Nearly New - Tuesday

The company car has been running on the drive for a good ten minutes. It’s probably de-frosted by now and the bag of nails rattling sound indicates nobody has stolen it, so I guess it’s time to go.

‘Good luck.’ Mutters my wife with a chilly peck on the cheek.

‘For today? In general? Or for the year?’ I fire back icily.

She raises her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Whatever you want it to be.’ She eventually offers, with a slight shrug. I’m in fourth gear and just about able to see out through the misty screen, by the time I realise I’ve been a complete arse again. But then as an estate agent you do have certain stereotypes to live down to….

Sales people hate the new week, month, quarter and most of all year. It’s when the targets are at their most distant and your progress towards them zero. As another year begins I can’t help that overwhelming wave of melancholy.  It’s so much more than just post-Christmas regret at the excess of sweets and mince pies, and the forthcoming dispiriting trip to Marks and Spencer to queue at the returns counter, after all the mis-judged purchases were either inappropriate or the wrong size.

One year I came in to the office, already depressed by the fact the week was short and my sales on nought, to find two deals had fallen through over the Bank Holiday. So I began the mountainous climb, on minus two. Think I comfort ate all the remaining Bounty bars in the office tub.

On the grid-locked dual carriageway, I once again see the same blank faces, slightly chubbier around the jowls maybe, but empty in every other way. The only people exceeding their sales targets this week will be the impossibly trim and cheery waifs flogging gym membership at the health clubs and fitness centres. Come March they won’t be so unstintingly upbeat.

My mobile rings insistently and I realise I haven’t connected the wretched Bluetooth headset I can’t abide. As the traffic has stopped again, I risk a quick glance at the screen and see trainee F’s number flashing. If he’s calling in sick because he’s drunk too many pints of Jagermeister, or whatever vile un-naturally coloured alcohol he sinks, I’ll finally bite the bullet and start the torturous dismissal procedure.

‘Yes?’ I demand, having swiped to answer.

‘Happy New year boss.’ Says the imbecile, with an discernible croak to his voice. Unless it’s terminal, I’m not going to be happy.

‘Don’t tell me you are calling in sick.’ I say bluntly. There’s a long pause and some sort of hand over mouth muttering. It sounds like his flaky on-off girlfriend is in the room. I don’t even want to imagine if she’s on, or off. 

‘Well?’ I demand, as the traffic starts to move and I get a disapproving look from a woman in a four-by-four. At least I’m not killing polar bears lady, I want to scream - until I remember my lengthy de-icing period while my car chugged fumes into the atmosphere and I chugged  Cornflakes with too much sugar.

‘Err, no.’ Answers F unconvincingly. ‘I just wanted to be the first to wish you a Happy New Year.’

‘You didn’t - and you’re not the first.’ I reply uncharitably.

‘…and to say I might be a bit late,’ continues F. ‘It’s not my fault though.’ He volunteers, in the now time-honoured default position of anyone under thirty. ‘The car is iced up.’

My cold blast of sarcasm vented, I punch the call to a close and we’re off again. Stop-starting all the way in to town where I find the car parking charges have gone up again. This clueless council won’t be happy until the whole town consists only of coffee shops, charity units and whichever estate agents make if through the inevitable freeze.

‘Spare some change for a cuppa?’ Pleads one of the park bench winos, as I slip-slide towards the office. Any money extorted won’t be for tea and as I’m doing Dry January you can too, I think as I step gingerly on. Not sure what he and his pisshead mates will do when everyone is using contactless payment, probably get a card reader and a decent 4G signal.

The office window looks as I left it, except one of the timers for the lights seems to have failed again and at least one bulb in the working side is out. I could leave it until February and I doubt anyone else in my office would notice. Instead I make a mental note to order some new halogen units before they stop making them, those things eat power.

The office feels cold and unwelcoming as I hurry inside.

And so it begins.

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It's Christmas - Wednesday

‘Anything happening?’ I ask, returning to the office. The annual stumble round the shops looking for last minute presents didn't go well. I was stopped in Marks and Spencer for the umpteenth time and asked where the ladies’ coats were? Now if they’d asked where the underwear department was, I’d have been more accommodating. Funny how when I’m bumbling round the main store in a suit everybody assumes I work there, but when I linger too long by the lingerie, the actual staff members look at me with suspicion.

