Happy Valley Towers - Wednesday

‘Are the other residents friendly?’ Asks the pernickety daughter as she guides her elderly father along the first floor corridor of the retirement apartment block.

I’ve managed to get in the main door with the communal key and avoided the overbearing manager, who if past experience is anything to go by will try and hijack my buyer into looking at one of the many re-sales the management company - her employer - are trying to flog.

‘Oh they are a lovely bunch.’ I answer, trying to hurry the pair along the never-ending run of patterned carpet and closed sapele fire doors, with those spy holes. I expect a few ancient inmates - I mean owners - are squintily watching our progress along the interminable dark warren that resembles a budget hotel setting. No doubt if the old boy does move in he’ll be in great demand from the predominately female inhabitants. Rumour has it any reasonably able-bodied pensionable male can die with a wrinkly smile on their face, if they can last long enough and get a decent supply of Viagra.

‘What happened to the owner of this one?’ Asks the daughter as we reach the appointed door and I fumble with the keys. It’s not a great question to answer. The clue is in the name with Retirement Apartments, if they don’t get shipped out to a nursing home the occupants usually leave horizontally - on a gurney.

‘I think they went in to full time care.’ I say as vaguely as I can. It could be argued the embalmer constitutes fairly permanent full time care, but fortunately before I’m pressed further I get the door open and we move into the even darker entrance hall.

I swiftly hit the lights, but I can’t hide the musty smell and the hint of stale urine.  Always best to fit new carpets if you buy one of these places second hand. Hurriedly, as hurriedly as you can usher a man with two walking sticks and a heart condition, I bring the duo in to the living room/kitchen.

There is one window at the far end overlooking the car park and the kitchen is as dark as the hall, with just a wheezing extractor unit to pull the pong of piss from the air. I’m not a big fan either…

Window flung open as far as the restrictor will allow - jumpers can wreck the communal morale - I give the highlights of the room. The illusionary safety net of the orange emergency pull-cords that put you through to a call centre where English is a foreign language, and the waist high electrical sockets to stop rickety backs from popping out of alignment.

‘I’d like to know about the service charges.’ Presses the daughter as her father sinks into the one high-backed chair, left incongruously in the middle of the room. The beneficiaries had their pick of the furniture and jewellery and are just bitching about the asking price.

I give the woman the latest set of figures we’ve managed to prise from the managing agents. They want paying for each piece of reluctantly given information and would even charge for a phone call if they could gouge it from you.

‘It seems a lot once Dad’s paid for his electric and other costs.’ Replies the daughter accurately.

She’s not wrong, but then for years the major players who built these blocks owned the management companies as a subsidiary. Allegedly, it’s not so often the case now, but I still suspect there are mutual interest behind the scenes.

If any member of my family wanted to buy a retirement flat, I’d get our solicitor to take a good look at the lease and management costs and to ask about sinking funds and future major expenditure on maintenance projects. Better still I’d get them to hang on in their own home as long as possible. This pair are not blood relations though.

‘Is it good value?’ Asks the daughter as we stand back in the hall while her father tries out the internal bathroom. We can hear every slow dribbling drop of piss the old boy is expelling.

I’d say so.

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Friday On My Mind - Friday

‘For crying out loud does she think I was born yesterday?’ I snarl at the phone, as the handset rocks in its cradle again.

‘Problem boss?’ Asks trainee F perceptively.

‘F***ing solicitors.’ I tell him, with a resigned look towards the office swear box. F looks at me studiously.

‘Not literally.’ I say, realising F has taken a statement at face value again. Although we do have to kiss lawyers’ arses quite regularly, I’ve never gone the whole way.

The legal fraternity and estate agency have a love hate relationship, we have to pretend we love them - they hate us. The two professions grudgingly recognise an unwelcome mutual dependency but agents generally think lawyers are too tardy and not pro-active enough when it comes to conveyancing. Whereas lawyers see our commission invoices and in common with the rest of the public, think we charge too much.

‘They don’t like being rung on a Friday.’ Says negotiator S soothingly. She’s right, and as she does the majority of the office sales progressing, has a fairly good relationship with most of the legal practices in town. It’s the out of town outfits, who will probably never deal with you again, that tend to duck your phone calls chasing progress reports, or try to fob you off with some neutral comment like, “it’s all going well.”

