‘Who the f***k invented breakfast meetings?’ Moans H my
short of stature, big of ego, rival manager. He’s gravitated towards me at the
large rectangular table in this soulless budget hotel we’re in again. It can’t
be because he feels superior next to me, at least not until the sales figures
are flashed up on the screen.
‘Bloody Americans.’ Replies bulky mortgage man M from
across the table. He’s just pocketed a fistful of boiled sweets, from the dish
next to the fizzy water that makes you belch horribly, and he’ll no doubt take
more than his fair share of the discount brand biscuits when they arrive with
the stewed coffee and watery tea. Some mornings I can feel the life force
leaking from me like a punctured tyre.
‘Hey my partner is from the States.’ Challenges the woman
with the rather too short hair from Human Resources who is due to give a guest
presentation on some touchy-feely staff relations issue that we’ll all ignore
as soon as the first sale falls-through.
‘Male or female do you reckon?’ Hisses H in my ear,
nodding imperceptibly towards the crop-haired people person. Momentary
confusion surmounted, I tell him it doesn’t matter as long as she does her job.
H looks at me as if he’s stepped in something unsavoury. Not a lot of justice
in this world as his office turns over 25% more than mine, irrespective of
ill-disguised bigotry - and shoe lifts.
‘Teas and the coffees.’ Announces the eastern European
woman in the nylon housecoat as she wheels in a trolley. Her accent is thicker
than the dusty tea will be, but she is pretty, in that slightly harsh-featured
way borderline malnutrition and a frigid climate seems to breed. Idly, I wonder
if she knows my dentist, as she leans across the table rather engagingly and
both H and the HR woman check out her rear. That answers one question.
I thank the hotel maid and give her a smile that signals
conversation done, but I must have slipped into sales mode, as she engages.
‘You are all the real estate peoples, yes?’ Questions the
girl, nodding at me in encouragement. I don’t want to talk property before the
greasy bacon sandwiches. And my bean counter boss hasn’t even arrived yet, with
a mind-numbingly dull P & L account lecture that would have mathematics
geeks trying to fashion nooses with the paper napkins, then looking for sturdy
light fittings and volunteers to kick the chair away.
‘Yes, we’re the property experts. Chimes H irritatingly.
After several decades I’m still not sure I’d call myself an expert and I’m one
of the few to have taken the exams.
‘Yes, he’s big in bungalows.’ Calls M from across the
table with a guffaw that is probably masking another of his monumental farts. H
ignores M and the Polish waitress ignores H. It seems she want me to say
something salient.
‘So,’ continues the woman, whose accent is sounding
rather horny in a disconcerting way, after I’ve made a self-effacing comment
about knowing a bit about the market. ‘When will people like me be able to
afford to buy home?’
‘Come and see me for a financial fact find if you like?’
Suggests M, in between mouthfuls of those not very Nice biscuits. The
chambermaid, because that’s the uniform I’m unhelpfully imagining her in now,
gives M a look that could freeze vodka.
Several answers race round my head. Replies I’ve toyed
with for years. Some serious price deflation, a good round of repossessions,
land being released and sold at prices that allows for social housing to be
built, the planning process being adapted to make green and brown field site
permission conditional on affordable end-unit pricing. But I’m no chancellor. I
can’t even work out a sole agency fee without my calculator.
‘Fobbed her off with the usual bullshit then.’ Chuckles
H, as the tea-lady exits and the bean counter enters - clutching his laptop and
a couple of reams of handouts.
‘First time buyer opportunity?’ Asks the bean counter,
nodding at the door hissing shut on the closer.
Not for a while – unless it’s in Krakow.
-----
First time or last time buyer, the book is a gift at £1.53 here:
US Readers: http://amzn.to/vXpFJf
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