Drying Ink - Friday

‘So you’re sure we can’t wear short-sleeve shirts?’ Presses assistant manager T, as the uncharacteristically warm weather continues. 

‘You can wear them.’ I tell him ‘ You’ll just look like some plonker who belongs in a fast food outlet.’

‘But they can wear short-sleeve blouses.’ Whines T, gesturing towards the women.

‘Yes,’ agrees trainee F. ‘Doesn’t it seem a bit…’

Please don’t say it.

‘….sexist.’

He said it.

I have a file full of memos - yes, I still print them off - detailing crimes, real, or thought, that the women in Human Resources have flagged-up, most ending in “ism”. Now there’s an industry that is actually growing. They don’t actually produce anything useful, but if you were a careers advisor you’d surely be telling young girls to get some HR qualifications.

‘You just don’t look the part.’ I say wearily. ‘People will mistake you for a McDonald’s employee, or a Hawaiian on holiday.’

‘You’re just exaggerating boss.’ Says F.

Well that’s what I do, particularly when giving people a price on their home. Honesty gets you nowhere, particularly with all the shitesters out there.

‘It does seem a bit unfair on the boys.’ Says negotiator S, leaning forward and nearly spilling out of her over-cantilevered top.

‘She has a point.’ Suggests T.

Two quite prominent ones as it happens.

‘People just expect you to look the part.’ I say, dragging myself back on topic.

‘Not sure they do any more.’ Counters T. ‘Only the old ones.’

‘They’re the ones with the money and the property.’ I remind him . ‘That’s why you shouldn’t have a beard, or tattoos and should polish your shoes daily.’

‘God, not that old chestnut.’ Yawns T. ‘Nobody cares.’

They do.

Now I know I’m getting long in the tooth - it’s why that painful extraction took so long at the dentist recently - but some truisms remain in sales. People judge you quickly when you arrive at their home to pitch for the business. And if you are at a disadvantage straight away, because of your grubby shoes, dodgy tie, or badly-inked tattoos, you’re on a hiding to nothing.

‘Yeh, but you’ve got an obsession with tattoos.’ Says T, as the conversation meanders on.

‘He is right.’ Contributes loose lettings lush B, from her desk. ‘Nearly everyone has one nowadays.’

Yes, and in her case it makes her look even more like a desperate middle-aged slapper, trying too hard.

‘But you’re saddled with them for life.’ I say, to a communal groan. ‘Why not just get a temporary one? Then when you grow up you won’t look like some itinerant fairground worker.’

‘Some of them are works of art, actually.’ Snipes B.

Not the miss-spelt ones, or the cretinous on the face graffiti - and don't even start me on why some knucklehead needs left and right, or love and hate, actually on their knuckles.

I know times change. My mother used to warn me of dire consequences if I ate food in the street. Informing me I’d end up looking like a lorry driver, if I masticated in public. The same fate was predicted if I didn’t pay attention at school. As it happens driving an articulated rig looks a reasonable career choice now. Freedom of the open road, in charge of your own destiny and plenty of room for tax-free cash if you can squeeze a few economic migrants behind the pumpkin pallets. 

‘The point I’m making.’ I labour.

‘Is you’re old-fashioned and prejudiced.’ Interjects T, with a sly wink towards S.

Am I? God, I might have to check the HR file to see if I need to file a self-disclosure report.

‘Just don’t wear a short-sleeve shirt,’ I snap, as morbidly obese mortgage man M waddles in.

‘Or people will tell you they want to go large.’

There’s an awkward silence.

‘What?’ demands M, clutching - disappointingly - a Burger King bag.

‘Fascists and fashion crimes.’ Says T, obliquely.

M shrugs and wobbles away.

‘Look, I could cut off a mullet, ditch the suit with the turn-up trousers and shave a mistaken moustache. But you’re stuck with a this way up arrow on your arse forever.’ I conclude.

And I thought hissing was confined to the pantomime.

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It's Behind You - Thursday

‘You’ve got a ghost house to look at.’ Says trainee F triumphantly, as I walk through the door.

‘Is it going to disappear as soon as I turn up?’ I ask him sarcastically.

F looks hurt, but sticks and stones will break his bones and words won’t - or he’d be in intensive care by now.

I don’t need to visit and market another home with a supposedly interesting angle that I can’t quantify to a belligerent Trading Standards officer, or some prissy pen-pusher still living at home with their parents, who works in a bubble at the Advertising Standards’ Agency.

‘You know ghosts don’t exist, don’t you?’ I ask F flatly.

‘You don’t know that.’ Interjects negotiator S. Good god, I hoped she’d be a bit more level-headed - maybe those enormous breasts are canting her forward again.

‘Well the lady who lives there says she’s seen the ghost lots of times.’ Persists F.

‘After the second bottle of wine, by any chance?’ Asks obese mortgage man M. He may be a peddler of pointless policies, but he does live in the real world. McDonald’s mostly…

‘And she wants to sell, does she?’ I press, starting to lose the will to live.

‘Yes,’ confirms F. ‘I’ve booked you a valuation this afternoon.’

‘Nobody is going to want to buy a haunted house.’ Says loose lettings lush B from her desk.

Thank you, I think fleetingly, until she adds. ‘She should rent it instead.’

‘I think it would be cool.’ Says S enthusiastically. ‘We could get loads of publicity in the local press with an angle like that.’

‘And you’d be inundated by every nut-job in the area.’ Says M, shaking his fat face. ‘Loonies and losers with a credit score lower than Greece.’

‘And they are the type that look but never buy.’ I add. ‘Any normal person isn’t going to be enthusiastic about buying a house with a resident poltergeist. Most people prefer the furniture moving to stop once the removal men have left.’