‘Not much.’ Answers assistant manager T with a barely stifled yawn.

‘Nothing but time-wasters this time of year.’ Says lettings lush B with a sneer.

‘Or desperate to buy, or rent, people.’ Counters negotiator S.

‘Yes, but the trick is to tell the difference.’ I add sagely.

‘How do you tell the difference? Asks trainee F.

Telling him to put the kettle on was a bit harsh, but the paradox is, you often can’t sort the genuine punters from the complete nutters - at least not until they are on a viewing, in your car, sitting behind you and making you feel nervous. Best that F perfects the art of the perfect brew, before trying to decipher a perfect property storm.

‘Did you have any luck?’ Asks S, nodding towards the shopping bags I’ve deposited beside the desk. 

‘I’ve got a few presents but they are mostly pants.’ I say wearily.

‘Oi, oi,’ chortles fat finance man M, with an unpleasant gullet-rasping sound. ‘Got the red basque and suspender set too, did you?’

‘You haven’t a clue, have you?’ Says S, scowling towards M. You can see why his wife left him.

‘Bean counter rang when you were out.’ Says T, referring to my figure-fiddling boss. 

‘Where did you say I was?’ I ask urgently.

‘Don’t worry,’ soothes T. ‘I told him you were on a valuation.’

I was pricing up, I suppose, so I’ll settle for that.

‘What did he want?’ I ask. Looking at the day and date on the nearest computer screen. I can already guess.

‘If we were going to have any more contracts to invoice this month.’ Confirms T with a shake of his head, adding. ‘Has he never tried to get a solicitor to answer the phone in December?’

He’s never even sold a doll’s house, let alone a real one. But he’s good with numbers. Accountants will inherit the earth, the fact that they are meek and terminally dull is just a lucky coincidence for Matthew, or whoever ghost wrote his bit of The New Testament.

‘You could pretend you were The Pope asking for an update on your sale and most lawyers would still not take your call at this time of year.’ Says S ruefully. It’s too late for divine intervention to save my sales figures this month. Better to hold some deals over until January and have a flying start. I just need to keep it a secret from the boss, he want to have his Christmas cake and eat it.

‘Hi everyone.’ Says the board man as he breezes through the door. He clearly knows the bean counter is looking at board movement costs again, as he’s wearing an unconvincing smile and clutching an even less plausible tub of those Celebrations chocolates every shopping outlet has piled high, throughout the month.

‘All ready for Christmas?’ He asks chirpily, before adding a cheap looking card to the bounty he has deposited. And Bounty is about right. It used to be bottles of whisky, or a good red wine, now we share some crappy chocolates in the sure and certain knowledge that we’ll have loads of the coconut ones left come next year.

‘Thought he’d never go.’ Says T after the board man has indulged in some stilted chit-chat for five minutes before realising he’s about as wanted as another estate agent in town.

‘I felt a bit awkward we didn’t do a Christmas card for him.’ Says S sweetly.

‘Why should we?’ Quizzes B, with a scowl. ‘He wants our business, not the other way round.’

That’s B, goodwill to all men - at least when she’s pissed.

Happy Christmas and a prosperous New Year everyone.

---------------

The Song Remains The Same - Sunday

We go, with friends, to a late summer festival in a field. Now there was a time, when the prospect of loud music, loose women and not washing for several days held an allure. Reading 1977 with a porous tent springs to mind. A weekend of mud, mayhem and a ruptured ear drum seemed an adventure at the time. Now my hearing is buzzing naturally, and if I want to have a shower I favour the en-suite, rather that a leaky fly-sheet giving a constant dripping even my bean counter boss can’t match.

‘It’ll be fun, stop moaning.’ Says my wife as we bump the car through a rutted field and the clouds darken, even as I swipe madly at her wretched smart phone I still can’t master, endeavouring to get the latest BBC weather forecast.

‘I see enough people living in squalor at work.’ I tell her cussedly. ‘If I want drug addicts lying in their own filth I’ll just go on the next Letting Department’s eviction.’

‘Is he always this negative?’ Asks my wife’s friend from Fat Club - or keep fit as they like to call it.

‘He didn’t used to be.’ Replies my wife, slightly morosely.

