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.

--------

Bedtime Blues - Wednesday

I'm looking at the bedside clock again and it doesn’t seem to have moved from the last five times I’ve rolled over, hoping it might be morning.

I’m contemplating a trip to the bathroom just to break the pattern of tossing and turning and to let the covers cool, but I’m conscious of not waking my wife. Although her steady breathing is starting to become mildly irritating after I’ve huffed and puffed, searching for the comfort of dreamless sleep, for the last two hours.

They say moving house is the third most stressful life event, after death and divorce. I’m beginning to wonder if living those three crisis points, albeit vicariously through third parties’ fractious house sales, is taking its collective toll? I can’t remember the last time I had a blissful, undisturbed night’s sleep.

As my stomach churns and my sciatic nerve throbs, I try to chase some unhealthy anger against a solicitor who is holding up a protracted chain I’ve been fretting over for six weeks, from my mind. I’m betting the virtual call-centre, on-line agents, with their cheap fees and even cheaper service don’t suffer so many disturbed nights.

And now the bladder alarm has gone off, a good three hours before the actual bedside clock is due to pipe inane local radio into my head, doubtless about ten minutes after I finally fall into an exhausted sleep.

‘What time is it?’ Mumbles my wife, as I hobble towards the en-suite, obviously not as mouse-like as intended.

‘Go back to sleep.’ I urge her. No point in two of us being grumpy for the rest of the day. Some rest-deprived area of my mind imagines the solicitor’s grinning features at the bottom of the darkened toilet bowl, as I try to urinate quietly. I don’t actually know the dilatory fool; he’s faceless and not exactly taking the piss - although with the speed he dispatches half-formed sales’ contracts, he actually is….

After a bit of fuzzy-headed confusion and a hint of some collateral splash damage on the floor, I push what I think is the short-flush button. The bowl empties like the Hoover Dam’s sluice gates opening. Not the economy, water-saving bowl evacuation then. That won’t please my wife, or the environmentalists who foisted the hapless Energy Performance Certificates on everyone who wants to sell their home.

Half way back to bed, hands still dripping as I couldn’t find a towel without putting on the light and sending the extractor fan in to full Rolls Royce jet engines spooling up to maximum thrust mode, I halt. Perhaps I won’t be able to shake the problem sale from my head by just clambering back under the over-heated duvet? Particularly as another difficult deal has crept into my consciousness. I decide to do what Englishmen the world over have done for decades, when a problem won’t go away. Make a cup of tea.

Brew cooling alongside me, I tap at my computer keyboard as dawn rises apologetically in the east. Soft light creeping through the curtains as a pre-cursor to what might be another dark day. Not for the first time I curse that inept careers advisor at school. That and my casual approach to studying anything other than the unobtainable girl who sat in front of me in class. I wonder where she is now. I sometimes ponder if I’ll get her matrimonial home to sell, in the inevitable divorce.

As the room brightens further and I send an inane tweet to anyone who is stupid enough to be awake and wanting UK property news, I start to feel sleepy. Thank you God.

Slipping quietly back into, the now soothingly cool covers I close my eyes.

‘Could you make any more noise?’ Asks a cranky voice, hardly brimming with human kindness. Not that quietly then.

‘Go back to sleep.’ I urge her, again. And annoyingly she does, Steady breathing returning in seconds. That’s night-time feeding two children in their infancy for you. 

Just as I pass a hopeful note to the girl in the desk ahead of me, a nasally intrusive voice announces:

‘It’s Wednesday morning and here’s Taylor Swift.’

Shake It Off.

---------

Complaint's Box - Monday

I’ve not even shut the office door and it starts.

‘The bloke from number ten rang while you were out, thinks we’ve sold his house too quickly.’ Says assistant manager T, with a slump of his shoulders.

I’m guessing it’s not the Prime Minister. Two reasons: firstly the PM doesn’t own their place of residence, technically they’re just a pimped-up council house tenant. Secondly, no government in recent memory has had the hint of a joined-up housing approach, so property and any type of policy are not exactly bedfellows - unless it’s a cardboard box in a shop doorway.

‘He’s an idiot.’ Pronounces negotiator S as trainee F walks in from the kitchen. F hesitates and looks a little hurt.

