Dark Weekdays - Wednesday

‘They looked quite young to be at your desk.’ I say to negotiator S as a fresh-faced couple leave the office clutching several sets of sales particulars.

She looks at me and smiles. ‘What instead of being across at the lettings desk?’ And she nods towards B’s vacant station. B has been missing for several hours, ostensibly to do a landlord’s check out, but with her it might just as easily be a liquid lunch - then doing a landlord.

‘They have the Bank of Mum and Dad on their side.’ Says S ruefully.

The phenomenon of parents helping children with their first home deposit is not new, but with rising prices it’s become much more common. If your parents have never been able to option a right to buy on their council house, have failed marriages and the accompanying financial hit behind them, or are just plain skint, it’s not quite so easy to place a tentative foot on the property ladder.

‘Did you get a FS lead?’ Says a muffled voice from behind me. I realise M the portly purveyor of dubious financial services has snuck up behind us, while eating something crumbly.

‘They were all fixed.’ mutters S unconvincingly. 

I should press her on the oversight, after all there are office targets as well as personal ones. But in truth I’ve never liked the conflict of interests flogging products to buyers produces, when you are acting for the homeowners. Probably why my career in corporate agency hit a ceiling so low I’m stooping prematurely.

‘You could have got me in there for an alternative quote.’ Grumbles M shedding flaky pastry on the office carpet again. He’s right. The consultants are trained to do a bit of disturbance selling and to knock competitors out of the equation with promises of “exclusive rates” only available to them. Traditionally, it involves smoke and mirrors and insurance products designed not to pay out, or to wriggle more than a snake in a bag, once you try to make a claim. I still remember the endowment policy and payment protection plan fiascos.

‘They were adamant.’ Counters S with a rather fetching pout. I almost believe her.

‘I’m not happy.’ Mutters M waddling away. Try some more comfort eating then, fat boy, I think sourly before turning back to S and asking.

‘Did you book any viewings for them?’

'Three on the trot this afternoon.’ Says S with a triumphant smile.

I could almost kiss her - almost.

‘Not sure my Mum will ever sub me for a deposit.’ Says trainee F who has been stuffing envelopes at a snails pace throughout the conversation. That’s because she’s on her fourth partner and wasted tens of thousands on a private education for you, I think. I still reckon she could get a refund. If they can claw back thousands in compensation for mis-sold insurance products, surely a law firm could stop chasing ambulances for a while and try suing the school for turning out a well-spoken dullard, after six years of tuition?

‘Of course it must of been easier back in your day.’ Says F, adding patronisation to crinkling sales particulars in envelopes unnecessarily, on his list of misdemeanours.

‘It didn’t seem like it when my mortgage went up three points to 15% in the course of an afternoon.’ I snap back, referring to the chaotic day when Britain was thrown out of The European Exchange Rate mechanism and my complete sales pipeline collapsed overnight. It was named Black Wednesday and I’ve had a few of those in my career, not to mention Thursdays, Fridays…

‘Fifteen percent?’ Echoes F incredulously. ‘You are having a laugh.’

I wasn’t chortling at the time.

‘Were they really ever that high?’ Asks S gently. I forget how young my team are compared to me - except when we go out for the increasingly rare, sales award evening. Then I feel like their dad and dance like it too.

‘They were.’ I confirm, before adding. ‘I don’t think it’s ever easy to buy when you first start out.’

‘I’m going to wait for prices to crash.’ States F moodily.

Be careful what you wish for.

--------

Market Forces - Thursday

‘So is the message clear?’ I conclude after what I feel has been a dynamic and uplifting morning meeting. Short of tumbleweed blowing across the office, the silence could not be more vastly all encompassing – unless you include the workdays between Christmas and New Year.

‘Anybody?’ I plead, looking at negotiator S for some sort of solace, one that doesn’t risk inappropriate workplace behaviour.

The verbal void hangs unpleasantly, like a turd from a shaggy sheepdog’s arse.

‘Someone say something.’ I rasp in anguish.

‘Well the punters are as confused as we are.’ Ventures assistant manager T timidly.

‘Here we go.’ Mutters lettings lush B to a scowl from me.

‘What’s confusing you?’ I ask, mind already racing through plausible answers. This is worse than bluffing you know the right price on a valuation, which turns out to be nothing like you’ve expected – or researched.

‘Everything is confusing me.’ Answers trainee F, to an ill-suppressed giggle from B. I scowl at her and she pouts back. That look might work in a wine bar when a bloke is a pissed and hasn’t had a shag for months, but I’m sober and…..well I’m sober.

‘You have to admit the media are giving out conflicting signals.’ Continues T, looking around the table for support. S nods vigorously and I can see her support working vigorously. Not helpful.

‘They have always done that.’ I tell T with a sigh. ‘They just need something to print, blog or tweet.’

‘If the public need advice wheel them in to me.’ Suggests fat financial man M. Hmm, we did that for endowments, payment protection insurance and interest only mortgages, I think glumly, and look how that turned out. Seems I’ll be working until I’m seventy-five, as it is.

‘What?’ Challenges M, to looks of communal distain. ‘I need to eat.’

‘Everyone is aware of their personal target for financial services leads.’ I tell M, toeing the company line reluctantly. I still wish those banks; building societies and insurance companies had left the industry alone in the nineties.

‘Mad woman peering in the window.’ Warns S through pursed lips.