‘Partner is in court?’ Asks S, eyebrows arched attractively.

‘With a client?’ Contributes assistant manager T with a grin.

‘Only works part time?’ Offers F, joining in the guessing game as to why I’ve nearly broken another phone.

‘Put the request in writing?’ Says fat mortgage man M waddling across the office unpleasantly.

I crack an unlikely smile. ‘Something like that.’ I concede. ‘Just, I knew the secretary was lying.’

Now, when I entertain a solicitor - an increasingly rare event since my bean counter boss started forensically scrutinising every expense claim - the legal-luncher is often at pains to point out they don’t like being bothered on a Friday. It’s the day most sales tend to complete (the moving day) and often - a few weeks before - when contracts are finally exchanged.

I accept that plea from the more pro-active practitioners. The firms who ring you back, willingly give progress reports to you, and by proxy their client. The type of organisation that move 

as swiftly as the antiquated English and Welsh conveyancing process allows - the Scottish are a whole different ball game. But as often as not, ducking my phone call is a result of not having touched the file in days, sometimes weeks, and the reluctant recipient hiding behind a “delayed local search” or protracted “mortgage offer”smokescreen

‘I think we should always deal with the solicitors we know.’ Says S emphatically. ‘They get our recommendations and give us reciprocal business.’ Once again she’s right, but the big corporate estate agency chains want group agreements with soulless outfits that run call centres and centralised conveyancing pens. In my experience the service is poor and the fee kickback goes to a central fund rather than the local office. But then my boss thinks I’m a luddite, or he would if he knew what one was…

‘Bean counter’s secretary on line three.’ Says S late afternoon. ‘He wants to know why our weekly stats are not in yet.’

Because I’m still chasing two much-needed exchanges and the sodding solicitors won’t return my calls, I think angrily.

‘Can you say I’m with someone?’ I asks S limply, realising even as I say it I’m parroting the fob-off I’ve been given several times today by my legal friends.

‘Don’t think she’ll believe me.’ Says S hesitantly. 

Of course not, but it’s hard to prove as long as S has punched the hold button securely and not just put her hand over the mouthpiece as that idiot F keeps doing.

‘Say I’ll call her back.’ I offer. The irony not lost on me.

‘We had a blinder of a week.’ Crows the ringleader of our opposition, as the two groups jostle at the bar. It’s a Friday night ritual - come good week or bad.

‘Smashed it.’ I reply loudly.

Cracked the phone handset actually, but it’s a brief exchange…

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Black Pudding - Friday

‘If I see another f***ing PowerPoint presentation I’ll top myself.’ Hisses my vertically challenged rival manager H as we settle into another bland hotel meeting room and the bean counter boss unfolds his laptop.

He has a point. The graphic of the be-suited man climbing some sort of snakes and ladders sales mountain had a certain novelty value about a decade ago, but now I just long for an old-fashioned overhead projector and a couple of acetates. Maybe even some A4 handouts.

‘The first and last refuge of the terminally dull presenter.’ I tell H, as I sit reluctantly next to him after missing out in the unseemly scrabble to be seated by the new and smoking hot female manager, who is having some early sales success in an office where the last incumbent spent more time downing measures, than measuring up.

‘She won’t last long on top.’ Sneers H, conjuring up a vision I have trouble shaking, until the eastern European girl with the embryonic moustache and the unflattering nylon housecoat turns up, with pots of stewed tea and coffee strong enough to strip the enamel from your teeth.

‘She’s producing some good instruction figures.’ I tell H, pouring a dark and suspicious smelling brew into the already stained cup in front of me. And I look at my new colleague and give her, what I judge to be, a companionably but in no way salacious smile of encouragement. She smiles radiantly back and I realise why she’s getting quite a few sole agencies with boards - at least from the male vendors.

‘It won’t last.’ Gripes H ungraciously. ‘They always get hormonal or pregnant once the first flush of enthusiasm goes.’

He really is a whole heap of chauvinistic unpleasantness for such a small package. It really irks me his office outperforms mine, ten months out of twelve.

I watch the bean counter as he fiddles with his tracker pad and tries to line up the first image, one his secretary probably prepared for him, with the portable projection screen. Despondent, as I imagine scores of slides a ten year old would be ashamed to produce flashing before my eyes for the next ninety minutes, I look at the pile of dusty Imperial mints in the saucer in front of me and wonder how long it would take to overdose on sugary spheres?