‘She’s talking about the vendor of number ten.’ Enlightens T. ‘They think we’ve sold their house too quickly, too cheaply and will doubtless want a cut to the commission.’

‘Or withdraw from the sale and put the price up.’ Adds S.

It’s not a new dilemma. There’s a sweet-spot for selling a property new to the market. Just enough viewings to convince the owner we’ve done our job exposing the home to the market, a few who turn their nose up at the decor, location and price, then a buyer who tries a chip on the asking price, which we negotiate up to an acceptable figure. Job done.

But of course it’s not. As any agent, or seasoned house mover will tell you, the hard work often starts after terms are agreed. The delays, the quibbling, the inept surveyors, solicitors, lenders and a fragile connection of fickle buyers and sellers all roped together in a transaction chain that can founder at any given moment in the next eight weeks - or more. That’s when we earn out money. No sale no fee.

‘What did you manage to agree with him?’ I ask T apprehensively. He’s the assistant manger, well versed in these type of problems, plus I’ve coached him more productively and diligently than the procession of charlatans in trouser suits, with tick-box computer programmes and digital post-it note sessions, they’ve had in the training department recently.

‘Told him you’d ring him back when you got in.’ Says T, without a hint of shame.

Perhaps, I’m not as good as I think? Maybe a powder-blue flared set of strides - with room for a big arse - and a matching colour, bias-cut jacket, with just a hint of retro eighties-style shoulder pads…..

‘What?’ Asks T as I scowl at him. Surely he could have dealt with the problem when it was fresh? Convince the owner the job isn’t even half done, that we now need to nurse the transaction to a successful conclusion. Maybe, list the number of people who’d had details of his home, the comparable sales of other homes like his, in the area. The fact that we’d obtained a price he said he’d be happy with only a week ago. The even more pertinent fact that he is now in a position to secure the home he’s hoping to move to.

If you want something doing, do it yourself. It’s a phrase I lived with for years, until my mental and physical health started to take a hit, trying to do everything in the office single-handedly. Not trusting colleagues to do the job to my standards. As the body ages and the spirit weakens I’ve learned to relinquish control. T doesn’t seem to have noticed.

‘Just thought you’d prefer to explain.’ Says T petulantly, after I’ve suggested he could have dealt with the thorny problem. Not any more, I think sourly, as I steel myself for the difficult conversation. Repetition might work for classical musicians, but I just cramp up now.

No doubt the owner will cite the thousands of pounds of commission he now owes us, without a thought as to how much more work needs to be done before he finally opens that door with his new set of keys, and decides where first to shag his partner - I’d advise against the stairs until the carpets are down….

Never the less, someone is going to get f***ed.

---------

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Local Knowledge - Tuesday

A high-velocity run of expletives bounce round the office like a rubber bullet. I look up from my computer screen to see assistant manager T with a face like thunder. It could be the charges for the office swear box he’s just incurred but it’s likely to be something more costly. I suspect my sales pipeline has sprung another unwelcome leak.

‘What is it?’ I ask wearily, having heaved myself from my chair and left the office profit and loss figures to mercifully fade out when the screen saver kicks in.

‘The deal on Crescent Road has just fallen-through.’ Replies T angrily.

‘What?’ Questions fat finance man M, before I can. ‘Was I doing the mortgage?’

‘You might have been if you’d bothered to ring back the buyers.’Snaps T moodily.

M looks briefly embarrassed, before saying unhelpfully. ‘Well you should have booked them in for an appointment.’

As M waddles away an unpleasant chafing of man-made material follows the lazy lump of lard as he sways back to his office. They must make his suit trousers from the same fire-retardant material they manufacture children’s nightdresses from, or we’d have experienced a spontaneous combustion Bear Grylls would be proud of, by now.

‘Forget him.’ I tell T, with the sort of instruction I could do without getting back to the bean counter boss. ‘Tell me what happened.’

‘Their solicitor told them they can’t access the garage at the back.’ Replies T, arms outstretched. ‘But I’ve been round the back there myself.’

‘I know what it’s about.’ I tell T flatly.

