Flying High - Thursday

A scruffily dressed man in his twenties peers in the office window. I’m sat at assistant manger T’s desk, as he’s out lunchtime shopping. He’ll come back with something else unnecessary on his credit card, no doubt.

‘Lettings customer?’ I whisper conspiratorially, to negotiator S. She looks up discretely and clocks the guy, who is shielding his eyes and looking in, grinning slightly insanely.

‘Bit judgemental isn’t it.’ Says S, looking towards lettings’s lush B’s vacant desk.B’s been out for over an hour, supposedly helping a landlord with a tricky check-out. Not sure who is checking who out, with B you never know.

‘More about his age than dress sense.’ I hiss, as the man starts chuckling to himself. Terrific, all I need is another nutter coming in. I often wonder if they bus them in for a day out from the padded cells.

‘Is he laughing at us, or himself?’ Whispers S.

‘Probably the asking prices.’ I reply, as the man moves away from the window and towards the door.

I sometimes wish there was a remote controlled deadlock I could activate, to stop the drunks and deadbeats coming in. I only just managed to get the keys in the barrel and the door secured, that time an angry evicted tenant turned up intent on breaking heads or furniture. Twenty minutes for the police to arrive - you’d have thought they didn’t like estate agents…

‘He’s coming in.’ Says S between a forced smile. ‘You want him, or me?’

I’d rather she spoke to the man if I’m honest, but then if it turns awkward I’m going have to go across anyway.

‘Me.’ I tell her and she visibly relaxes. Quite pleasingly, as it happens.

‘You lot trying to hurt the locals again?’ Cries the man, by way of a greeting. Wonderful. If I wanted an argument I could post something provocative on Twitter. I don’t need some grinning gonad with no job, and no prospect of any commission for me.

‘I’m sorry.’ I say neutrally.

‘I bet you are,’ continues the idiot. ‘You must love it every time prices go up.’

He couldn’t be more wrong.

‘No chance for local people to get on the housing ladder with your prices. We just have to buzz off!’

My back isn’t what it was and this bell-end has a couple of decades on me. I’m not sure I can throw him out on the street without embarrassing myself and with the time the constabulary take to arrive, I could be at the emergency dentist by then. And yet, I’m not sure this guy is a complete lunatic, nor can I smell any alcohol.

I rise and an awkward Mexican stand-off begins. I can see S has her hand poised over the fast-dial button but a pizza would get here before any help does. I need to deal with this myself. The man looks at me, then at S before turning back to me.

‘It’s a joke.’ He says, hands held wide.

‘The prices are dictated by the market.’ I tell him robotically.

‘No.’ Says the man raising his eyebrows as if I’m the shabbily dressed wastrel with no job and housing prospects. ‘In your window…’

‘In my window what?’ I snap.

‘There’s a wasp.’

‘That was awkward,’ I say to S after the man has left. ‘I thought he wanted a fight.’

‘Why did he bother to come in?’ Asks S bemused.

‘Some people just think they’re funny.’ I tell her, as I remember the number of times I’ve wanted to go into a baker’s shop and ask how much for the wasps buzzing around the pastries?

‘Could you get it for me?’ Asks S, as I locate the errant flying menace. Fittingly it has landed on an over-priced apartment with a short lease. Someone is going to get stung.

‘How stupid are these creatures?’ I ask exasperated, as the wasp refuses to be guided out the door by a copy of the local free paper. The angry insect just keeps banging it’s dozy head against the glass.

I know how it feels.

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Pimms O'Clock - Friday

‘We going to the pub tonight, boss?’ Asks trainee F. It’s as enthusiastic as he’s been all day, but then free drinks keep their allure a little longer than posting: we have buyers urgently looking in your area, leaflets through doors, endlessly.

‘Probably.’ I tell him, deliberately opaque. F frowns and looks at negotiator S - most people do - and she gives him a reassuring nod, as do her breasts. So we’ll be going then.

‘Any news on the survey for number twenty-four?’ I ask assistant manager T, in an attempt to try and make some progress before I have to start buying beers. T looks at me with barely disguised distain. ‘Nobody except estate agents will still be at work at this time of day.’ He says, tilting his head towards the clock. I look at the numerals in surprise, that’s what you get for studying the office P&L accounts doggedly, when you failed O-Level maths. 

‘Time flies when you’re having fun.’ Says loose lettings lush B, sourly. She’s been battling with an angry landlord and two nightmare tenants who are due to be evicted, all afternoon. I can see why she’ll need a drink by closing time. It’s the several more gin and tonics and casual sex with a stranger she probably could do without. Probably.

‘Those wasters are threatening to go to the local papers, when they’re kicked out.’ Continues B, referring to the soon to be evicted pair. ‘God knows why the taxpayer has to fund their drugs and nicotine habit. I hope they get the shittiest bed and breakfast in town.’