How did I get here? Asks that annoying inner voice, one that grows in intensity with each passing year and each newly increased sales target. A salesman’s career is finite, like any other, but unlike say, a doctor or lawyer improving with the accumulation of age and knowledge, estate agency is essentially a young man’s – or woman’s – game. There are only so many late night viewings and valuations you can do with utter wasters before you start to lose that youthful enthusiasm. Next time round I’ll definitely pay more attention at school and try not to grow up in a dysfunctional family.

‘Financial service performance is far from acceptable.’ Drones the bean counter, as I begin to yearn for the temporary high of the soggy bacon butties that we’ll be having at the comfort break. I already have virtual indigestion, the physical version might as well accompany it once the industrialised white baps and water-pumped bacon arrives. When the absurd, Americanised, breakfast meeting idea arrived on these shores, it seemed radical and not a little exotic. But budget cuts soon ditched the full English for poor man’s transport café fare and the realisation that the whole charade of shared sustenance and team-building was just an excuse to get you out of bed a couple of hours earlier, and back in the office before opening time.

‘I hate clapping for someone else.’ Gripes H as I think welcome to my world short-arse. The pretty new manager has just collected a bottle of cheap bubbly and the embarrassingly naff, new instruction performance cup. At least she has the good grace to blush – it will soon fade.

‘We’ll see if the bitch has sold any of them next month.’ Says H poisonously.

The Imperial mints are rattling around in the car coin tray. Not sure I’ve stolen enough.

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Please Hold Caller - Monday

‘No calls for a while please.’ I tell the office as I begin the retreat to my own space. I don’t often close the door – not least because it’s lonely in there - but some calls need to be away from the general public.

‘Got to speak to the bean counter’ Asks assistant manger T with a wry smile.

Not sure publicising the nickname for my pedantic little figure-fiddling boss was the smartest move I’ve made, but once the lid’s off the box…

‘I’d rather not initiate a call.’ I tell T as he nods in understanding.

‘Secret girlfriend?’ Suggests lettings lush B with a salacious smirk.

‘He’s happily married.’ Counters negotiator S sweetly.

‘Yeh right.’ Contributes fat mortgage man M sarcastically. ‘We deal with more matrimonials than the Citizen’s Advice Bureau.’

‘You’re so cynical.’ Says S with the sort of naivety that only a girl with a single-hand boyfriend count since school, could muster.

‘If you must know,’ I tell the team, glad of the delay. ‘I’m about to ring a customer help line.’ The laughter takes a while to subside.

‘We’ve got to listen to that.’ Pleads T, tears of mirth not far away. ‘Could you instigate your open door policy?’

I promised myself I wouldn’t use the F-word and I fail even before I dial the suspiciously coded number that will probably cost me 45 pence a minute, or at least the bean counter - an upside I hadn’t expected.

‘I’m guessing it won’t be a pleasant experience for the end-user.’ Suggests S with a smile. I bang on day in, day out, about listening to clients needs and responding positively without resorting to a script. Major on the point of difference someone human can give, if they really go the extra yard – metres are available too you Trading Standards Nazis – and respond to requests by doing what they say, by delivering top-notch service. Without it we’re just another agent that nobody likes much.

‘You should tape it so we can have a giggle later.’ Suggests T. The secret recording equipment was banned some time ago, but not after we had several Christmas parties-worth of tapes where other agents responded to fee enquiries and mailing list requests, with laughable ineptitude.

It’s illegal to record without permission.’ I say limply. I think it is, but then I can’t keep up with conflicting legislation at the best of times. I’m supposed to be the Freedom Of Information Act officer - but I try not to tell anyone. The Data Protection Act just adds to the confusion. The thought of telling the call centre drone that I might record my call for training purposes gives me some amusement though. It won’t last.

‘You’ll probably get some dozy Indian who can’t speak English.’ Snarls B with the lack of political correctness that wins her lots of love from Eastern European tenants, trying to rent without references in English.

‘You can’t say that.’ Counters S feistily.

Race Relations Act, I’m 99% certain…

‘We are experiencing high levels of calls,’ clanks an automated voice I already hate as much as that officious woman on my wife’s car sat nav.

