Wrong Move - Friday

‘Who was in the gents’ last?’ I ask, as I stagger back into some fresh air. It’s a rhetorical question. I already know it was M the clinically obese mortgage man. God alone knows why some people wait until they get to work to carry out their morning ablutions. I’m used to getting dumped on in this business, but I’d rather it wasn’t by colleagues.

‘I think you probably know.’ Replies negotiator S with a rueful smile. She nods towards M’s office where he is hunched over his laptop staring intently. I’d like to think he’s researching the best rates for first time buyers - or even air freshener sites - but it’s probably something more grubby.

‘Oh my daze.’ Exclaims trainee F, bringing me back to the present as he holsters the phone, claps a hand to his forehead before heading to where I’ve just emerged from. Good luck with that boy, you’ll need an aqualung.

‘What’s he confused about?’ I ask S, thinking the choices are endless.

‘Confused?’ Says S, head cocked to one side alluringly.

‘Yes, he was in a daze.’ I reply, starting to get tetchy even before I begin looking at group stats and the office league table.

S suppresses a giggle. ‘No, he said Oh my days.’ She tells me with a shake of her head.

‘What does that even mean?’ I snap back, wondering just when I became such a grumpy old man?

‘It means he’s had some surprising news, or a bit of a shock.’ Enlightens S.

The clown will certainly have a shock when he enters the toilets, and M has undoubtedly been enlightened…

‘Why can’t he speak in recognisable English?’ I grizzle. ‘It’s not as if his mother didn’t waste enough money on private schooling, now he has to effect some sort of hooded-street-thug patois.’

Now S is looking at me quizzically and I belatedly realise.

‘No, I don’t mean block paving in a garden - that’s a patio for crying out loud.’

I can feel my life ebbing away.

Non-standard slang and street talk explained as patois, I move on. I don’t have time to make up for all the deficiencies of Britain’s education system - and I thought I was betrayed when Margaret Thatcher stole the milk allowance.

‘Mrs Franklin on line three.’ Announces S later. I throw my hands to the sky.

‘The flat on London Road.’ Coaches S gently.

After enough people to fill a phone book, I can remember the properties but not the surnames.

‘We really need to get some viewings.’ I announce after five minutes with my ears being bent and a further two flannelling the woman on why we’d have some viewers for her home shortly. Even as I peck at the keyboard to pull up the history of Mrs Franklin’s flat, I suspect something has gone wrong.

‘iPad!’ Exclaims F with a familiar hand to forehead gesture.

‘I’m not interested in your birthday wish list.’ I snap irritably. It’s an expensive two bedroom flat, not an overpriced tablet I’m discussing. But something about F’s demeanour alerts me to a problem, one that becomes apparent as the property record rises onto the screen in front of me. We haven’t mailed out any details of Mrs Franklin's flat. Not one.

Now it’s true internet property portals are the main channel for enquiries and also for advertising homes for sale. And it’s equally true estate agents dislike the cost of the vast search engines. For years I was overcharged by the local papers, now it’s on-line robbery rather than ink and paper pilfering. And the irony is, a group of estate agents set up and nurtured one of the most well known sites. It’s a bit like greedy relatives with power of attorney emptying their ageing relatives bank accounts before the care home costs rack up.

‘Who was supposed to action the mail out?’ I ask angrily, grimacing towards F.

‘iPad.’ Repeats F eyes downturned.

I look to S for help.

‘He said. My Bad.’ She tells me.

Apparently it means I’ve screwed up. 

I’m also told opticians now do hearing tests….

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Rights And Wrongs - Friday

‘This is a pretty crap area really isn’t it?’ States trainee F as I weave the company car in and out of ageing Fords and Vauxhalls parked half on the kerb, half on what’s left of the grass. I hesitate to point out to him that this may be crumbling ex-local authority housing stock but the prices are still way out of his reach.

We’re on our way to measure up a voluntary repossession, the keys and instructions from the lender nestling in my briefcase. At least I know the outgoing owners will be long gone this time, it’s when they are still inside it gets messy. A scruffy brace of teenagers, hoods raised, look at us menacingly as I slow to walking pace to ease between a huge flatbed 4 x 4 and a rusty Citroen Saxo with more differing coloured panels than Joseph’s Technicolor Dreamcoat.

‘How come some houses have all new windows and roof tiles and some are all rundown?’ Asks F pertinently, as I spot the 1950s built semi in question. As if to underscore F’s question, the house we’re about to enter is scruffy, with the exception of a low-level picket fence to the front and a naff-looking windmill, while the adjoining home has updated UPVC and tiling.

‘The next door place is still owned by the council.’ I tell F as we clamber out of the car and I feel several pairs of eyes watching from behind net curtains. The dislike is almost palpable. At least if they key the car it’s not my long-term problem.

‘So they are actually in better nick than the one’s people bought?’ Questions F, brow furrowed.

‘Often.’ I tell him. ‘The people with mortgages can’t afford the upkeep.’

F shrugs and stands aside for me, his bovine brain clearly working on another question more rickety than the gate he’s just opened.

The house is typical of the era. Open-plan front garden, no garage, hence the on-street parking issues. To the side, is a narrow, wire-fence-bounded walk-through to a concrete shed, once for coal, more often full of bikes and rusty prams now.  We stop outside the front door. A door I now open with the shiny new set of keys, as I wonder if the ex-tenant, now ex-owner, regrets exercising their options.

‘So this was, like, one of those right-to-buy jobs then?’ Asks F uncertainly, as we check out, first the cramped under stairs cloakroom, with the temperature of a morgue, then the through lounge/diner to the rear kitchen, fitted with a cheap-looking DIY kitchen units, not quite level. A tap drips mournfully as I glance at the 100-foot garden, wildly overgrown, with the odd discarded push-along toy rising from the grass like some avant-garde entry at the Chelsea flower show.

‘Yes.’ I tell F as I unpack my clipboard and begin scribbling my notes on autopilot. I know the floor plan by heart and could probably guess the measurements it wasn’t for fear of prosecution under that pesky Property Mis-Description Act.

‘It was a mixed blessing.’ I tell F as I continue to jot down the home’s particulars and wonder how I’ll get a decent picture without using PhotoShop.

‘So they all just turned a big profit then moved on?’ Asks F, as we make the upstairs landing and I see the cramped third bedroom and undersized bathroom, and then check out the two bigger bedrooms, both with cheap louver-fronted fitted wardrobes, circa 1970.

‘Those that didn’t run out of money and couldn’t make the payments.’ I tell F.

‘It was that women who invaded the Falklands that done it, was it?’ Says F, throwing me briefly, until I realise he’s talking about Margaret Thatcher. Sometimes I feel really old. Ignoring F’s tenuous grasp on history, I tell him that, as with most things in property, there are winners and losers - and no easy solutions.

‘So this place will be cheap then?’ Concludes F when we are back out by the gate and I’ve taken several snaps, none of which will hide the obvious without artifice and a risk of prosecution. I tell him my suggested number and he almost chokes.

If I’m right, he won’t be buying.

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