Start Again - Thursday

‘Oh for f**ks sake.' I exclaim angrily, hurling the phone handset down.

‘Problem?’ Asks idiot trainee F gormlessly. 

No, I always shout expletives in the open office and incur another office swear-box fine, you numpty.

I dislike January more than most months. The extra weight I’m carrying after the Christmas excesses, the dull, damp weather, the pressure to partake in Dry January and foreswear all alcohol, when all I want to do is drink - and swear.

‘The Patels buyer has pulled out.’ I finally tell F, head slowly shaking like a nodding toy dog, losing kinetic energy.

‘Why? They seemed so keen before Christmas.’ Asks F.

‘Worried about Brexit, think they may have overpaid, their buyer is stalling and being awkward on proposed completion dates, not sure if they can raise the deposit any longer……’ I tail off.

‘Which one?’ Probes F.

‘All of them.’

Property purchase has always been fraught with problems, if it’s not the legal mechanics with delays and incompetence, it’s the human component multiplied by however many people are in the transaction chain. That familiar old statistic - I’ve quoted before - that one in three sales founders, still holds true after three decades in the industry, two property crashes, and more booms than a Queen's birthday salute. It’s why the pay up-front, internet “agents”, are starting to unravel without ever really grasping the business.

‘I don’t know how you keep doing it year after year, with the constant setbacks and the targets just going up and up.’ States F, with unaccustomed insight. ‘ You must be so sick.’

‘Stoic?’ You mean, I ask frowning.

‘No, sick.’ Repeats F beginning to look unsure.

Is he insulting me or praising?

‘The good sick?’ I ask. ‘The way the youngsters use it, or the just not very well and in need of treatment variety?’ F looks worried.

‘It’s alright you can say.’ I urge, just wanting to know.

‘Bit of both.’ F finally says haltingly. ‘ Cup of tea?’

Yes please.

‘It’s really quiet isn’t it.’ States F, once he’s made the cuppa.

‘Nature abhors a vacuum.’ I tell him staring at the grease globules floating on the surface of my beverage.

‘What does that mean?’Asks F cautiously. I still wonder what he did in private school for seven years, this level of stupidity usually leads to a career in politics, not property.

‘I mean, everybody is waiting to see what happens with Europe, trade deals, the economy, interest rates, the whole nine yards.’

‘Nine yards?’

’It’s a sporting expression.’

‘Football?’

‘American.’

‘They don’t really play it that much,’ opines F before adding brightly ‘Although they have had Beckham and Rooney.’

See what I’m up against?

The door opens and in shuffles one of our elderly regulars. Time-wasters are the bane of an estate agent’s life. Advisors and so-called property experts will tell you every enquiry is a potential fee-earner and on paper, they are. But with only so many hours in the day, days in the week, months in the year, years in a decade, you have to make decisions to drop people who will only leave their home, feet-first, on an undertaker’s gurney.  

‘We’ll get plenty of valuations this time of year.’ I tell F. ‘ People wanting to split-up after spending too much time with each other over the holidays, but half of them will stay together when they realise what they’ll have to live in, once they paid expenses and moved to something half the size.’

F looks at me soppily. What’s the fool going to say now, I wonder?

‘You know so much.’ He says smiling. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever build-up that sort of knowledge.’

You won’t. Even if you had an IQ upgrade. Your generation don’t stay in a career, or company, for long enough. I wouldn’t say they are even wrong, it’s a different employment marketplace out there now. You can stay too long. I’m a living example.

‘I sometimes think of you as a bit of a father-figure.’ Muses F, unsettlingly. 

I was going for a more gifted, elder bother. But I’m used to disappointment.

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Merry Christmas Everybody - Wednesday

‘I can’t hear myself think.’ Shouts a colleague I haven’t exactly pegged for a an intellectual mind. He staggers on, slopping a pint of gassy lager as he zig-zags towards the free bar. I’m back at the corporate Christmas party and the music is too loud, my dinner suit too snug. It gets tighter each year. I get less tight. The thought of how my head will be thumping in the morning outweighing the lure of limitless alcohol - another reminder I’ve been doing this too long.

‘F**k, there’s some amazing totty in here.’ Shouts assistant manager T, who has appeared at my side as if on castors. His pupils are widely dilated behind the designer glasses. I’m not sure it’s just beer doing that.

‘If you can’t get screwed tonight,’ Continues T with an unpleasant leer. ‘You haven’t got a pulse.’ He pauses and waves at all the young women in bright party frocks, then adds: ‘Or a penis.’ Before wobbling away.

I’m in the seventh circle of hell, only with a smarter dress code. Like most people, I don’t like mixing with estate agents if I can avoid it. This pulsing mass, dancing to what might be drum and bass, but could also be the digital equivalent of a needle stuck in a groove, are making me yearn for a quiet night at home with a lime and soda and some catch-up television. And to think I once tried to climb inside the PA rig at a Stranglers gig.

‘I’m going to shag something tonight.’ Slurs another voice, breaking in to my ear-buzzing melancholy. I look up to see M, my fat finance man has appeared, glass in hand. His stomach is battling to break out of a straining cummerbund and he’s waving towards the table where the Human Resources - or is it People Division now? - ladies are sitting.

I read a survey recently, stating those in accounts and personnel where the most likely to have sex at the office Christmas party. Odd, because our lot spend the other fifty-one weeks of the year trying to shaft us anyway. You’d think they’d want a rest.