‘It’s the kids I feel sorry for.’ Says S compassionately.

‘He should put something on the end of it.’ Snaps B, like a female Jeremy Kyle. The voice of experience, I think, trying not to grin. She’s avoided unwanted, or otherwise, pregnancy so far. Just as well, because I’m not sure I could ever fake another smile and enthusiastic response, if I’m told I’ll need to run an office with another staff member on maternity leave…

‘If you save and spend sensibly you just end up funding pissheads’ lifestyles.’ Grumble obese finance man M, as he waddles across the office.

‘Not sure anyone would underwrite accident sickness and redundancy policies for any of B’s housing benefit tenants.’ Says T with a wry laugh.

‘They’d need to have a job first, before they’d qualify for redundancy protection. Fat chance of that.’ Replies M with his enduring lack of self-awareness. Even then the policy wouldn’t pay out, I think.

‘They are all scum.’ Says B angrily.

‘They’re not all.’ Counters S. ‘They’ve just had a hard time of it.’

‘How hard is it to got to the cashpoint at midnight in your pyjamas, once your free money is in, then go to the all-night off-licence.’ Says M sarcastically.

‘I think you reap what you sow.’ Pronounces F obtusely. That stops the conversation in its tracks. God alone knows what goes on in that head of his.

‘Good week?’ Asks the opposition manager, when I finally lead my team into the pub, like some cut-price messiah. I still don’t know why the majority of estate agents share the same watering hole, something to do with posturing and false bravado. I puff up my metaphorical tail-feathers and lie enthusiastically.

‘Yeh, us too.’ He replies, visibly crestfallen. It’s a game, but I still like to win.

‘How did they do?’ Asks T, once I’ve bought the drinks and we’ve circled one table like a motley tribe of Red Indians. I look across at the opposition.

’How did they do, or how did they say they’ve done?’ I answer.

‘Good point.’ Concedes T.

As I buy the second round and wonder if I should go home before my tea is in the bin again, B’s mobile phone rings insistently. She glances at the caller display and grimaces. ‘Shit, it’s the lairy landlord.’

‘Don’t answer it.’ Suggest T.

‘You have to,’ counters S. ‘It might be about the tenants getting kicked out.’

‘Tell him they can sleep in our office doorway.’ Says M with a rumbustious chortle.

Just one more drink then.

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Adverse Conditions - Monday

‘For crying out loud, is it ever going to stop raining?’ Asks assistant manger T, as he stumbles through the office door, hair unusually ruffled, designer glasses steamed up, sang-froid a little soggy.

‘I’m not doing outside appointments if I can help it.’ States loose lettings lush B to a mixture of bemusement and resignation – unfortunately not hers.

‘You can’t just stay in the office because it’s a bit damp outside.’ Chides negotiator S, a step ahead of me as usual.

‘You don’t have to go out there and meet the weirdo tenants and cheapskate landlords I have to deal with.’ Snaps back B. ‘They dampen my spirits enough as it is without ruining my outfits and making my mascara run unnecessarily.’

I’m spoilt for choice. A torrent of lines featuring B spending most of her time indoors, studying more ceilings than inventories and having damp clothes and tear-flushed make-up even on sunny days, washes around my head. But the desire for no more hysterical sobbing and the dawning realisation B is becoming a bit like me- just with more alcohol and casual sex – makes me keep my powder dry.

‘I reckon those new homes they built near the river will be getting a bit twitchy.’ I state, with more than a little relish. It still rankles the slimy local developer didn’t give me the business.

‘Do you think they’ll flood?’ Asks T shaking his raincoat and sending water droplets onto the window display with a hint of electrical arcing. If I have to replace another low-voltage lighting transformer at exorbitant cost I’ll hot wire into the mains and just take the consequences, however shocking...

‘You build on a flood plain what do you expect?’ I tell T sagely.

‘Think I flogged some home and contents insurance to one of those buyers.’ Muses fat finance man M while munching on a slice of microwave pizza. I’ve told him about eating in the office and I’ve told him about the smell, but I might as well be King Canute trying to hold back the tide.

‘Will it pay out?’ Asks trainee F.

‘The thing about insurance.’ Says M between mouthfuls. ‘Is they like to take premiums but are not to keen on settling claims. Kind of mucks up their business model.’

‘That’s wrong.’ States F naively.

‘You don’t get commission clawbacks when some dickhead dies in the first few years of life cover.’ Retorts M witheringly.

I don’t know why we have such a bad reputation.

‘I suppose that leaflet drop is out of the question now?’ I muse semi-rhetorically, as the rain cascades down the window later.

‘You are kidding right?’ Questions T warily. His umbrella is still propped-up by the door, a small pool of water around it accelerating the warping of the cheap laminate fake-wood flooring the corporate cowboy builders fitted, on the last botched refurbishment.