Now people don’t often value my experience, or accumulated knowledge, when I price their home. Focus is often on how much they can ask and how cheap I’ll make my fee. But the reason you pay for a decent dentist or a switched-on solicitor, is they’ve demonstrated through study, exam and practice they are worth paying for. Estate agents don’t have to sit exams, or demonstrate a minimum standard of competence, though God knows I’d like them to, so consequently they all seem the same - until the problems start.

‘They were built by a speculator-builder in the late thirties.’ I tell my, now assembled, sales team. Trainee F briefly starts to raise his arm then thinks better of it. Even he realises I’m not that old.

‘And of course,’ I continue. ‘Not many people had use of a car then.’

‘Buy they have that access track round the back.’ Interjects T. ‘Where some people still have sheds.

And I’ve driven round there, seen the garage.’ He pleads indignantly. T should have thought of this potential problem when he took the property on - or I should have spotted it.

Old title deeds explained, and the Land Registry only being involved when homes change hands discussed. I ask who the buyers’ solicitor is?

‘Some out of town cheap and not very cheerful bunch.’ Replies T flatly.

‘And?’ I ask like a schoolmaster. To a simultaneous, and rather pleasing, chorus of:

‘You get what you pay for!’

‘So if I can convince your solicitors there is an established right of way,’ I tell the wobbly buyers later. ‘Would you still want to buy it?’

‘Of course, we love it.’ Answers the woman, who I know is the decision maker. ‘But we have to listen to the legal people.’

‘Leave it with me. I know what to do.’ I tell her, trying not to sound smug.

‘So if the old boy that lives next door signs an affidavit confirming he’s used that rear access for decades without problems it’ll be okay?’ Quizzes T later.

‘If it can constitute an established use.’ I answer. ‘The hard bit is convincing the buyers’ cheapo battery-farm legal outfit to back down.’

‘They seem pretty clueless.’ Responds T.

Yep, that’s what happens if you use a bucket shop lawyers’ firm. It’s the same with these joke on-line estate agencies. Use EasyPeasyProperties dot com, or whatever they call themselves, and it will probably cost you in the long run.

End result. Sale saved and back on course.

The profit and loss account is a different matter though.

---------

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.

 ---------

No Waiting Zone - Monday

‘Thank God you’re back.’ says negotiator S as I return to the office. She knows how to make a man feel welcome - at least I imagine she does.

‘What is it?’ I question warily, knowing without needing the harsh reality of the shaving mirror, that she doesn’t want me for anything more physical than a human shield.

‘I’ve had the buyers of number eleven on the phone three times already this morning wanting to know when they can collect their keys.’

I glance up at the office clock, not good. Late morning, lunchtime lurking and if their solicitor hasn’t wired funds to the sellers by now there’s a real danger of the virtual black hole between 12.00 noon and about 2.30pm . Experience tells me the chances of the lawyers in the chain aligning, in office, at the same time to send completion funds along the digital highway, are slim to zero. Someone is always out to lunch.

‘Have you asked them to chase their solicitor?’ I ask S to the sort of derisory look I might imagine receiving if I did actually offer her more tactile assistance.

‘They’ve tried but she was…’

‘Out of the office?’ I say swiftly.

‘No.’

‘In court?’

‘No.’

‘With clients?’

‘No.’ Says S sharply. ‘At a school meeting for her daughter.’

Someone needs a word with the legal lady’s secretary. You can give out too much information.

‘Do you think having children affects you’re career prospects?’ Asks S pointedly.

Jesus, I can’t be giving an opinion on that, I think warily. I may have been around a long time but even I’ve learnt what is way off limits in today’s workplace. I’d be in less trouble if I did actually encroach into S’s personal space - probably…

Politically correct fudge given, I return to the matter in hand.

‘Have you tried the vendor’s solicitor?’ I ask. ‘See if they are ready to go.’

‘Of course.’ Replies S tartly. I sometimes forget she’s one of the good estate agents. It’s one of the reasons she’s on display in the window.

‘The buyers are getting really stressed.’ Continues S.

‘I’m not surprised.’ I reply. ‘Hire a cheap solicitor and you get what you deserve. Next you’ll be telling me they’re doing the removals themselves.’

S looks at me and grimaces. ‘They are on their way to the office in the rent-a-van. Had it loaded by 9.30pm.’

You can’t tell people.