Possibly not, but when I was wearing straight jeans with a 32 inch waist and Graham Parker and The Rumour, Thin Lizzy plus Aerosmith, nearly deafened me, I hadn’t been flogging homes for coming up for three decades. Somewhere along the line the fun went out of it. 

‘Thank God we’re not staying overnight.’ I tell our motley crew - pretty sure they hadn't been formed in ’77’ and it’s a different spelling entirely - as we pass the tented village. A rainbow coloured forest of cheap nylon, and fluorescent guide ropes, flutter in the gathering breeze as I spot the schoolboy error many have made by pitching at the bottom of a dip. Waterside views might fetch a premium in the housing market but when it’s flushing through your sleeping bag with turds bobbing past your head, I’m suspecting the surveyor’s damp meter might not be the only thing to blow a fuse.

We erect our collapsable chairs towards the back. I’m not repeating the mistake I made at the Oasis concert that time. Not much worse than  aching for a piss, unable to move backwards or forwards, while a bunch of neo-Nazis try to start fights while opposing groups lob plastic bottle full of urine at each others' heads. Liam wasn’t happy - but then he never is.

‘See, this is fine,’ says my wife soothingly, as she opens out the picnic blanket and unfurls a coolbox full of Marks and Spencer ready foods which probably cost more than my entire 1977 weekend did. ’It won’t be too loud  and we can watch the bands on the big screen.’ She smiles and starts chatting aimlessly to her friend. I look at her partner, a man I barely know. He’s something big in the City.

‘Beer tent?’ I ask him. ‘I’m more of a wine man.’ He replies. Of course you are.

Several pints in, stodgy portion of couscous consumed and I’m fighting the bladder alarm. The ruddy-cheeked man is joining in with the ladies’ conversations having decided he really has nothing in common with beer-swilling estate agents - except when he wants notice of a cheap investment property to add to his portfolio. I’ve taken a stomach churning dislike to the man which might, in truth, be partially as a result of the durum wheat rehydrating in my guts courtesy of two quarts of London Pride, but also because he’s basically another odious bean counter.

Finally I break the seal, realising I’m condemning myself to regular bog-trots between now and the headliner’s first engineered encore. The row of regimented portable toilets look like shit attempts at low-cost first-time buyers’ properties. Appropriately enough, queues of mostly young women are lined-up outside them. Sitting room only.

‘Eh-up, it’s the estate agent!’ Slurs a familiar-looking man as I stand at the rank-smelling urinals. Gentle heat haze rising from the gurgling gutter. My heart sinks.

Time to face the music.

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Hot To Trot - Tuesday

‘Looks like it’s going to be another warm one.’ Says my wife, tugging back the curtains to let an unaccustomed cascade of light into the bedroom. I wince at the brightness and in preparation for the long-running dispute that I can sense is about to recommence.

After decades of selling homes, in all markets and all weathers, I still can’t quite get use to the few short months when the bedside alarm ushers in the local radio retards, in daylight. Incidentally, it’s probably just me, but it seems you need to have some sort of speech impediment to get into broadcasting now - and a name with no vowels in it.

‘What are you wearing today?’ Asks my wife. This would seem like a perfectly innocent question to a bystander - although why anyone would be standing in my bedroom unannounced I can’t imagine. Move along, nothing to see here. But I know there’s a barely hidden agenda.

‘I’m not going through that again.’ I tell her as I stumble towards the shower.

‘I’ve ironed a couple.’ Counters my wife artfully.

‘I’ve told you a hundred times,’ I say wearily. ‘I’d look like an Australian bank manger in a short-sleeve shirt.’

‘I’m not suggesting you wear the shorts and knee-length socks.’ Counters my wife, eyes heavenwards.

She just doesn’t get it.

The UK weather doesn’t present too many occasions for this sort of marital dispute, but over the course of my stubborn career I’ve had this running argument, every few days our summer doesn’t resemble an Indian rainy season.

