Seasons In The Sun - Wednesday

‘You feeling alright?’ Asks assistant manager T as he becomes the first staff member to arrive at the office - twenty minutes after me.

He doesn’t often sense moods that acutely, until I shout at him or thump the desk in frustration, but I’m guessing he’s noticed my washed out appearance. I’ve been awake, coughing and sneezing since about 4.00am. My eyes are red-raw from rubbing and crustier than a bakery floor.

‘I’m okay.’ I lie wearily.

‘Only it looks like you’ve been crying.’

Terrific. I’ve three valuations today and the sympathy sales pitch never lasts past the moment you tell them how much their home is really worth. The fee discussion is not to be sneezed at either.

‘It’s the pollen count.’ I tell T with an unpleasant sniffing sound resembling a badly blocked drain clearing.

‘Hay fever?’ Asks T with head to one side.

No, another survey the bean counter boss wants to do, I feel like saying sarcastically. Similar to a board count but with more bronchial mulch.

‘I never used to get all these allergies as bad.’ I tell T mournfully. The whole office knows about my reaction to dog and cat hair, never a good ailment when you are constantly entering homes where delusional pet owners think their house doesn’t smell and it’s okay to have felines on the kitchen work surfaces, and canines lying on the bed.

‘Maybe it’s an age thing.’ Muses T, sitting at his desk with a thump and firing up his flatscreen. No chance of making me another cuppa, I think tetchily? The half-full mug beside me has gone cold and I don’t fancy swigging the slightly bitter, grainy dregs of another tepid LemSip  I wonder if you can overdose on over-the-counter snot-busters? There must be cheaper ways.

‘You’d think you’d build up an immunity after half a lifetime of animal hair and tree pollen ingestion.’ I tell T, who doesn’t appear to be listening any more. I thought you could check your Facebook on your phone.

‘Says here the pollen forecast is very high today.’ Announces T. I’ve maligned him unnecessarily. Luckily it wasn’t out loud this time and in any case I’m beyond blushing now - coughing, sneezing and choking yes, but beyond blushing.

I walk across to glance over T’s shoulder just as fat finance fiddler M waddles in to the office, clutching another grease-flecked Greggs bag.

‘Someone died?’ Asks M stopping in front of me.

I raise a quizzical eyebrow and a tear spills down my cheek.

‘He’s got hay fever.’ Enlightens T, as I reach for my last tissue and trumpet a runny venting. Unlike my erstwhile drinking buddy, I refuse to use a linen handkerchief. He’ll happily blow his nose, then dip straight into the communal bag of crisps we’re sharing. I should widen my circle of friends but it’s not easy, being an estate agent.

‘That’s alright then.’ Says M moving away. ‘As long as it’s not one of my policyholders. Reams of paperwork if they croak and I don’t get any renewal commission.’

The property industry took a turn for worse the day insurance companies, banks and building societies started buying up estate agency firms.

‘God, you look awful.’ Says negotiator S, as she comes through the door and glances at me.

‘It’s hay fever.’ Shouts M from his office. ‘He’s not sobbing about the office sales figures.’

‘Have you tied anti-histamine tablets?’  Asks S, waking her computer and also showing no sign of making drinks.

‘I positively rattle with them.’ I tell her grumpily. ‘They are expensive and don’t really work that well.’

‘Like solar roof panels.’ Says T with a hearty chuckle.

Everyone’s a comedian. We’ll see if they’re still laughing when I arrange a leaflet drop for this afternoon. T’s right about the ugly solar slabs though. Not many people want to buy a house with those monstrosities ruining the roofline. Built in obsolescence, in a cloudy country with more rain than the forests we’re supposed to be saving. I sense another mis-selling scandal.

Back at my desk, I check my emails. 

I’m going to need another box of tissues.

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Not Many Lives Left - Tuesday

‘And here she comes.’ Announces assistant manage T with the sort of weary resignation I’ve been dreaming about for years now.

Negotiator S bobs her head up from behind the flatscreen and smiles in recognition when she sees the approaching woman. All offices have them, the regular time-wasters - as opposed to the casual ones who bowl into your working life like a whirlwind, promise to buy or sell then blow you off.

‘Bloody nutcase.’ Proclaims M the morbidly obese financial advisor. He tried to flog her some life cover, a re-mortgage and even, in desperation, some pet insurance last time she was in. But this type is a window shopper for life.

‘Who’s this?’ Asks trainee F, wide-eyed and innocent, only without the charm of a fresh-smelling baby you can hand back before their Snugglers become soiled.

‘One of our habitual lookers.’ I tell F, contemplating whether I should let him talk to the woman as part of his ongoing training. The trouble is he’s so naïve he’ll end up making viewing appointments that the woman will happily go on for something to do and doubtless book my fourth valuation visit to her home. One she convinces herself and every new agent in town she’ll be moving from in the near future, when in reality the only way she’ll be leaving is feet first on an undertaker’s gurney.

‘She’s called that cat lady.’ Enlightens T, as F stares at the approaching target vapidly. I can see the animal hairs on her grubby fleece from across the high street and already my nose and eyes are twitching just from the memory of my last, abortive visit, to her flea-infested home. Five cats and counting plus that all pervading pong of animals which pet-owners are in persistent denial over.

‘Why’s that?’ Asks F, comprehensively confirming his unsuitability for any role involving common sense. The private school his mother and various stepfathers coughed for - just to keep him away from home - somehow coached and cajoled him to some spurious mid-range, heavy on the coursework qualifications, but the school of life has yet to see him sign the register.

‘She has cats you numpty.’ Informs lettings lush B from across the office.

‘Yeh and we all know about women with cats.’ Says T chuckling.

B glares back at him. ‘One is acceptable, two at a push.’ She says challengingly, adding the old chestnut. ‘They’re more reliable than men.’

‘Let’s not start that one.’ I plead, as I track the approaching woman, hoping against hope she’ll misjudge the road crossing and give me about a one in fifteen chance of getting the probate business.

‘The loser women who can’t hold on to a man get cats instead.’ T tells F unhelpfully. I can sense the, along gender lines, friction building.

‘You’re just saying that for a reaction.’ Says S looking nervously at B as her hackles rise.

‘You can’t say that sort of thing.’ Spits B angrily, before turning to me and asking. ‘Can he?’

Probably not out loud.

Trouble is I pretty much agree with T on this one. My experience of neurotic man-loathing women tends to lead to the same, staring-eyed, let them sleep on the bed, cat-loving conclusion. These females – and it is almost exclusively females who own cats – seem to turn to feline companionship after a fruitless love life. Ultimately, cohabiting with several sets of hairballs, rather than one errant set of hairy balls. It still stinks, particularly with the elderly ones who the neighbours eventually smell decomposing. Someone has to go in to clean up the mess and see what is left of the owner the ungrateful pets haven’t eaten. It takes forever before I get the new carpets, the keys and a for sale board.

‘Hello Miss Bryan how are you?’ Greets S, saving me the bother.

‘You now my name?’ Queries Miss Bryan.

‘You were in last year.’ Says S gently.

‘Was I?’

Perhaps I should have let F see her after all.

‘We don’t have any little bungalows.’ Informs S kindly. ‘And most flats don’t allow pets in the lease.’

‘How did you know I have pets?’

And they still say we don’t earn our money.

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