and bean counter boss’s beloved balance sheet.

Vendor contact has always been an unloved job in the industry. You battle hard to win the owner’s instructions to sell their home, often caught up in the inflationary cycle of suggesting higher and higher asking prices just to please, just to shut out the other agents promising unlikely riches and a cheap commission structure, then nobody wants to view and the backtracking starts.

‘God I hate ringing some of these idiots.’ Carps assistant manager T, as my hackles rise. We’re nothing without good customer service skills and if the march of virtual estate agencies, DIY sites and bucket shop outfits with shady staff and suspect practices is going to be halted, it’s down to old-fashioned values – except where asking prices are concerned…

‘I’ve done most of mine.’ Says negotiator S, a hint of smugness in her voice. T scowls at her, so at least I can be sure he’s not shagging her – yet. I turn to look at imbecile trainee F. He looks nervous. That rabbit in the headlights look, with none of the benefits of being able to run him over without repercussions and a lot of paperwork.

‘Have you done yours yet?’ I ask F. I’ve only given him a shortened list to keep tabs on. Admittedly the owners are mostly the dreamers, over-optimistic and the out and out nutcases you only recognise once they’ve signed a three-month sole agency, but we all have to start somewhere.

F gives a less than convincing, slowly stuttering to a halt explanation as to why he’s not done what we, as a firm, promised to do from the outset. Keep in touch.

I can feel the anger and the ulcer burning, an inflammatory process not helped by the sight of B, our loose lettings lush, staggering in on unsuitable heels from what appears to have been a long, boozy – possibly x-rated – lunch. She has no problem keeping in touch with clients…

I let an expletive slip out. F visibly flinches while B totters to the kitchen. S and T just stare at their computer screens. There was a time when I never swore in front of my staff, but time, changed morals and dealing with property have loosened my inhibitions just as surely as they’ve loosened B’s bra straps.

‘We’ll all take a section of the register and we’ll be done by the end of the day.’ I eventually say, as I tap the relevant keys and the printer whirs in to life behind me. I could have done without the paper jam.

‘As long as I don’t have to ring that miserable cow.’ Argues T as he looks at his portion of the slightly crumpled sheet of A4 paper he has been allocated. Admittedly, I felt a bit guilty underlining the woman’s address in the colour-coded highlighter pen I decided to use for T’s portion of the list. Although I broadly subscribe to the mantra: Never ask a subordinate to do something you wouldn’t do yourself – there must be some perks in being the boss.

‘The sooner you call her the easier it will be.’ Says a voice I belatedly recognise as my own. The lady is a fully-wicker-bound basket case, aiming to spite her ex-husband by staying in the marital home for as long as she can. The man, living in a bed-sit somewhere, with his younger girlfriend – a lesson for middle-aged lotharios everywhere – is one of the few vendors wanting to sell at a realistic price. His spurned spouse wants mad money for the home and half his pension. Got to love the public.

‘How did it go?’ I ask the team when I emerge from my office after a prickly phone call with the bean counter.

‘Three taken off the market, one price increase and some new insults.’ Replies T sourly.

Not bad then.

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Happy Families - Tuesday

I drive through the soulless early eighties executive estate. This era hasn’t worn well. The mock Tudor timbers are flaked and rotting where they haven’t been maintained properly. Any original windows are tired, with the paltry-gapped double-glazing blown causing condensation or ugly fogging to the glass. There are not enough parking spaces and the pavements are littered with teenagers’ first cars. A battered and rusting selection of Ford Kas, baby Peugeots and Renault Clios are strewn on either side, making it hard to navigate the tight corners. Some of the larger homes have double garages but the majority have narrow single units where the parents’ cars never make it inside, let alone their grown-up children’s motors. Children who’ll be at home until close to their fortieth birthday if the average age for a first time buyer climbs much higher.

This is a matrimonial dispute and I’m meeting first one party, then straight after the second. These are notoriously frosty affairs, with any business to come a long way off at best by the time the lawyers have battled over who gets what. I know what these homes are worth, but I’m betting the two parties won’t agree with me. I have the evidence, it’s available on-line and I’ve completed on two houses in adjacent roads in the last few months. Of course at this vintage, many of the homes have had new kitchens and bathrooms installed and a fair majority have replaced the developers cheap window units. Some will sport unsightly conservatories on the back eating in to the already parsimonious plot sizes and one side of this road, with the south facing rears, is more favoured but I can still get the price about right. Not that some competitors will be so honest. Overvaluing is still rife, with the less professional practitioners inflating figures just to get a sole agency and a for sale board - and more importantly control of the marketing.

