Data Overload - Wednesday

I’m on another unwanted course in another cheap hotel, staffed by eastern europeans who’d really rather be at home, from their body language. 

As a man who started his career on a basic wage so low that the Job Centre wouldn’t carry the advert, I’m all for sensible salaries as not everyone can walk the commission tightrope. But you have to wonder if the guaranteed minimum wage isn’t dragging Svetlana and Bogdan away from perfectly good jobs at the Razgrad Ramada Inn - although maybe they don’t have a demand for shitty under-lit meeting rooms that require stewed coffee and stale custard creams…

‘This will be another colossal waste of time.’ Whispers my vertically-challenged, rival manager H, as he sits beside me and that unconventionally pretty woman from the city centre office goes and sits at the other end of the table. Damn the little squirt, I was hoping for some distraction from another poorly-delivered PowerPoint presentation.

‘You know what they say.’ I mutter through my amateur ventriloquist’s grimace, as a butch looking woman, in inadvisable trouser suit, enters the room clutching a clipboard.

‘What?’ Replies B.

‘You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.’ I croak back, trying to keep my teeth together and wondering just how the fat-arsed woman managed to leave the house without checking her appearance. I’m guessing no full-length mirrors.

‘You didn’t let me finish,’ says H hurriedly. ‘ I meant what the hell is that?’ And he nods towards our bulky guest speaker, about to bore us rigid on the Data Protection Act.

It’s not a chivalrous comment but then nobody at the sharp end of sales has much time for pen-pushing jobsworths who know the minutiae of every laxly-drafted piece of legislation, but couldn’t sell a lifebelt to a drowning man. At least not without  torturously advising him of the health and safety limitations of a non-kitemarked flotation device, as he slowly sinks for the final time.

Strange, how the UK property industry becomes progressively hog-tied by clunky laws that produce unintended consequences often detrimental to the intended beneficiaries, and yet is still one of the few countries in the world where an estate agent can practice without a licence, or any relevant qualifications.

‘We could do with some data protection from that fat backside, way too much information.’ Comments H, as the presenter sets up a projector, bending unfortunately in front of us and nearly blanking out 150 x150cms worth of matt-white, flame retardant/mildew resistant Bi-Office tripod screen.

‘Today I’m going to give you a refresher on the implications and implementation of the Data Protection Act 1998.’ Drones the woman as she indicates her dull first slide, now visible on the just erected screen. I can feel another little piece of my life ebbing away and for a moment I think the gurgling is an audible representation of it, until I see H had got the thermos style coffee pot and is pumping the black button to try and liberate some gravy-like cash and carry coffee. He’ll need it to stay awake.

I wouldn’t mind, but I still don’t quite get how the Data Protection Act and the secrecy required, dovetails with the equally ponderous Freedom of Information Act. Who am I kidding? It doesn’t.

‘Here we go.’ Says H sourly, as a slide listing DataProtection principles pops onto the screen.

‘A raft of extra paperwork to do and special status for ever minority and freak show member under the sun.’

And I thought I was the jaundiced one. Still H has a point. We are already unpaid border control and tax evasion monitors. You begin to wonder just what these not very civil servants actually do?

Three hours later and the stale sandwiches arrive and the dull woman with the oversized arse cheeks comes towards me. I never attract the pretty ones.

‘How are you finding it?’ She asks me, grabbing the last two egg and cress sandwiches.

Hard to miss, I feel like saying, particularly as I had my eye on the final food offerings. But of course I do what everyone will do with the Data Protection requirements. Lie and prevaricate.

‘Very informative thank-you.’

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No Tea Or Kindness - Tuesday

‘We’re not giving it away.’ Echo the retired couple in unison. This pair have been together so long they even state the obvious in stereo. They’ve probably even defecate in tandem - thank goodness there’s a bathroom plus a downstairs cloakroom. Some things just have to be done in private.

I’m sat in their run-down living room, a space they insisted I describe as a drawing room on the sales particulars. I was sorely tempted to call it a lounge at the time but I’ve swallowed more pride than a Preston prostitute, so it became a dated term for a reception room - in a dated house.

The couple have been on the market for over a year and I must have spent hundreds of pounds on marketing their home. It’s a substantial 1930s family home on a quarter acre plot, in a sought after location. Well drawn covenants mean demolishing the house and erecting close-density units for maximum profit, remains unlikely - at least for now. I took the initial instruction to sell at a price that was bullish to the point of sporting horns, but the market has moved towards the intractable pair and now I have a good offer at a good price. Only this dilapidated duo are seemingly not for moving.

‘We know what you lot are like.’ Snipes the grey-haired wife as I try to tear my gaze away from her face, which has several antennae-like wiry hairs sprouting from the chin that could probably receive a deep-space message from Voyager 2.

‘Yes,’ agrees her husband shuffling his dentures back and forth with a nauseating clicking sound. ‘You just want your commission.’

No shit Sherlock, I think sourly. On a no-sale, no-fee basis, I’ve earned precisely nothing from the couple so far and the only cost they’ve incurred is the increasingly marginalised Energy Performance Certificate (EPC) and they’ve yet to cough for that. If they take the property off the market, something I’m half expecting now I’ve confronted them with the reality of moving, I’ll end up with that worthless piece of paper and a bad debt.

Agents Note: Dear posturing politicians, the general public have about as much interest in a rough and ready guesstimate of how energy efficient their future purchase might be as a eunuch does in Kitemarked condoms. If the home they fall in love with is 150 years old and has the insulation qualities of a colander they couldn’t give a toss which energy band it falls in, or how many polar bears slide off melting icebergs while they wait for a mortgage offer to come through. They just want the keys.

‘You see nothing on the market is a nice as ours.’ Continues the woman, staring wistfully at the faded family photographs on the dusty mantelpiece. That’s bollocks, but pointing it out isn’t going to make my negotiations any easier.

‘What we’d really like to do,’ begins her husband as I think, don’t say it, please don’t say it dementia denture man. But it spills forth as readily as his last two meals have, judging by the state of his jumper. ‘Pick ours up and put it somewhere else.’

‘Somewhere closer to town and the doctor’s surgery.’ Says his wife, warming to the theme.

‘On a bus route.’ Contributes her husband. ‘We’re not getting any younger.’

Neither am I matey, and you haven’t even offered me a cup of tea, let alone a biscuit - or any other any crumbs of comfort.

‘If we take it off the market, we won’t have to pay anything will we?’ Asks the wife, after fifteen fruitless - and beverage-free - minutes. One of them will have to come out feet-first before I get the survivor to sell. I remind then off the EPC and it’s cost. 

‘You kept that little bombshell quiet.’ Grumbles the husband. I didn’t, it’s in writing in the terms and conditions contract. 

‘It never used to be.’ Gripes the wife. No lady, not for the other four times you’ve been on and off the market without selling.

‘I am a pensioner you know.’ Complains the wife, as I leave empty-handed.

And so will I be before they move. 

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