Funding Gap - Thursday

‘Any luck?’ I ask fat finance man M, after a young couple leave his office. He still didn’t see them to the door, but unless you’re an impoverished French butcher, I still see no point in flogging a dead horse.

‘Not enough deposit saved yet.’ Bemoans M with a shake of his jowly jaws, before adding.’Makes you wish for the days when you could source a cheeky liar loan and tuck them up with an endowment policy.’

‘That’s disgraceful.’ Chides negotiator S with a pretty pout. I forget she’s so young she didn’t have to flog insurance policies, with dubious benefits to buyers, just to please corporate masters. It was about the time the line between the estate agent’s duty to the vendor became permanently blurred. I’ve worn glasses ever since.

‘You’ll follow them up though.’ I tell M pointedly. He won’t. The only time he shows any forward momentum is when there’s an unfinished packet of biscuits in the office kitchen.

‘They know where to find me.’ Counters M, heading for the aforementioned location.

Yep, and so do we.

‘Not sure I’ll ever be able to afford my own property and I spend all day selling them.’ Announces S sadly.

‘Bank of mum and dad is what you need.’ Says assistant manager T, referring to the one source of finance that will lend, without a raft of fact finding paperwork and a twenty-five year indenture.

‘Haven’t seen my dad for years.’ Answers S mournfully.

‘All the more reason to tap him up for a ten percent deposit.’ Says T jauntily. ‘Push the guilt trip buttons.’

S just shakes her head and looks achingly sad. And all these couples squabbling over the matrimonial home value, still convince themselves separation is in the children’s best interest and won’t harm them at all. It’s still harming me thirty-five years down the line.

‘Didn’t look old enough to buy anyway.’ Contributes B from her lettings’ desk. Didn’t stop her eying up the boyfriend though. I saw her. At least I was more discrete with the girlfriend.

‘You’ll buy eventually.’ I tell S with as much conviction as I can muster. It will probably take another property crash and I’m not sure I’m looking forward to my third one. But the market is cyclical - always has been.

‘Do you think prices will come down then?’ Queries S.

Hell yes. I have for some time, but then with a burgeoning influx of population fuelled by migrants, and pensioners who refuse to die at the appointed age, it may take a while yet. We could build a lot more homes of course, but planning restrictions, green belt policies and greedy landowners aren’t exactly helping things.

‘They can’t keep accelerating.’ I eventually tell S. She doesn’t look convinced.

‘More mug punters for me to let crappy converted flats to.’ Says B, unhelpfully. S scowls at her and so do I, but inwardly, B’s figures help pay my own rent and as an estate agent I don’t need extra enemies.

‘Is it just me,’ asks M, returning with a mug of coffee. ‘Or are buyers looking younger and younger?’ It’s the exact opposite actually, with the average age of a first time buyer being pushed towards middle age. I see countless overgrown children still squatting it their parents’ homes like cosy Cuckoos, but I know what M means.

‘It’s like when policemen start looking young enough to be your baby brother.’ Announces B all glassy-eyed.

‘They’re not real policemen if you just persuade them to dress up like that, for some sweets.’ Snipes S bitchily.

Ouch.

Before a cat fight breaks out - and rather disappointingly - the door opens and some pre-pubescent boy in an ill-fitting Next suit comes in and asks for the keys to a property we have on multi-agency, along with several of our competitors.

‘Who was that spunk bubble?’ Asks M slurping his drink loudly, after the young lad has left.

‘New trainee negotiator for that lot across the road.’ Answers S.

‘Didn’t look old enough to shave.’ Replies M.

‘I could show him something on my register.’ Says B ambiguously.

I’m really feeling my age.

------

Distance Learning - Wednesday

‘Well that was a laugh a minute.’ Grumbles loose lettings lush B when she returns from training,  which didn’t involve alcohol and casual sex.

‘No good?’ I ask, not really interested as the bean counter boss has grumbled about my board rate again. He forgets my patch has scores of apartment blocks that forbid agents’ for sale boards, in their leases.

‘Well,’ says B shrugging off her coat and thumping into her seat with the sort of sigh I imagine is interchangeable for most of her activities. ‘Not content with being an unpaid tax collector checking for money laundering, immigration officer scanning passports, or a sodding carbon monoxide monitor to stop dozy tenants not waking up at all, I’m now supposed to look for bloody Legionnaires’ disease.’

‘Legionnaires, isn’t that the food poisoning with the name of a pudding?’ Asks trainee F to groans all round.

‘That’s salmonella love,’ says negotiator S kindly. ‘And I think you mean semolina.’

I’m just glad we didn’t have another soul-sapping conversational cul-de-sac while I explained to F, Legionnaires’ disease wasn’t something you picked up from French mercenaries with funny hats.

‘It’s not exactly your responsibility.’ Counters obese mortgage man M. ‘It’s the landlord who cops the prison sentence.’ 