‘We’re going to need to be quick mate.’ Says the man as he looks anxiously at his watch. He is late-forties and driving a cheap model BMW. I’m clearly not his mate, so he wants something from me. It doesn’t take long. ‘Can you put the price in writing and make it as low as possible.’ This rarely happens without a reason. ‘I’m thinking of buying her out.’ Explains the man as we finish the cursory tour. The house is unloved and only the two kids’ bedrooms show any sign of attention. That’s if you call flat screen televisions and Play Stations a mark of affection. If they really cared they wouldn’t be separating. Despite all the self-help bullshit about it being best for the children to go your separate ways, it’s a lie. I know.

The key scrapes in the door and I rise to greet the soon to be ex-wife. It has been an uncomfortable ten minutes perched on the couch waiting alone in the loveless house, just the ticking of a clock for company. ‘I suppose he’s long gone.’ Says the spurned woman icily, as I make my introduction and just stop short of apologising for having a penis. She doesn’t take long. The smile is unconvincing she’s clearly a bit out of practice.

‘Could you make your price as high as possible?’ She urges. ‘And I need a copy to my solicitor.’ This is why we now call these exercises market appraisals, not valuations. If they want to go to court to argue the figures they should get a formal valuation from a Chartered Surveyor. The surveyor will charge a fee, then come in to my office and ask what the house is worth.

‘How long until I get your letter?’ Probes the woman, then she can’t help herself. ‘Only I want the cheating bastard’s bollocks on a plate.’ Momentarily I wonder if I’ve missed another chunk of female-focused legislation. Some corrective law that gives positive discrimination in favour of women wanting a scrotum-sac trophy along with the house and half his pension. I feel a tightening in the nether regions and resolve to hang on to my own home and balls and to stick to fantasy - or the free trial sessions on-line.

It’s a hard job.

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Building The Pressure - Monday

Out in the car with trainee F. Ostensibly, he is here to learn but he reeks of sow’s ear. We’ve just measured-up a new instruction and taken some photos. The pictures had better be good because the home is on for £20k more than I’d have liked, after a rival agent tried to prise the business away telling the vendor she was about to place it on the market too cheaply. The signed sole agency saved me but the compromise was a higher price – at least for now.

‘It won’t sell for that money will it?’ Asks F, indicating the digital camera in the foot-well.

‘No,’ I tell him with as much certainty as anyone can muster where property is concerned. ‘And even if some nutter does offer over the odds, their surveyor will downvalue it.’

‘We deal with a lot of time wasters don’t we?’ States F rhetorically as I glance at the dashboard clock, see we have thirty minutes to spare, and indicate left.

‘This isn’t the way back to the office.’ Says F showing the sort of local knowledge estate agents major on – even borderline retards.

‘Little detour.’ I tell him swinging into a bumpy, yet to be top-coated road, with the sort of raised drainage ironmongery beloved of shock absorber retailers and scrap metal thieves everywhere.

I pull up by the freshly minted marketing board of a new build showhome. The photoshop-doctored picture shows the sort of attractive mixed race couple, with two children, who only exist in advertising agencies minds and who certainly can’t afford these prices. Not without a bank of Mum and Dad handout. The garage has been converted with the help of some sliding patio doors into a sales office, and as I ease out of the car, with a shooting pain down the leg, flags are fluttering overhead like sparse applause.

‘Are we going in?’ Asks F incredulously as he follows me, spaniel-like.

‘Why not?’ I reply. ‘Market research.’ I pitched for the sales on site, some months ago, but the medium sized developer decided to sell direct. Something that still rankles.

‘But you hate time-wasters.’ Persists F as I march past the only other car in the car park, an ageing Honda Accord, which is doubtless the sales lady’s motor.

‘Do what I say not what I do.’ I tell F as I spot the owner of the car through the glass. She’s reading a book.

‘Can I help you?’ Asks the woman as we slide the door back and a gust of wind sends her leaflets fluttering across the cheap Ikea desk. It’s a closed question as expected, and she is also as predicted. A fifty-something fading glamour model who has had some work done. Fake blonde hair to match the fake fruit in the bowl and the unreal asking prices. There’s probably some botox involved too.