I’m only half in jest. The leaflets have been printed-off. The mystery couple that urgently want to buy in your road obliquely sourced from the mailing list. The target areas identified. It’s just the shoe leather and desire that needs to be furnished.

‘In my day.’ I begin to a chorus of groans. ‘I went out rain, snow or cyclone.’

‘Aren’t they only found in tropical areas?’ Snipes M.

‘You can get them in the UK too.’ I tell him with more conviction than I feel. I don’t have a smart enough phone to Google and check, like those spotty students who keep winning the pub quiz by on-line cheating.

‘Not sure you can.’ Carps M as F looks on in bovine bemusement. I’m still not sure if I could use a bolt gun on F, with those big Friesian eyes.

‘Don’t you remember the great storm of 1987?’ I snap to instant regret.

‘I wasn’t born then.’ Says F after a long hesitation, presumably while he tried to recall his date of birth.

‘You must remember.’ I tell M but he shakes his fat head.

‘You then?’ I say towards B as she files her nails aggressively.

‘Not really.’ She answers disinterestedly.

‘Michael Fish.’ I continue almost pleadingly. ‘Said it wasn’t going to be windy.’

Blown out again.

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Rights And Wrongs - Friday

‘This is a pretty crap area really isn’t it?’ States trainee F as I weave the company car in and out of ageing Fords and Vauxhalls parked half on the kerb, half on what’s left of the grass. I hesitate to point out to him that this may be crumbling ex-local authority housing stock but the prices are still way out of his reach.

We’re on our way to measure up a voluntary repossession, the keys and instructions from the lender nestling in my briefcase. At least I know the outgoing owners will be long gone this time, it’s when they are still inside it gets messy. A scruffy brace of teenagers, hoods raised, look at us menacingly as I slow to walking pace to ease between a huge flatbed 4 x 4 and a rusty Citroen Saxo with more differing coloured panels than Joseph’s Technicolor Dreamcoat.

‘How come some houses have all new windows and roof tiles and some are all rundown?’ Asks F pertinently, as I spot the 1950s built semi in question. As if to underscore F’s question, the house we’re about to enter is scruffy, with the exception of a low-level picket fence to the front and a naff-looking windmill, while the adjoining home has updated UPVC and tiling.

‘The next door place is still owned by the council.’ I tell F as we clamber out of the car and I feel several pairs of eyes watching from behind net curtains. The dislike is almost palpable. At least if they key the car it’s not my long-term problem.

‘So they are actually in better nick than the one’s people bought?’ Questions F, brow furrowed.

‘Often.’ I tell him. ‘The people with mortgages can’t afford the upkeep.’

F shrugs and stands aside for me, his bovine brain clearly working on another question more rickety than the gate he’s just opened.

The house is typical of the era. Open-plan front garden, no garage, hence the on-street parking issues. To the side, is a narrow, wire-fence-bounded walk-through to a concrete shed, once for coal, more often full of bikes and rusty prams now.  We stop outside the front door. A door I now open with the shiny new set of keys, as I wonder if the ex-tenant, now ex-owner, regrets exercising their options.

‘So this was, like, one of those right-to-buy jobs then?’ Asks F uncertainly, as we check out, first the cramped under stairs cloakroom, with the temperature of a morgue, then the through lounge/diner to the rear kitchen, fitted with a cheap-looking DIY kitchen units, not quite level. A tap drips mournfully as I glance at the 100-foot garden, wildly overgrown, with the odd discarded push-along toy rising from the grass like some avant-garde entry at the Chelsea flower show.

‘Yes.’ I tell F as I unpack my clipboard and begin scribbling my notes on autopilot. I know the floor plan by heart and could probably guess the measurements it wasn’t for fear of prosecution under that pesky Property Mis-Description Act.

‘It was a mixed blessing.’ I tell F as I continue to jot down the home’s particulars and wonder how I’ll get a decent picture without using PhotoShop.

‘So they all just turned a big profit then moved on?’ Asks F, as we make the upstairs landing and I see the cramped third bedroom and undersized bathroom, and then check out the two bigger bedrooms, both with cheap louver-fronted fitted wardrobes, circa 1970.

‘Those that didn’t run out of money and couldn’t make the payments.’ I tell F.

‘It was that women who invaded the Falklands that done it, was it?’ Says F, throwing me briefly, until I realise he’s talking about Margaret Thatcher. Sometimes I feel really old. Ignoring F’s tenuous grasp on history, I tell him that, as with most things in property, there are winners and losers - and no easy solutions.

‘So this place will be cheap then?’ Concludes F when we are back out by the gate and I’ve taken several snaps, none of which will hide the obvious without artifice and a risk of prosecution. I tell him my suggested number and he almost chokes.

If I’m right, he won’t be buying.

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