‘You’ll be much more comfortable.’ Says my wife as I arrive back five minutes later, soggy and still groggy. She’s holding up a flimsy piece of clothing enticingly, but not in a good way. Short-sleeves just don’t look professional in my opinion. I strive for that Barack Obama level of cool, roll up the long sleeves if you have to, but don’t resemble a barman in a Spanish cocktail bar. The item she’s presenting was an unwise purchase for a Greek holiday and I’m pretty sure I didn’t even wear it then. Although after several glasses of post-prandial Ouzo I can barely remember my own name, let alone which dodgy Marks and Spencer summer shirt I was wearing when I danced on the table.

‘Are you even doing anything?’ I shout at my car dashboard, as the traffic slows and I try to calculate if I’ll still be the first in the office - almost certainly. My arms are warming like a couple of kebabs on a barbecue, and I’m more hot under the collar than usual. I spin the dial on the fan and all I get is more noise and a higher velocity of warm air. The air conditioning in my ageing company car, needs topping up again. I just can’t face the customer service hell hole the local main dealer provides. There are only so many molten-plastic-laced cups of vending machine coffee you can endure, only to be told: ‘The parts for that ain’t in stock mate. You’ll have to come back next wednesday.’

‘Morning.’ Says negotiator S warmly, as she breezes through the door and I sit at the main desk, sweat dripping down my back unpleasantly. S looks hot too, but in a much less sweaty way - although….

I watch as she walks to the kitchen area, puts the kettle on then returns to her desk. Demure just about covers it. She’s in a skirt and sleeveless blouse combo. The top must be man made, as the fibres are under almost as much pressure as I am.

Then the door opens again and the contrast couldn’t be more dramatic. B our loose lettings lush click-clacks in on those vertiginous heels. She’s rocking the slutty teacher look. Skirt shorter than S’s by a good three inches, dark lacy bra showing conspicuously through a white top. More make-up than a circus act. And stockings.

Finally M, the man-mountain mortgage peddler arrives. He’s perspiring like a cook at a Chinese take-away. Deep damp patches under his arms and a moist line down his dark blue shirt, tracing his vertebrae. No sign of a jacket.

Not cool.

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Barely There - Saturday

‘What are you wearing?’ Asks my wife. Sadly it’s not one of those phone sex calls they have in movies and I’ve never received - despite donning my lucky pants so often they’ve become frayed at the edges. I need to change them and the name, it’s a misdescription that might attract the attention of Trading Standards if I applied the moniker to a home. 

‘I don’t know.’ I answer gazing in the wardrobe disconsolately. It’s the weekend and my turn on the rota to work. Traditionally Saturday, or my pet hate Sunday working, allowed staff members a bit more flexibility with the dress code. The sort of latitude 1908s yuppy bankers first enjoyed when dress-down Friday’s migrated across the pond from America.

I shudder to think of some of the fashion crimes I committed back then, when my enthusiasm and hair was much glossier. The braces were, obviously, a custodial offence in any enlightened civilisation and the baggy trousers with the turn-ups a look that should never return. I really ought to take then to a charity shop and clear some space in the wardrobe.

‘Half of those suits won’t fit you any longer.’ Suggests my wife unkindly. I glance at my waist and wonder if I’ll make it through until lunchtime, fuelled by the meagre muesli she’s insisting we both eat for breakfast in a display of marital solidarity - and because she has a weigh-in later at fat club.

‘You never know.’ I tell her fingering an ill-chosen combo I bought a decade ago without her input. She calls it the “clown suit” but I’m not laughing. The salesman, a potential estate agent now I think about it, convinced me the trousers and sleeve-length on the suit could easily be altered. But after my wife compared the look to David Byrne’s - from Talking Heads - outfit (younger readers might like to check out the You Tube - Girlfriend Is Better, video) it has stayed firmly on the hanger.

‘Fashion is cyclical.’ I tell her pulling out a ghastly navy blue blazer with gold buttons and hurriedly returning it in a cloud of dust.

‘Yes, but you’re more cylindrical now.’ She replies grinning. ‘They won’t ever fit again, double breasted is supposed to refer to the jacket.’

She can be quite harsh.

‘How about the sports jacket?’ I ask beginning to lose the will to live and seriously considering donning a weekday suit and wearing that. I can see now why women take so long to get ready.

‘Hold it up.’ Instructs my wife. I lift the check-patterned item, a pricey number that actually cost more than my default Marks and Spencer two piece - extra trousers available for when you inevitably split the crotch.