‘I have to alert them and arrange for an inspection, like those pissing pointless Energy Performance Certificates.’ Snaps back B.

‘Huh. You should see how many compliance hoops I have to jump through.’ Huffs M.

They’d need to be pretty wide hoops, I think, and it’s only because you stitched so many people up with dodgy endowments and Payment Protection Policies.

‘So if you don’t eat it, how do you get it?’ Continues F doggedly.

‘You inhale it, in spores… probably.’ I answer hesitantly. I haven’t been on the course but I know the office air-conditioning units that only work in the winter, and as soon as some hot weather arrives piss stale water through the ceiling tiles, can harbour the disease.

‘It thrives in stagnant water.’ Says B, glancing at her handout. I’m on the edge of my knowledge without her crib sheet and unlike those irritating students who keep Googling answers under the table at my local pub quiz, I’m trying to use an increasingly unreliable memory.

‘Tell us all you learned.’ I urge. Knowledge is power and I don’t want B knowing more than me, particularly as I’ll be responsible for her files when she’s either away on holiday or lying in a stranger’s bed trying to remember his name.Which would also be on holiday, on reflection.

‘I think we’ll have to get that dull div who does the Energy Performance Certificates to do a safety check for all new landlords.’

‘Is he qualified do do that?’ I ask frowning.

‘He’s going on a course.’ Replies B.

‘Going, or doing some tick-box for idiots’ e-learning programme, while sitting on the toilet?’ I retort.

‘One of those.’

An hour later I’ve discovered Legionnaires’ disease loves temperatures between 20 and 45 degrees centigrade, can lurk in old pipe runs, will breed merrily in un-lagged loft tanks and enjoys hard water where limescale is present. Prevention is better than cure, so it will mean risk assessments, more record keeping and ensuring elderly rental applicants with damaged immune systems, don’t try the bath out before the references are done and the lease signed….

‘It just never stops.’ Groans B as she re-reads the latest lump of clunky legislation the industry must try and implement. And like most new rules you only really know how the regulations will operate after the unlucky pioneer defendants have been prosecuted.

‘You’d think estate and letting agents would need to be licensed and qualified.’ I say. resurrecting an old hobby-horse, to low groans of recognition.

‘Is that ever going to happen?’ Asks F, alarm in his voice. Rumour has it he took his driving test four times and judging by the way he parks he must have blown the examiner on the last outing.

‘If they haven’t implemented it since the 1979 Estate Agents Act, I wouldn’t hold your breath.’ I tell F.

Unless you’re under a grubby shower head.

---------

Time At The Beach Bar - Saturday

‘Keep your head down.’ I tell my wife. ‘They’re coming towards our table.’

‘Don’t be so anti-social.’ She replies tartly. ‘It’s our last day and they’re nice.’

‘They’ll want to talk about property prices.’ I caution, concentrating hard on the Greek salad I’ve been picking at.

The holiday is nearly over and I can feel the tension rising. The thought of my in-box and what is lurking on my desk has drawn a darker shadow than the ancient olive tree our beachside table is sheltering under. I’d rather spend the remaining hours with my wife drinking the all-inclusive wine package not discussing what sort of plot £100,000 would buy in an impoverished economy. No chance.

‘Hiya.’ Cries the well-honed lady in an excitable voice. ‘Thought you were hiding from us for a moment.’

I was. My wife waved pointedly.

‘How’s the old property pirate?’ Chortles her bald-as-a-coot husband, in an attempt at humour. I nearly lied, on first meeting, and said I was a writer but I coughed the information, half-hoping it might put them off. It didn’t.

‘Looking forward to repossessing a few homes when I get back.’ I reply, to a stunned silence. Momentarily, I think they might opt for another table. But the wife laughs hysterically and slaphead grins, pulls up a chair and says.

‘You estate agents, can never tell if you’re telling the truth or not.’

It’s a cross I have to bear.

‘Do you fancy a beer?’ Asks the man, skull gleaming so brightly I need to pull my sunglasses off my head. Terrific, the only time a member of the public has ever offered me a drink – apart from a backhander to secure a home they couldn’t have – and I’ve already paid upfront for as much as I can consume.

I decline and watch with waning appetite, as a trio of overweight German women with more cellulite than a naturist’s weight-watchers’ group, waddle in to the sea. If anything would make the waves part, it’s about 600lbs of Teutonic blubber displacing more water than a small oil tanker, but the sea takes them with an unpleasant sucking sound.

‘I’ll call Amy over.’ I say, as the woman starts nattering inanely to my wife. I’ve named most of the staff and a good number of the guests, in order to pass the time. The waitress in question has a resemblance to Amy Winehouse, her tartier peroxide-died colleague has the moniker Debbie, after Blondie’s horny early years and the portly waiter - who I tend not to use - is Elvis, for his likeness to the King in his spandex-stretched Las Vegas days. Simple pleasures.