‘So you’re estate agents.’ Echoes the woman with a look of disappointment I see most days. She only just stops herself from picking up her paperback. ‘I thought you were probably selling something, or a gay couple.’ She continues, stifling an unseemly yawn.

F and I exchange uneasy glances neither wishing to articulate, out loud, our thoughts. Probably for the best.

‘This is alright.’ Enthuses F as we walk round the show unit. The saleswoman didn’t bother to come with us, once we promised to take our shoes off to protect the cheaply sourced foam-backed carpeting. Doors have been removed from the kitchen and lounge to give the illusion of space and some prissy designer has colour co-ordinated the throw cushions and curtains. The furniture looks to be three-quarter size.

‘They’re too much money.’ I tell F authoritatively. Builders always want a premium for their product and I priced these 15% less than the developer is asking. The first sale always sets the benchmark for new developments and nobody has exchanged contracts on one yet. The sold subject to contract stickers in a couple of windows, almost certainly Harry Potterish works of fiction.

‘Not buying?’ Asks the woman ruefully as we leave.

No, but I’ll be back.

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Back To Life Back To Reality - Tuesday

Walking across the park nothing much has changed. The detritus of last night’s takeaway meals look broadly the same. A scattering of branded boxes, some fox-stripped chicken bones and a selection of high-strength lager cans are strewn amongst the meagre flowerbeds. A lone council employee is over the far side in his dayglow jacket, poking disconsolately at the debris with one of those long-handled pickers that give the illusion you’re at arms length from a rubbish job.

‘Spare some cash for a cuppa?’ Pleads a scarecrow-like figure slumped on one of the benches, in a vast army greatcoat glistening with dew. The unshaven man has that look of despair in his eyes, the look I tend to wear on a Friday afternoon when the weekly stats are due and I’m still trying to piece together a deal that might save me from transmitting negative figures.

‘Sorry. No change.’ I tell the unshaven man curtly. It’s not exactly true in relation to the pound coins in my pocket but I’m guessing it’s spot-on when I get back to the office. The man mutters something unflattering behind my back and I only just restrain myself from spinning and giving him the Daily Mail readers’ rant about getting a job and taking some responsibility for a being washed-up failure, but I realise it’s too close to home.

‘Hello.’ Calls a familiar voice I don’t want to hear. ‘Been somewhere hot?’ I paste on my public persona smile and turn to see the hobbling banker. He looks like shit.

‘Holiday.’ I tell him with a thin smile. I can feel my skin starting to flake and I’m guessing the tan will be gone before the credit card bill arrives and I wonder just what I bought from an unknown shop, with such a poor exchange rate.

‘Alright for some.’ Rejoins the loan peddler. ‘I can’t afford to get away.’

Neither can I mate, particularly with a mortgage from your pension-plumped bosses, I think sourly. That’s why I’m heading back to the office hoping against hope they’ve had a decent few days while I’ve been away.

‘Somewhere nice?’ Enquires the banker, pleasingly struggling to keep up with my slightly brisker now, pace. Just another flyblown island where they’ve over-borrowed and overspend on property projects I feel like saying, but I just give him the destination instead.

‘Get a good exchange rate?’ He asks as we cross the road together and I see the office fascia looming ominously. Not for the pottery pieces my wife insisted on buying which were in pieces when we opened the suitcase. I give a neutral answer. You never know when you might need a loan, or another holiday - this time a payment one.

Nobody is in the office yet, as expected. I scan the window display looking hopefully for a batch of new, realistically priced, sole agencies and maybe a couple of freshly appended sold stc stickers. It looks exactly the same. Even the dead wasp is still slowly desiccating on the windowsill on top of those glossy corporate brochures extolling our group virtues. Brochures that no potential seller reads when all they want is a high price and a cheap fee. As office manager you like to think you’re the best salesman, so paradoxically and against my financial benefit, I’m almost glad they haven’t done too well in my absence, but then again... Sighing, I stoop to unlock the door. The alarm starts to sound as I wonder if they’d miss me if that dream of becoming a writer - or more likely the lottery numbers coming up - ever came to pass? Probably not. I’ve seen colleagues exit for varied reasons: greener grass, mewling maternity and nervous breakdowns. You’re quickly replaced.

Codes punched in, I notice a light bulb out in the window display and growl in disapproval. And yes, I spotted the weeds growing outside the office hadn’t been tugged up. Firing up my terminal I find my password no longer works. About the only thing that has happened judging by the manual copy of the stats I peruse instead.

And another piece of me dies inside.

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