‘Could you narrow it down a bit.’ Quips T to giggles. I turn my head slightly to se the grey-haired, whisker-chinned drunk lady again. She is still pushing the saggy-springed pram full of plastic bags, but devoid of a baby.

‘Don’t catch her eye.’ I hiss.

‘She might want a draw-down mortgage.’ Says T, on a roll.

‘Piss off.’ Responds M, clearly needing a roll.

The nutty lady tries the door handle, but luckily I haven’t unlocked yet, with five minutes to go before opening time. After a couple of feeble bangs on the glass, the old girl moves on. She’ll be back. I drag myself back on topic. Something that becomes harder and harder - as everything else goes softer and softer – with the passing years.

‘We’ve got five minutes.’ I say, scanning the group and feeling like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible - only without the happy ending and shoe lifts.

‘You have to admit there’s a lot of conflicting signals.’ Proclaims T.

‘Yes, people are confused as to what is happening.’ Adds S.

‘I haven’t got a clue.’ Contributes F.

B begins to file her nails, the rasping like a bass version of the scraping down a blackboard thing.

‘Bring them in to me, like I told you.’ Says M doggedly. ‘I’ll show them a few pie charts.’

From Greggs the baker probably, I think sourly. The problem is you can produce a survey, vox pop or market prediction to suit all needs.

Buyers look at the doom-monger predictions and refer to sites like House Price Crash, where men of a certain age spend daytimes in chatrooms talking to other like-minded forty-something’s still in “full-time education” - and still living in their parents’ homes. While the sellers, latch on to the latest asking price data disingenuously published by some right of centre tabloid with lazy copywriters. You make your choices…

‘So is the local market going up or down?’ Pleads F as the phones start to jangle and S unlocks the door.

Good question.

-----

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Now Wash Your Hands - Friday

I can pinpoint the source of infection even though I didn’t get the instruction. Pretty sure some sort of finicky Data Protection legislation stops me from naming the family and their home address, but I have the germs to prove it.

‘He’s off school with a cold.’ The mother told me as her son sneezed towards me for the third time without raising his hand to his mouth.

‘There’s a lot of it about.’ I replied, knowing I couldn’t afford to point out her snotty brat had no manners, if I wanted the run-down house to sell. Little git probably doesn’t write thank-you letters, sits when old ladies are standing on the bus and doubtless is allowed to eat his dinner sat in front of the giant flat-screen television, I’d thought prissily.

If you are going to turn into your parents, I’ve decided on balance, it’ll be my mother. Some of the post war ethics and manners have stuck despite the punk years of rebellion and injudicious spitting during concerts - before the health risks became apparent. In retrospect, placing your hand over your mouth as you pogoed to The Stranglers might have marked you out as a middle class interloper faking the anarchy anger, but I’d have been in good company.

‘You should go home to bed.’ Advises S my negotiator sweetly. A Lem-Sip blurred vision, not helped by partial deafness in one blocked ear, has me briefly imagining it was an invitation rather than a recommendation. Reality dawns as another percussive sneeze bursts from my nose, echoing round the office despite my, now spattered hand’s best efforts, to block the germ spray.

‘Can’t afford any time off.’ I say in an oddly detached voice. The inner ear infection isn’t helping my balance and I nearly went arse over apex down the car park steps earlier. I’m pretty sure the Big Issue seller I try to avoid, was laughing as I did a baby giraffe impression down the incline, only just managing to stay upright by dint of waving my briefcase around like some faux leather counterbalance. He may have said: “F***ing estate agents”, but like S’s last suggestion I might have misconstrued.

‘You look like death.’ Says assistant manager T unhelpfully as he comes back into the office. My desk drawer is open as I search through more half-used pharmaceutical products than an entire mid-African hospital could muster. I’ve inhaled more menthol than a chain-smoking Sterling Superkings addict and my teeth have a sticky synthetic cherry coating I’ve sucked on so many Fisherman’s Friends.

‘Bloody public.’ I rail as I tilt my head and a seeming torrent of fluid sloshes in my ear. ‘If they’re not giving you grief, they’re giving you viruses.’

‘You’ve got it bad.’ Says T ambiguously. He doesn’t know the half of it. My phone line rings, at least I think it does. I glance plaintively at T and he nods.

‘Yes?’ I say to nothing but a fuzzy noise reminiscent of when television programming finished before bedtime. T points to my other ear and I swap the handset over.

‘It’s the bean counter on line three.’ Says S apologetically. Terrific. I have a thumping in my head like some insane overwrought 1970s drum solo and now I’m about to be criticised for my office sales figures. Bang out of order.

‘Whoa there, not sure you are supposed to do that.’ Admonishes fat mortgage man M as he walks in on me in the gents’ toilets. I’m not feeling that well, yet. Instead, I’m ramming a cotton bud into the side of my head with ever-increasing intensity. I know it says: Never Insert In Your Inner Ear on the tub but if you no longer have a baby what else would you use them for? Might as well stencil: Never Place In A Body Cavity on a box of sanitary products. Ridiculous.

‘I just want to burst the bubble.’ I say plaintively.

‘You and all those losers on the House Price Crash forum.’ Chuckles M. before entering the cubicle and seconds later unleashing the most monstrous of farts. I heard that, even through a clogged, fluid-filled membrane. The smell is deeply unpleasant.

Who’d have thought earwax reeked that badly?

----

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