Now I love a home to market with an unusual story. Not least because you can indeed get the press, and social media, to lap up tales that might allow a sensational headline with a stock photo from Getty attached. They say any publicity is good publicity, especially if it’s free, but ghoulish stories and things that go bump in the night don’t exactly enhance your hopes of a quick sale, or a good price.

‘What was she like?’ I ask F wearily. Let me guess. Eccentric.

‘A little bit flaky.’ Confirms F.

‘Single?’

‘How did you know?’

‘With cats?’ I venture.

‘Three.’ Confirms F, looking at me as though I’m the supernatural one.

‘Flowery skirt, with greying hair too long for her age and a fleece covered in animal fur?’ I ask.

‘You know her don’t you?’ Demands F.

No. But I know the type.

Time was, I used to revel in selling homes with well-known residents from the past. I have even sold a couple with those Blue Plaques on the walls, over the years, detailing famous historical figures who once lived there. But the laws as they are preclude any spurious tales about a home’s history, unless they can be verified and quantified. It’s why estate agents’ particulars are so uniform sanitised and dull. Don’t blame me, blame the consumer lobby who assume every buyer has had a full frontal lobotomy before they were given their first credit card. Caveat Emptor is as dead as the Latin language.

‘So why does she want to sell her home,’ I ask F, after scanning the message book. ‘Surely she loves the company?’

‘Apparently the ghost spooks the cats.’ Says F, in apparent seriousness. 

Now I’m starting to like this  apparition. I’d love to be able to frighten away every little spiteful fur ball that has stuck it’s claws into me over the years. They seem to know a cat-hater instantly, even before I start sneezing; and kicking some malevolent moggy while the owner isn’t looking makes a valuation even harder than it is.

‘Good luck.’ Says S cheerily as I leave later. ‘Do you think she’ll be sensible on price?’

Not a ghost of a chance. 

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Help To Cry - Tuesday

‘Seen this guys?’ Questions fat finance fiddler M, as he sways into the centre of the office, waving his laptop.

There’s a long, indifferent silence. If it’s the McDonald’s website again and a Happy Meal offer for morbidly obese chubsters who blame genes, not intake, I’m not interested.

‘What is it?’ Asks negotiator S, eventually. She’s far too nice for this industry.

M spins his laptop, an action that causes the hint of an exhausted wheeze, and shows us a banner headline followed by the sort of facts and figures, interspersed by indecipherable graphs, that still make me shiver nearly forty years after my last math’s lesson.

‘Over 23,000 mortgage products to choose from currently.’ M replies, with a podgy grin. ‘That’s why you lot need to keep wheeling the confused and desperate in to me.’

‘Didn’t think you could tuck them up with endowment mortgages any more.’ Says assistant manager T, sarcastically.

M scowls at T. ‘That was along time ago,’ he says defensively. ‘And anyway products are much more sophisticated nowadays.’

‘People still don’t understand them though.’ Ventures trainee F. He’s right, but not the best advocate as he still hasn’t grasped how to work the franking machine, without clearing our complete credit balance on one mis-stamped envelope to Spain. If only I could post him somewhere….

‘What you mean,’ argues T. ‘Is there are more ways to confuse vulnerable borrowers and flog them insurance policies they don’t need, that won’t pay out if they are actually terminally ill.’

‘That’s a very jaundiced view.’ Snaps back M. ‘And you might not want that repeated at the next sales managers’ meeting. Particularly with your level of introductions.’

There’s an uncomfortable silence, one I feel I need to fill. But then I’m more aligned with T, than M. I hate flogging mortgage and insurance products, I’m here to sell my clients’ homes at the best possible price. But sometimes you have to swallow your pride, particularly as individual targets leave you more exposed than a flasher on a breezy beach.

‘We are a team.’ I say, unconvincingly, as loose lettings’ lush B, totters through the door on inappropriate heels. She ignores us all and heads for the kitchen, where I hear a kettle filled with enough water for one.

‘It’s not the product range that causes young people a problem.’ Says S, with raised eyebrows in the direction of B and her solo beverage. ‘It’s the fact that people will never be able to save up enough for the deposit, if they are paying rent at the same time.’

‘Exactly.’ Agrees T. ‘And that government Help to Buy scheme was a shambles. You save, they are supposed to add to your pot and it turns out you can’t use the funds for the 10% deposit. It’s a joke’

T is spot on. The hastily launched proposals, like most Government plans for UK housing in the last two decades, were clumsy and without detail. But as ever, by the time the schemes were called in to question, the clowns who launched them were long gone and lunching in the city on a lucrative consultancy deal, with a featherbedded pension. Come the revolution….

‘All you need to worry about is getting them in front of me.’ Says M, with a queasy smile. ‘I can do the rest.’

‘Yeh, but I’m nor sure I’d want any friend of mine taking on a thirty-five year mortgage.’ Counters T.

‘Or my granny being coerced into an equity release plan on her house.’ Adds S.

‘Yes, but I’d like my own flat with an en-suite and a gym in the basement.’ Says F, with a glassy-eyed stare.

‘That’s more like the attitude we need.’ Concludes M triumphantly.

‘They not need any financial advice?’ Quizzes M, later.

I’ve just seen new clients to the door. They’ve verified my draft particulars, signed up on a sole agency, entrusted me with the sale of their home and I really want them to do well. I don’t want them hurriedly stitched up, they can go to A & E on a Saturday night for that.

‘Got their own financial advisor.’ I tell M, fingers crossed under the desk.

A man needs some integrity.

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