I’m tempted to point out the objects of M’s ill-directed ardour are rumoured to be lesbians, but before I can, he slurs. ‘They might be dikes but that chubby one looks like she could be turned.’

I should be reporting him for this, but as he’s heading that way I think I’ll save myself an email and more grief.

‘Here goes nothing.’ Chortles M, as he departs towards a probable disciplinary and a shed load more paperwork. ‘I reckon I can get her back on the straight and narrow.’ Judging by his progress and the likely outcome, nothing is going to be straight and the only thing narrow, as his lardy arse departs, is his mind.

‘You not drinking?’ Enquires a disembodied voice, and for a moment I think I’m hallucinating, or maybe the strobe light has set off some sort of previously unreported fitting session. But I eventually realise H, my vertically-challenged rival manager, is looking up at me. Gin and tonic in each hand.

‘Pacing myself.’ I tell him.

‘Eh?’ he bellows , on tip-toes.

‘Never mind.’ I reply, only to find he’s disappeared towards the dance floor, where I spot S, my negotiator, looking achingly beautiful in a red frock. If he touches her, I might commit some sort of dwarf related homicide that would actually, briefly, make me happy…

Now, as the music jolts from unknown noise to the cheesy Christmas favourites, I feel pressure in my bladder. If I break the seal I’ll be pissing all night, but I can’t resist the pressing need. En-route to the gents’ toilet I pass the bean counter boss, sat at his table with a gaggle of his odious followers. I haven’t seen such uncontrolled fawning since Bambi took to the ice.

‘Condom machine is empty.’ Shouts some young buck I don’t recognise, as I’m greeted by the heady stench of urine and David Beckham after shave, in the toilets.

I’m too old for this shit.

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Festive felicitations to everyone, thanks for reading and may your chosen deity be with you.

S.A.

Train To Nowhere - Thursday

‘Have you seen the latest?’ Challenges assistant manager T grumpily, before I’ve even closed the office door.

The choices are limitless in this business, where setbacks and disappointments are as regular as a new David Beckham tattoo. I walk towards the message book and scan the content as T looks at me, fingers drumming annoyingly, on his desk. There’s nothing untoward amongst the list, other than a few callbacks and a survey to chase. I’m guessing it’s an internal issue.

‘Go on then.’ I prompt  T, less than enthusiastically. I notice negotiator S has stopped what she was doing and is paying attention. Trainee F is also looking at me - he probably wasn’t doing anything useful anyway.

‘More f***ing red tape.’ Snarls T. Clicking on his computer screen and spinning it towards me. I can see a long annotated memo from head office. With the schoolboy graphics and lengthy content I’m guessing it’s from Human Resources, or that limp-wristed waster in the training department. The well-worn adage: Those that can’t sell, train - could have been written for him

‘Give me a précis.’ I tell T, realising as I say it that he almost certainly hasn’t read to the end of the missive. T looks at his shoes.

‘Anybody?’ I plead.

F screws up his face and ventures. ‘When you say pray-see, err, what exactly do you mean?’

Before I hit him - something Human Resources would certainly write extensively about - S comes to my rescue. Not for the first time.

‘It’s a new on-line training programme we all have to complete.’ She say with an apologetic shrug. S knows how I feel about these cringe-making multiple choice exercises, designed for the lowest common denominator. Ostensibly to increase knowledge bases and to inform students of the latest legislation - but in practice to cover arses and to save money.

‘I don’t like exams.’ Says F glumly. I still don’t know what his mother and various stepfathers paid all that money in private education fess for.  I guess it was just to get him out of the house. You can tell a boarding school boy at twenty paces - they have more hangups than a call centre worker.

‘What are they trying to cover?’ I enquire.

‘That fat woman’s arse, in HR.’ Says T bluntly.

‘You can’t say that, it’s sexist.’ Challenges S. 

They all look at me. I can’t even remember which box I ticked on that course.

‘Well?’ Urges S.

‘It is quite lardy.’ I say tentatively. There’s an awkward moment, then S laughs.

Dodged another bullet.

‘Who writes this shite?” Says T after S has given us a run down on what we’ll have to endure, under classroom conditions. It’s basically more due-diligence to ensure when someone falls foul of Government Money Laundering rules, or Immigration Checks, the company will have a fall guy to blame. The course looks like it’s been compiled by a primary school child with a basic PowerPoint programme and just the free included graphics to choose from.

‘They’ve paid thousand of pounds for some outside consultancy to produce this dross.’ I speculate angrily. Calling in management consultants to do the job you are already paid to do, is a booming industry. It’s the biggest con-trick since we convinced millions, in the nineties, that an endowment policy would pay off their mortgage.

If it’s not the Government abdicating responsibility for criminals and illegal immigrants then expecting us to be unpaid police and tax collectors, it’s head office freeloaders paying an outside agency to do their job. I could write a book about it…

‘When they say classroom conditions….’ Begins F tentatively.

‘They mean you can’t cheat by looking at someone else's paper, or getting the boy in the next bed to your’s in the dormitory, to do the exam in return for a dip in your tuck box.’ Says T brutally.

‘I always did all my own exams.’ Snaps back F moodily.

He’s not lying, I’ve seen his CV. It’s why he’s an estate agent - the last resort for in-bred idiots educated beyond their ability. And still no proper entry qualifications. Unless you count on-line tick-box bollocks.

I don’t.

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