‘Of course you are.’ I mimic. When don’t you? I insist my staff answer within three rings but this doesn’t seem to apply in Mumbai. And the accountants think they’re saving the company money by sacking UK staff.

Ten minutes of unlikely 80s soft rock later I’m given several keypad choices, none of which are what I want. I press the # key repeatedly, just for the hell of it. I read somewhere if you don’t conform you jump the queue and speak to a real person. Instead I’m asked for my date of birth, something that really pisses me off.

Far off birthday recited twice, order number parroted in the slow fashion you’d talk to a toddler, or a tottering pensioner, and I’m asked for my home address. The expletive vow fails again.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that.’ Chimes the digitised voice. ‘Did you say: 4 Duck’s Lake?’

Close, but no cigar - and no refund. I had to hang up to take a call from my boss.

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On A Jet Plane - Saturday

Rain is lashing against the bedroom window. I’ve been awake forever despite the fact we’ll still be at the airport several hours before the flight crew. My mind has moved from fretting about contracts, offers and weekly statistics to the unconvincing laws of aeronautics. Laws that allow several hundred tons of metal, stuffed full of pasty Britons, to leave terra firma and break through the blanket of grey drizzle swamping this green and pleasant land to finally see some f***ing sunshine.

‘Get off that computer.’ Urges my wife. ‘Surely nobody wants to read your Blog that badly?’ She has a point, but then you don’t write for anybody else and you certainly don’t write for the money now that everyone wants free content.

‘Have you seen my list?’ She continues, hint of panic in her voice. I want to ask which one? She’s been compiling them for weeks now and they are probably more extensive than the pilots’ pre take-off one. There’s the things to check checklist, the clothes list, the wash kit list, the electronics and accessories list, the items to unplug in the house list and there’s a master list somewhere, in case she forgets one of the lists. I’m just listless.

‘I’m sure we’ve forgotten something.’ She frets as I pull into the airport car park. ‘All we really need are tickets, passports and cash.’ I tell her. And even the Euros I kept waiting for a better rate on, might be superfluous by the time we land the other end. I’ve kept a few Drachma somewhere in the back of my clothes drawer. I spotted them when I was searching for those flight socks that are supposed to restrict deep vein thrombosis but I’m guessing won’t be a lot of help if we fly into a mountain.

‘How can they justify that much for a weeks parking?’ I grumble as we stand in the snaking check-in queue and I scan our fellow travellers, trying to guess who’ll end up on our hotel coach and whom I’d actually want to speak to. ‘It’s a captive audience.’ Says my wife, moving forward two feet and setting her bag down again. ‘Yes but I only want to park there for seven days not buy the bloody freehold.’ I tell her loudly. Several people in the queue look at me sternly and decide they don’t want to be on my airport transport either.

‘Did you pack the bag yourself? Quizzes the woman at the check-in gracelessly. I want to spew some sarcasm. It’s taken forty minutes already and my back is aching even before I’m crammed into a seat with legroom that would challenge Snow White’s seven travelling companions. But I know not to rile officials after that run in with the Trading Standards Office.

Travel has become an ordeal that leaves you needing another holiday. All thanks to a few extremists who use their chosen god - one that has kept a pretty low profile for the last two thousand years despite those superpowers you’d want to show off - to justify terrorism. I hate playground bullies even after all these years.

The fact is I didn’t pack my bag, my wife did. But I lie like every other bloke in the line. I really find it hard to touch my toes nowadays and bending over to the snap of a latex glove, while some officious oddball with an attitude - and a tube of lube - isn’t going to make four hours on a saggy seat squab any more comfortable.

‘Priority boarders to the gate now.’ Announces the tannoy as I sit reeking of several different after shaves, none of which I bought. I smell like the camp barman pulling over-priced pints for nervous flyers in the mock English pub. Even I won’t drink before lunchtime. I’m not a chartered surveyor.

‘How come they go before us?’ I gripe to my wife. I’ve already seen the disabled passengers pass and suspect some are just too fat and lazy to walk.

‘They pay more to get what they want.’ She answers.

It’s the same in the property market. Time to go.

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Thrust and lift permitting, back in a week. If you see an estate agent on your holiday buy him a drink if it's after lunchtime. It might be me. Just don't ask about property market as a punch in the face may offend. For those left behind if you miss the Blog download the book my wife hasn't bothered to read. Cheaper than a duty free pint.

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