‘What do you reckon a beachfront lot like this would cost in Euros?’ Asks Eddie – The Eagle.

I don’t know, but the crumbling clientele might not enhance the price - not unless it was a retirement development. The ancient women wading in and out of the sea are spattered with more liver spots than a clumsy butcher and if I see another pair of saggy bosoms in a one-piece, I might start to bat for the other side.

‘Ah, look at the cats.’ Sighs Eddie’s other half – I’m torn between Selina and Fiona at the moment. She’s referring to the feral moggies that plague the open air dining area, encouraged by a group of elderly French women. The Gallic cat-lovers feed the furballs with gnarled fingers then return to the buffet to ferret for food without washing their hands. And as for the buffet, well that’s an education in obesity-levels and portion control. At one end, you have the anorexic-framed women who expend more energy climbing the steps to the restaurant than they take on board with the frugal, fruit and celery selections they make. At the other end of the scales there’s an army of thigh-chafers who wobble back, plates layered high with gravity defying calorie intake, resembling some sort of obscene gastronomic Jenga game. Like most estate agents, I dislike humanity.

‘Oh dear, what are those cats doing?’ Asks Eddie, face as wrinkled as his shaven-head. Copulating fiercely, I think, suppressing a laugh as the cats shag uninhibitedly under a table of Croc-clad, mottled Parisian legs.

The end is coming.

-----

Once Bitten Twice Shy - Thursday

I’m on my way back to the Polish dentist again, teeth deteriorating in tandem with my career. I know I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb in the waiting room once more as the only man in a suit. Last time it felt like the Job Centre Plus-Size, with a motley collection of gap-toothed, overweight, in-bred unemployables all incongruously wearing tracksuits and sports apparel. 

It’s early enough, pre-work hours, for the traffic wardens to still be in bed but the memory of my last botched root canal treatment with both hands gripping the dentist’s chair and both eyes on the clock, is still fresh. Staggering out twenty minutes later than calculated with shirt collar bloodied, temporary filling already loosening and a mouth so numb I sounded like Jonathan Ross, wasn’t enhanced by the sight of a dark-suited fascist with a ticket machine, appending the fine to my windscreen.

The, ‘I’ve started so I’ll have to finish,’ conversation wasn’t improved by my lisping vitriol splattering the man in sputum as I raged about a slightly spurious medical emergency. The written appeal didn’t go too well either.

As I approach the meter, headache building, a rotund woman in an ill-advised trouser-suit waddles from one of those not too cleverly named Smart cars, the springs still rocking in protest. She looks slightly like I remember my mother before it all went horribly wrong.

I wait, just stopping short of tapping my foot while she fumbles fin her purse and dithers. I’m now within a minute of being late, something I detest with a passion, even if it’s for a cavity inspection by a dubiously qualified Eastern European with limited English language skills.

‘I’m not sure how long to pay for.’ States the woman, turning to me with an apologetic shrug. I really don’t want small talk and I already have my own small change. I smile neutrally.

‘I’ll do forty minutes.’ She announces. I’m not engaging. I talk to people I don’t want to converse with only on the business clock.

‘It’s scandalous.’ Says the woman as she taps at the ticket machine and somehow manages to get the instructions to scroll across the screen in French. Sacre bleu.

I nod in what I gauge to be a sympathetic manner, as her ticket finally disgorges. My own ticket – can’t claim that back, the bean counter would spot the time imprint – placed in the company car I cross the road to the dentist only to find the same woman going through the door. Terrific.

‘Not the best way to start the day.’ Says my stalker, as she sits next to me. I look at her with a slightly plaque-stained smile and suddenly wonder if she’s flirting with me? It’s an unpleasant realisation given my earlier likening of her, made worse by the fact that an unhelpful inner-voice tells me she’s probably about my age.

‘I’ve had better.’ I tell her neutrally, fiddling with my phone to try and give off a better signal than the cheap Nokia I bought, despite every staff member telling me to get smart - with all-you-can-eat data.

‘What do you do?’ persists the matronly figure in what is now in borderline need of a restraining order. I assume my revelation will get the usual pantomime hiss and lose an admirer, but I’m wrong.

‘Oh I’d love your job.’ Says the woman wistfully. You wouldn’t.

‘I adore looking at houses.’ She continues, as I think, yep you are pretty much a textbook time-waster.

‘I expect you need all sorts of fancy qualifications.’ Trills my new best friend. I tell her the stark truth and she frowns.

‘Really?’

 Really.

‘Are you on any daily medication?’ Asks the Warsaw woman, distilled through a white facemask and an equally thick accent. Not yet, I want to say but it’s only a matter of time. She pokes around with that unsettlingly sharp surgical implement, while her mono-browed female assistant fails to operate the suction tube effectively and I wait for a filling to collapse. I’m beginning to pine for my agent-loving admirer who gave me a wonky-smile of encouragement when my name was called. Hmm, she has my name…

It might become painful.

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