‘Hmm.’ Says my wife unhelpfully.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I demand angrily, one eye on the bedside table alarm clock. I’ve got a full day of viewings to do and can’t afford to be late. Might just have time to grab some chips on the run though, I think, as my stomach rumbles loudly.

‘Nice jacket.’ Says my homely weekend lady as I hurry through the office door, navy blue trousers snugger round the waist than I remembered.

I look at the fifty-something mother accusingly, searching for artifice, but she only sells homes two days a week and hasn’t picked up too many bad habits yet.

I employed her, and the even older lady who alternates, on the basis she’d be reliable, likely to stick at it and had reached the menopause. Obviously keep the last bit to yourself. So far it’s working out, although training them on the computer system was a challenge.

‘Haven’t worn it for a while.’ I answer, glancing at the office diary and seeing two more viewing appointments have been shoehorned in.

‘I can see why.’ Sneers lettings lush B, from her cluttered desk. She’s about as happy to be in as I am, but at least I’d pass a breathalyser.

‘Are we the first to see it?’ Asks the husband as I fumble with the flat keys then drop the bloody things. The ripping sound as I stoop echoes round the landing

Depends which angle you look from.

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Second Innings - Friday (continued)

I’m on my third glass of bubbly administered by the increasingly hot looking girl in skirt and blouse combo and it’s not even midday. I don’t usually do lunchtime drinking as I either get dozy or demonstrative but the lure of free booze and a babe dispensing it has me hooked. That and the fact I need a bit of Dutch courage to try and compete with the privileged brayers who are sharing the executive cricket box with me.

As we climbed the stairs I still expected the steward to pull me aside to double check my ticket. To tell me no riff-raff here and I should try the public section where the beer is served in plastic glasses and those in off the peg clothing, or fancy dress are more likely to fit in.

‘The trouble with these losers who get into arrears is they are over-leveraged.’ Pontificates some ruddy-cheeked suit to another weak-chinned chap with what might be some sort of club tie, it’s so garish. I ache to jump in and tell him repossessing someone’s house when they are still inside is about the most soul-destroying thing I’ve faced – apart from the weekly sales figures chart. But the girl is back with a top-up.

I should talk to someone, but despite the fact I do that all day every day, I’m on familiar ground. This bunch of entitled arses seem to converse in spreadsheets and acronyms. Head starting to feel light in both brains and balance, I see M my bloated mortgage man is across the other side of the room talking animatedly to a fellow chubster, in between mouthfuls of canapés. They say there’s no such thing as a free lunch but M is making a pretty good fist of it. I‘m just not that hungry any more.

Unsteadily, I turn and see that out on the balcony is a man alone. He has a short sleeve shirt on which isn’t the best start, but I’ve learned not to judge a book by it’s cover after selling multi-million pound homes to people scruffy enough to get turned down for a Big Issue salesman’s job. I step outside and the heat and light make me wince. Below, the arena is an impossible snooker baize colour and uniformity, and a batsman has just laced leather through the covers to a building crescendo of applause.

‘Great strike.’ Says the man with no fashion sense I’m now woozily stalking. The accent is thickly American and I’m already hoping he won’t have class issues, or notice I’m wearing chain store shoes and a Marks and Spencer shirt. The truncated education and failed woodwork O level will always be with me, but I read a lot, bluff a lot and avoid making bookcases. I introduce myself but decide not to give him a business card. He’s something in the City of course, on secondment.

‘So property guru eh?’ Enquires the man as another ball hurries to the ropes and the raucous section opposite us jump to their feet and mimic the umpire’s signal for a four. It looks more fun over there, even if you have to drink over-priced gassy beer from a disposable beaker. He thinks you’re a Guru calls the triumphant inner voice, buoyed by Veuve Clicquot on the shareholder’s tab.

‘Not really.’ I say with what I judge should sound like false modesty. ‘I just dabble.’ In scuzzy ex-local authority flats with pools of urine in the lift. Says the third man, now positioned in my head. And crap conversions with  porous plasterboard, suspect building regs and no soundproofing, continues my inner barracker chipping away like a mouthy wicketkeeper.

‘They told me this game was like baseball.’ Announces my Yankee friend shaking his head in bemusement. ‘I haven’t a clue what’s happening.’ You and me both pal I think, spotting a pitchside advertisng banner for one of the big law firms I despise.