‘Why can’t you just give us our keys?’ Demands the weary-looking man, one hand clutched to the small of his back, wife slumped in a chair while their two pre-school toddlers run amok. Because they’re not your keys yet, I think grimly, glancing at the clock and seeing it’s still not 2.00pm. The last phone call to their solicitors office got the answer phone - a piece of kit that should have gone the way of William Caxton’s first printing press, by now.

’It’s more than my job’s worth.’ I tell the agitated man as his wife looks daggers at me and her offspring try to prise apart the office window display. £7,000 for a few low-voltage bulbs some acrylic panels and a reel of piano wire. I’m in the wrong business.

‘I know they’re just out the back there.’ Says the wife acidly. ‘Surely you can let us start to unpack. What could possibly go wrong?’

Lady, I could write a book. In fact I have, but that’s another story.

‘Well don’t expect us to give you any more business when we move.’ States the husband, wincing as he moves.

Probably not the best time to point out they haven’t paid us a penny. The vendor picks up my tab and this couple and their ill-mannered kids aren’t picking up my clients keys until they’ve paid for them.

‘Anyone’s hired van bumped up on the pavement across the road?’ Enquires assistant manager T as he returns from a viewing. It’s nearly 2.45pm.

‘It’s mine why?’ Demands the fractious not quite buyer,

’Traffic warden is eyeing it up.’ Replies T nonchalantly.

‘Oh for f***s sake .’ Snaps the man viciously. ‘Can it get any worse?’

His pre-school offspring parroting his expletive apparently. 

--------

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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Inflate After Leaving Aircraft - Friday

‘How about these two?’ I suggest to my wife, holding up a couple of summer casual shirts that I maybe shouldn’t have bought last season. Her look alone confirms I won’t be shopping alone for clothes again in a hurry.

‘I’ll find something and get them ironed.’ She says, as I look at the two dodgy purchases as if for the first time and remember how the female shop assistant duped me into buying the garish-patterned tat a Hawaiian would be embarrassed to wear. She must have been on commission.

‘Don’t be late tonight.’ Cautions my wife as she studies her third or fourth list religiously and a pile of clothing, enough for a month’s expedition somewhere exotic, sits behind her while the iron ticks up to temperature. She can’t be serious. Last day before holiday is a nightmare every year. If you didn’t need a break beforehand, nine hours of trying to ensure everything in the office will run smoothly without you is enough to send you gibbering towards airport security looking deeply suspicious. And that’s before they check your occupation in the passport….

‘So that’s the list of things to take care off.’ I tell the team at my last morning meeting before leaving. T the assistant manager takes the printout, one I’ve also emailed to everyone’s inbox as a belt and braces exercise. Sales and surveys to chase, vendors to keep sweet, viewing and valuation targets to meet. The list isn’t exhaustive, but I’m pretty knackered already.

‘Just relax and have a great time.’ Says negotiator S sweetly. My wife said something similar last night, but I was too stressed to start the holiday early. It never helps that one of the countless television stations satellite services afford, is invariably running a scare programme the week before you go anywhere, called something like: Terror in The Skies, Air Crash Investigation or Three minutes and 35,000 Feet To Live…

‘I just find the nearest airport bar and down a couple of Gin and tonics when I travel,’ informs lettings lush B unhelpfully. I’m supposed to be driving the hire car at the other end, so that is not a great option. B’s other vacation-time recreational activity is – allegedly - shagging every Spanish waiter she can find. Not sure my wife would approve of that either, no matter how many tips it might save us.

‘Off somewhere nice?’ Asks the dusky lady in Boots the chemist, as I go to the counter. I’m clutching copious medicinal supplies, together with several gallons of sun tan lotion, after beach treatment and enough insect repellent to fend off more MPs than can usually be found in The Commons at question time.

I tell her the destination as I pile my purchases on the counter. She’s pretty, but too young for me. I’m still relieved I decided to pass on the intriguing battery-powered ring-shaped device placed alongside the prophylactics, one that apparently gives vibrating pleasure to both partners, but might cause a stir at the X-ray desk. I’m not going through that rubber-gloves indignity again. Anyway with my back I can hardly lift the cases, let alone touch my toes.

