Monday, December 17, 2012

Animal Farm - Monday

‘What’s this woman like?’ I ask negotiator S who is adept at booking valuations and overcoming objections. The charm helps with the females and the huge tits seem to raise the men’s spirits.

‘Might be a bit of a man hater.’ Warns S with a distracting shrug.
‘Woman hater too.’ Adds lettings lush B from across the office. ‘I went to see her yesterday to see if she’d rent instead. She didn’t seem to like me much.’
It’s an open goal but I can’t face more tears and a possible three-page form from Human Resources to complete, so I let it pass.

‘Do we know why she’s thinking of moving?’ I ask both women, while scanning the valuation form. I see the information, in S’s handwriting just as B answers in the negative and S confirms her notes.
‘She’s got a job move and has to decide whether to let her flat or sell.’
‘Time frame?’ I ask, information being power. B shrugs as S answers. ‘Needs to be in post end of next month.’

I’m pleased, a committed mover. In theory if I don’t get the sale B should get the rental business. A win-win situation, only I want to win and B is more interested in wine, and probably her next Internet dating shag. I start my preparations, the now slightly battered Samsonite briefcase – I refuse to buy a man bag – loaded with agency contracts, corporate brochures, spare tape measure, digital camera, breath fresheners, anti-bacterial spray and plenty of Kleenex.

‘Ask her if she wants to do full management or find a tenant only.’ Instructs B casually as I prepare to leave. I feel my blood pressure climb another notch or two. Furring arteries already clogged with too may punters and too many pasties. If she can’t close the business – or her legs for that matter – I don’t see why I should mop up after her.

‘Oh by the way.’ Adds B as I head for the door, anxiously synchronising my watch with the office clock. ‘She has cats.’ B smiles a lipstick-stained grin. The sort of look countless men, who lied about age and job prospects on their profile, must have seen just before they realised they’d made a big mistake.

‘Do you have your tissues?’ Asks S. A question I’ve not fantasised about receiving from her with my clothes on and a 3.30pm appointment with an allergic reaction, to look forward to. I answer in the affirmative and begin thinking how long I can last in the flat before my nose is running, my eyes streaming and a warm pussy is rubbing my leg against my will.

‘I don’t want any sales bull.’ Opens the frosty Ms when I introduce myself and hand over a business card. She won’t notice it but even before I’m over the threshold I can smell the stench of felines. Dogs are only marginally less offensive, they stink a bit more but at least they’ll fetch a stick if you toss one, and bark at a burglar. Cats are just sly, disingenuous, self-serving, untrustworthy users. What you might find on the ideal personality traits for some estate agents, now I think of it..

‘All I want is a price and how low your fee can go.’ Hisses the woman as two tortoiseshell cats slink from behind a hair-strewn sofa. One is purring obscenely the other spitting menacingly. ‘Do you like cats?’ Asks the lovelorn woman pointedly. The Property Misdescription Act lists over thirty specified areas where it is an offence to give a false or misleading answer – as far as I know it doesn’t cover animal adoration. Probably another set of legislation completely. I fib.

Perched on the sofa, suit collecting shed hair like Velcro, I try to pitch for the business as one cat eyes me suspiciously and the other winds itself in and out of my legs. You can see why this woman is single. The cats are substitute children and boyfriend all in one. If they’re not seeing off suitors and salesmen they’ll be out toying with baby birds and shitting in neighbours’ gardens before sleeping on their owner’s pillow.

Several sneezes later, I’m blown out.

The allergen-free property book here:

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