Starting Gun - Wednesday

‘I want to lose some weight, obviously.’ States negotiator S. It’s not that obvious to me, she has the sort of curves race track designers and anorexic models yearn to acquire and I’m fairly confident there’s no silicon involved.

‘Load of twaddle.’ States bloated mortgage man M as he sways towards the kitchen with that rolling gait only truly morbidly obese people can display, short of a bumpy cross-channel ferry ride.

‘You won’t be cutting back then?’ I ask, trying to mask any irony.

‘You seen my targets?’ Replies M from round the door, echoing sound of the biscuit tin popping. ‘I’ve got no time for faddy diets. I need all the energy I can get if I’m going to flog that much unwanted insurance.’ From the mouths’ of….

We’re doing the New Year’s resolution thing, while the office door rattles in its frame and biblical levels of rain scour the pavements of congealed vomit and solidified chewing gum.

‘I’m going to try and pay off some of my credit card bills.’ Says assistant manager T with less than convincing authority. The man runs a bigger percentage deficit than most European countries – apart from the French obviously.

‘Really?’ I probe, hoping if he comes to terms with reality on the APR he’s suffering, he might take some ownership of the office objectives I’m labouring under. There’s more chance of M making the second WeightWatchers’ meeting - the one after the weigh in.

Everyone turns towards B, our loose lettings lady whom I’m fairly sure she hasn’t sobered up since New Year’s Day. I’m not expecting much perspective viewed through the bottom of a gin and tonic glass.

‘I’m going to attempt the impossible.’ Announces B rather sadly. You can almost hear several estate agents’ minds spinning rapidly, bit like an ailing hard drive on an elderly PC if I had to articulate it audibly.

‘So what is that exactly?’ S finally ventures.

‘Find a good man who isn’t gay or married.’ Replies B, to an unwelcome nod of recognition from S.

She has a point. I see a lot of low-life’s representing the male of the species, on weekly matrimonial valuations and regular fractious family disputes over the deceased’s home and chattels. Plus, B has screwed her way through most of the penis-toting Marriage Guidance members’ list, and rumour has it has woken, fuzzy-headed, with more than one camp man who agreed to try and be turned after several Campari’s and the promise of trying on B’s high heel collection….

‘Good luck with that.’ I tell B, thinking M has more chance of ditching the doughnuts and becoming slimmer of the year, than B stopping serial swigging and shagging

‘What about you?’ I ask F, our intellectually challenged trainee. F looks at me with those little boy lost eyes. They don’t work. I’ve tried dumping him on a leaflet drop at the far end of the office patch, but he still finds his bedraggled way back to the office. I guess that’s care in the community for you.

‘I want to get my own flat and maybe even….’ F tails off.

‘What?’ Ask three voices at once.

‘No, you’ll only laugh.’

‘They won’t.’ I tell him encouragingly.

‘Well maybe get on the company car list?’

Okay. I was wrong about the hysterical giggling.

‘And what about you, boss?’ Asks T, after the exaggerated rib clutching has subsided and the ladies have worked their way through several tissues. F is looking forlorn, but it’s a tough business. Although curiously, he’s the only staff member whose aspirations have revolved round their working life. If F hits his targets and his colleagues do too, an ageing sign-written Mini might not be out of the question.

I realise all eyes are on me now, as I ponder the question. Yes, we’ve done the weight loss and reduction of alcohol intake thing at home, and I realised long ago, after too many house repossessions, that living on credit you can’t afford is a short cut to a lengthy local authority housing list, or a crummy bed and breakfast.

I yearn to say, quit the property business and become a successful writer. I actually say:

‘Beat last year’s office turnover.’

Loser.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

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Bank On It - Thursday

‘Hey, how’s it going?’ Calls a familiar voice, as I make my way through the lunchtime shoppers to seek out another mind-numbing calorie limiting, meal deal.

Several options open up to me, as I try to place the dulcet tones. Pretend I haven’t heard and dodge past the Big Issue seller, while ignoring him too. A cursory. ‘Fine thanks, can’t stop.’ Before pressing through the throng heading for the park. Or engage briefly while glancing at watch and trying to place whom I’m talking to and if brushing them of quickly might cost me money. I turn.

It’s the crumbly-hipped banker with the charisma of a cold store. I offer a thin smile, the one graded for tradesman, office appliance engineers and those wanting sponsorship for another walk, jog, or cycle to cure cancer. He’s oblivious to an incipient brush off, but then he flogged Payment Protection Insurance to self-employed builders for years until they rumbled him.

‘Thought it was you.’ Continues the banker offering his hand. A hand I don’t want to shake if there’s no commission in it. I’m starting to feel like Howard Hughes – obviously without the money – and have to physically fight the urge to wash my hands after each contact with the public. I collect countless colds and bugs each season. The alcohol gel in the car glove box is used copiously after each appointment and come late afternoon I’m often tempted to ingest it. Just to kill the pain.

He’s grinning at me unpleasantly. I thought the bank would have made him redundant by now.  A lifer with the industry, aged mid to late forties, too long in the tooth to learn new techniques and with all the sales ability of an amoeba. I get endless CV’s from similar hopeless cases wanting to become estate agents, alongside the South African realtors who have bailed out after they realised the servants wanted their house not their goodwill. They’re virtually unemployable.

‘How’s the market?’ Probes the man, not remotely feeling my buying signals are set to stop. It’s such a cheesy question but everyone asks it. At the paper shop, the petrol station, at barbeques and those other burnt meat occasions – funerals. They don’t like me but they want my knowledge. The fact I still can’t second-guess the market after three decades is something I, and countless media “property experts”, try to keep to themselves.

I give him the standard sanitised waffle about realistic pricing, good locations and demand holding up. But I’m boring myself half way through. He doesn’t seem to notice, but then he can talk for hours about APRs AVCs and MVAs.

‘I’m thinking of buy-to-let as an investment.’ Continues the banker. ‘Still good yields if you can buy cheap and I’m not sure even my bank pension is safe.’ Terrific, if even accountant-types aren’t secure what hope for the fiscally illiterate like me? He’s going to ask, I think, as I look at my watch more pointedly than I’d do if he were a paying punter. And sure enough he does.

‘If you’ve got anything coming on cheap, under market even,’ grins the man avariciously. ‘I’d be grateful to know.’ Please don’t tap your nose, says my inner voice plaintively, but the finger goes to the septum anyway. Surely he knows I’m charged by my client to get the best possible price? But when it comes to money and your own piss-poor personal pension fund, ethics are the first casualty.

‘I’ll give you some free gratis too.’ Says the man as I start to move away, pointing at my watch now. Nothing is free mate, apart from my no-obligation valuations. ‘The Euro is a dead man walking.’ Announces the banker conspiratorially. ‘The Germans are already secretly printing the Deutsche Mark again.’ And with that he leaves before I do, wobbly gait lost amongst the Primark bag carriers.

I’m still trying to work out what to do about my holiday currency when I get back to the office, to be greeted by negotiator S saying. ‘Boss on line 2 for you.’

What can the bean counter want?

‘How’s the market doing?’

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