‘He’s not back until after the weekend.’ Says the solicitor’s secretary I ring with the clock ticking and my list growing, not diminishing. This is the third conveyancing clown I’ve rung in as many minutes. One was ‘in court.’ A lie. The other was, ‘with clients,’ equally improbable. All three won’t be getting any lawyer-free buyers introduced to them for a while. I’ve a memory like an elephant where snubs are concerned.

‘Bean counter, on line three.’ Announces trainee F, late in the day. I’ve told him not to announce my boss like that. Granted it’s my nickname for the little figure-fiddler but F is more likely to forget to put him on hold.

‘Everything under control?’ Begins the bean counter in a lethally loaded question. If they can cope without me it’s not the best signal to send. On the other hand, if I’ve not left the office on an even keel he’ll be even more pedantic approving future holiday dates. I take a chance.

What could possibly go wrong?

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Key To Another Door - Tuesday

‘Don’t you get spooked by dead people’s homes?’ Asks dopey trainee F nervously, as we pull up outside a ramshackle semi-detached house with the look of a decade or two’s neglect clinging to the elevation. I have the keys nestling in my pocket and the covering letter from the probate department of a local solicitor, is in my briefcase. It gives me a nice warm feeling.

‘Death, debt and divorce.’ I remind F as we open a rusting iron gate to a groaning accompaniment. ‘I’ve told you, they are the estate agent’s best friend no matter how the economy is doing.’

‘Yeh but it’s a bit…’ Begins F, tailing off as we dodge round a wild looking buddleia that’s trying to reclaim the crumbling path.

‘A bit what?’ I snap, as a thorny runner from something low-lying snags my trousers and I stoop to unpick it warily. I can’t afford to lose another suit to wear and tear.

‘A bit like grave robbing?’ Ventures F uncertainly.

I tell F curtly that we are providing a service, as I fumble with the tarnished brass keys and try to find the right one for the peeling front door. Remind him, with both debt and divorce we are putting people out of their misery and that with death it’s already been done. He doesn’t look convinced.

‘The deceased don’t grumble about the price and fee.’ I tell F sagely as I finally find the right key and the lock turns with a throaty rasp reminiscent of a death rattle. Bit creepy.

‘Yes but the beneficiaries still do.’ Replies F with unusual accuracy. Perhaps he is learning something.

The door gives after a couple of shoves, but stops after a foot or so as I encounter a few months worth of junk mail. At least I hope I do. I wouldn’t be the first estate agent to find a dead owner. A colleague bustled in a few years ago, viewer on their heels, to find a note on the stairs warning them not to go to the bedroom and to call the police. The man hoping to view the home grumbled that his time had been wasted even as the ambulance crew shook their heads and prepared the body bag.

‘Smells stale in here.’ Says F unnecessarily as I kick the free papers, take away menus and final demands to one side and we enter the hall. A locked house starts to feel musty after a week on holiday, if a stiff has been swinging from the loft hatch for a month or so, the stench will linger for months no matter how many times you try to gloss over it…

‘People like to know what happened to the owner before they buy don’t they?’ States F semi-rhetorically, as I feel a cobweb cling to my face while we move into the kitchen. ‘Best to keep the detail to a minimum.’ I advice F, adding. ‘Act dumb.’ He looks a little hurt, but he’ll get used to it.

A stack of unwashed plates is cultivating some sort of mushroom-style culture, as a tap drips mournfully behind.

‘I wonder what his last meal was?’ Questions F as he peers at the detritus. Probably something pureed I think glumly, as I glance down the jungle-like back garden and wonder who we’ll get to clear the shrubs.

In the cramped sitting room the remains of a real fire sits coldly in the grate. Ashes to ashes. The room is dark, with the threadbare curtains pulled against the daylight.

‘We’re going to need someone in to clear this lot.’ I say to F. ‘Not a lot of value here. Might have to pay to get it taken away.’

‘That’s wrong isn’t it?’ Says F morosely. ‘You live all your life and your stuff just ends up in the council tip.’

I glance round the room and spot the spaces where ornaments, a clock or two and some photographs must have sat, judging by the dust patterns. ‘Relatives have been in and taken all they want.’ I tell F as I open my brief case.

The second professional to measure-up recently.

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