‘More drinks gentlemen?’ Asks a feminine voice, as I see the new love of my life approaching.

‘What do you reckon buddy?’ Asks my companion. ‘This lot seem a bit dull. You want to knock the ball out the park?’

I just might.

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Ice Ice Baby - Thursday

‘You could wear a short-sleeve shirt today.’ Suggests my wife, gazing out the window at unaccustomed morning sunshine. You’d think she’d know me better by now, but they still try to mould you, however mouldy you are.

‘Short-sleeve shirts are for computer engineers and door to door salesmen.’ I tell her snootily.

‘You are sort of a door-to-door salesman.’ She retorts with a twinkle in her eye. She’s not getting me that easily, especially as I’ve already showered and don’t need to get hot under the collar…

It’s a long-running argument. I accept it might be more comfortable to wear casual sports wear on the few days we get any decent weather in this rain-lashed island, but you are just going to look like Alan Partridge or one of those dicks that run their own estate agency as if it’s their front room. Sitting there in slacks and a tank-top jumper, with some wheezing Labrador lolling on the office carpet as if it makes the whole operation homely. And don’t even start me on the knobs that wear designer polo shirts, loafers and artfully battered £200 jeans – it’s just distressing.

‘I just think you’d be more comfortable.’ She persists over breakfast, as youngest son raises his eyes to the heavens. He’s going to get a prematurely wrinkled forehead if he stays at home too long.

‘It’s not about feeling comfortable.’ I tell her absurdly as I pick at the dusty muesli she insist will help my girth and not necessitate that long-delayed move into the next waistband size, and a whole wardrobe full of new suits.

‘What is it about then?’ My wife presses. ‘You don’t want to be turning up in people’s homes hot and sweaty. I wouldn’t instruct an agent that smells of body odour.’

I take a surreptitious sniff under my shirt armpits. My son increases his frown line damage and moves a step nearer to early-application Botox. I’m fresh now, post shower and with the liberal use of under arm deodorant but come mid-afternoon, two sales fall-throughs, a duff survey and my third abortive valuation I might be a bit stale. Not stale enough to look like an antipodean bank manager though. Those television programmes where they follow families thinking of relocating to Australia or New Zealand still make me shake my head in bemusement. I shouldn’t watch them, but anything property related has a masochistic attraction. There’s always one partner driving the move on the back of some drunken gap year when they didn’t have three kids, a heavily mortgaged house to flog and limited career options. You should never go back. Bruce or Sheila have moved on and are probably bald or saggy and property prices are no longer in your favour. If you can’t make it in the UK it’s a fair bet you’ll do no better just because the sun is shining and you can barbecue nine months of the year.

‘It’s all about how you present yourself.’ I tell my wife as I gather my briefcase and pull on my jacket, already too hot, but refusing to compromise.

‘As sweaty and overheated?’ She replies, kissing me on the cheek with about as much enthusiasm as a blunt-beaked woodpecker.

‘I just know what I feel comfortable in.’ I tell her doggedly. Hoping the air con in the car doesn’t need topping up again. Is there a bigger racket than that industry? Apart from estate agency, obviously.

It’s my armour, I think, as I drive in to a slowing traffic queue and see the orange flashing lights of that bastard in a JCB digger who delights in travelling at peak rush hour time. I feel protected in a suit. It gives me that 100% wool carapace to keep the public at bay. To maintain a veneer of professionalism when sometimes I’d like to just tear off my shirt and go toe-to-toe with the latest time-waster, liar, or deal-wrecker that comes across my path. Like an anonymous Blog, the two-piece mix and match from Marks and Spencer keeps me at – long-sleeved – arms length from my life stripped bare. I don’t have to show the real person as long as I remember to do my zip up after pissing.

‘Air conditioning is leaking again.’ Announces assistant manager T when I hurry through the door red faced and damp with perspiration, mid afternoon. I’m not the only thing dripping. A bin sits in the middle of the office collecting the run-off from the overhead unit. T is sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up untidily. B, the lettings lush, is in a vest top and busty S, my comely negotiator, is just about wearing a flimsy blouse. The temperature continues to rise.

And I used to think I was cool.

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