‘So is the message clear?’ I conclude after what I feel
has been a dynamic and uplifting morning meeting. Short of tumbleweed blowing
across the office, the silence could not be more vastly all encompassing –
unless you include the workdays between Christmas and New Year.
‘Anybody?’ I plead, looking at negotiator S for some sort
of solace, one that doesn’t risk inappropriate workplace behaviour.
The verbal void hangs unpleasantly, like a turd from a
shaggy sheepdog’s arse.
‘Someone say something.’ I rasp in anguish.
‘Well the punters are as confused as we are.’ Ventures
assistant manager T timidly.
‘Here we go.’ Mutters lettings lush B to a scowl from me.
‘What’s confusing you?’ I ask, mind already racing
through plausible answers. This is worse than bluffing you know the right price
on a valuation, which turns out to be nothing like you’ve expected – or
researched.
‘Everything is confusing me.’ Answers trainee F, to an
ill-suppressed giggle from B. I scowl at her and she pouts back. That look might
work in a wine bar when a bloke is a pissed and hasn’t had a shag for months,
but I’m sober and…..well I’m sober.
‘You have to admit the media are giving out conflicting
signals.’ Continues T, looking around the table for support. S nods vigorously
and I can see her support working vigorously. Not helpful.
‘They have always done that.’ I tell T with a sigh. ‘They
just need something to print, blog or tweet.’
‘If the public need advice wheel them in to me.’ Suggests
fat financial man M. Hmm, we did that for endowments, payment protection
insurance and interest only mortgages, I think glumly, and look how that turned
out. Seems I’ll be working until I’m seventy-five, as it is.
‘What?’ Challenges M, to looks of communal distain. ‘I
need to eat.’
‘Everyone is aware of their personal target for financial
services leads.’ I tell M, toeing the company line reluctantly. I still wish
those banks; building societies and insurance companies had left the industry
alone in the nineties.
‘Mad woman peering in the window.’ Warns S through pursed
lips.
‘Could you narrow it down a bit.’ Quips T to giggles. I
turn my head slightly to se the grey-haired, whisker-chinned drunk lady again.
She is still pushing the saggy-springed pram full of plastic bags, but devoid
of a baby.
‘Don’t catch her eye.’ I hiss.
‘She might want a draw-down mortgage.’ Says T, on a roll.
‘Piss off.’ Responds M, clearly needing a roll.
The nutty lady tries the door handle, but luckily I
haven’t unlocked yet, with five minutes to go before opening time. After a
couple of feeble bangs on the glass, the old girl moves on. She’ll be back. I
drag myself back on topic. Something that becomes harder and harder - as
everything else goes softer and softer – with the passing years.
‘We’ve got five minutes.’ I say, scanning the group and
feeling like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible - only without the happy
ending and shoe lifts.
‘You have to admit there’s a lot of conflicting signals.’
Proclaims T.
‘Yes, people are confused as to what is happening.’ Adds
S.
‘I haven’t got a clue.’ Contributes F.
B begins to file her nails, the rasping like a bass
version of the scraping down a blackboard thing.
‘Bring them in to me, like I told you.’ Says M doggedly.
‘I’ll show them a few pie charts.’
From Greggs the baker probably, I think sourly. The
problem is you can produce a survey, vox pop or market prediction to suit all
needs.
Buyers look at the doom-monger predictions and refer to
sites like House Price Crash, where men of a certain age spend daytimes
in chatrooms talking to other like-minded forty-something’s still in “full-time
education” - and still living in their parents’ homes. While the sellers, latch
on to the latest asking price data disingenuously published by some right of
centre tabloid with lazy copywriters. You make your choices…
‘So is the local market going up or down?’ Pleads F as
the phones start to jangle and S unlocks the door.
Good question.
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