Tea And No Sympathy - Thursday

The phone rings and I look straight to the main office - my door is always open. Negotiator S is already on a call and nobody else is in sight.

I lunge for my handset. Three rings is the optimum, any less and you appear desperate, any more and people start to think they’re ringing an on-line agent - or call centre as we like to name them.

I trill out the corporate greeting, it’s cheesy but at least it’s consistent and gives an air of efficiency. My professional veneer soon strips away though, as I hear idiot savant trainee F’s, nasally whine.

‘Oh, I didn’t expect to hear you.’ Begins F hesitantly.

The choices for arsenic-laced sarcasm are endless but I remember he’s on a string of viewings and might be with a buyer.

‘How can I help?’ I ask pleasantly. That obviously throws the fool.

‘Err, you’re not going to like this.’ Replies F, as my goodwill vanishes faster than biscuits at a Weight Watchers’ end of term party.

‘What is it?’ I say curtly, realising he’s not with punters, or one of our vendors.

‘I’m a bit lost.’

I realised that months ago, but like a hopelessly over-committed gambling addict I need to keep playing. I’ve invested so much so far and training up new staff is….well… a bit of a lottery.

‘Where are you.’ I demand. I know where he should be, he’s got the keys and two sets of property particulars. I checked before he left the office.

‘That’s just it.’ Says F. ‘I don’t know. My sat nav has dropped out.’

Now can call me old fashioned - plenty do - but I never trust some random ex-military piece of hardware orbiting the earth. My old school A to Z of the office area is as well-fingered as a porn mag at a boarding school. Of course, like London taxi drivers made redundant by Uber and the circulating circuity 36,000km above me, I have the knowledge in my head. I know my patch more intimately than a one-eyed pirate. F is due to walk the plank.

‘Wow that sounded angry.’ Says S once I’ve ended my barked directions to the house, where a cash buyer with a deadline might still be waiting for  a jerk in a badly-fitted jacket.

‘He’s lost.’ I tell S curtly. Teeth grinding again. The dentist will be rubbing her latex-gloved hands with glee. I’m pretty sure I’ve paid for a small Polish village to be rebuilt over the last few years.

‘How can he be lost?’ Asks S. She’s trying to remain neutral and doesn’t want to bury her colleague, but I’ve already dug a metaphorical hole that will be challenging Melbourne soon.

‘His sat nav isn’t working.’ I say, as what feels like a lump of amalgam crunches to the back of my throat. Terrific.

‘Hasn’t he got…’ Begins S.

‘A map?’ I interject caustically. ‘ No, it appears those are for old fools with a fear of the future.’

‘I’m fearing for his future.’ Says S, with a disarming smile.

God, she’s good. I’m going to hate it when she gets pregnant.

‘The point of difference between us and some numpties behind a website and a multitiered switchboard in Mumbai, is we should know our area intimately.’ I rant towards S. She just keeps smiling coyly and I can feel myself faltering.

‘If we haven’t got a personal service, with local knowledge and experience we have nothing.’ I tell her, running out of anger as she just smiles back knowingly. If I could bear to lose her, they should drop her into the latest world conflict zone, she’d soon have them all bonding and drinking green tea.

‘Rant over?’ She finally asks gently.

‘For now.’ I answer as gruffly as I can manage. I can feel myself smiling and it’s not a good look with the state of my teeth.

‘Cuppa?’

Yes, she’s good.

‘You’re not going to bollock him when he gets back, are you?’ Asks S, as I sip on the brew.

I try and raise a scowl.

‘Because I know you’re a softy at heart.’ She says grinning.

I’m lost.

-------

Away - using a map - for two weeks. Any Stateside realtors who spot a Brit looking in their window, say hello. It might be me.

Room For Improvement - Wednesday

‘This looks a right dump.’ Says assistant manager T gloomily, as we pull up outside a boarded-up mid-terrace house, in the less salubrious part of town.

‘They don’t exactly hoover the carpets before they go.’ I tell him sarcastically.

‘I’ve got no sympathy.’ Replies T. ‘If you don’t make the payments what do they expect? They’re not exactly Greece.’

I glance at the newly minted set of keys lying in the car’s coin tray. The house we’re about to enter is a voluntary repossession - not that the word voluntary ever seems appropriate when the lender snatches back someone’s home. The keys arrived in the post along with our instructions to market the house once two independent valuations have been carried out. Carried out by sports jacket wearing surveyors who live at home with their mothers and have to ask us what the house is worth, before they put their professional opinion in writing.

‘At least the locksmith has done the hard work.’ Speculates T, nodding towards the flaky paint front door, where a new brass lock barrel is shiny incongruously against the general neglect of the front elevation.

‘Did you remember the torch?’ I ask T, as I clamber out and feel my sciatic nerve ping like a racquet string popping.

‘Yup.’ Answers T nonchalantly.

The boarded windows are to keep squatters out but it’s a safe bet all the services will have been disconnected. We’ll be stumbling around in near darkness with God only knows what littering the floor. I should get danger money. Instead I get commission.

‘More keys than a jailor here.’ Says T, as he tries to open the door while I glance at the paperwork. It might be a digital age but those lenders still like lopping down rain forests.

‘Got it.’ Mumbles T as he frees the door and pushes inwards. A sickly waft of fetid air rises in our faces.

‘Food left in the fridge?’ Asks T, features creased in distaste.

‘That or another dead body.’

T fumbles for the torch switch, as he kicks away the junk mail piled high against the door sill. Nothing happens. Preparation! I want to scream, but according to my wife I’m more OCD than the mumbling man who pushes a shopping trolly round town, matching plastic bags arranged meticulously down each side. He probably used to be an estate agent….

‘Did you check the batteries were working?’ I demand tetchily.

‘They were last time.’ Counters T petulantly.

One more dead man in an empty home might not be noticed, I think fleetingly. Before heading back to the car to get my own torch from the glove box.

‘I though someone was supposed to have cleared this place.’ Says T disdainfully. The smell is getting stronger and we’ve not made the kitchen yet. Boxes of junk are piled against the walls and several black plastic bin liners are spilling content that would look at home on an Mumbai rubbish tip.

Then something suddenly moves in my peripheral vision.

‘Ayeee. What the f**k was that?’ ScreamsT, like a schoolgirl.

Heart pounding, I sweep the beam towards the abrupt movement, just in time to see a unfeasibly long curled tail skittering out the door.

‘Tell me that wasn’t a rat.’ Says T, designer glasses flashing in the half-light.

‘Well I don’t think they left their pet gerbil behind.’ I answer with a shiver. We’re going to need pest control again. I wonder if I can strike a deal and get them to terminate the cheap-fee agent that opened last year, at the same time?

‘Smell is definitely coming from the fridge.’ I tell T as he flings open the back door and some welcome light illuminates what is left of the kitchen. All the cabinets have been torn from the wall, leaving just two copper pipes with taps balancing on the end above where the sink used to be.

‘Why don’t they leave the white goods in the garden like the other chavs round here.’ Snipes T. Nodding towards the offending fridge. He’s yet to be made redundant. But he’ll learn.

Think it was once, a bag of prawns.

-------

Sniff out a bargain with the ebooks - links on the right.

Please Hold Caller - Monday

‘No calls for a while please.’ I tell the office as I begin the retreat to my own space. I don’t often close the door – not least because it’s lonely in there - but some calls need to be away from the general public.

‘Got to speak to the bean counter’ Asks assistant manger T with a wry smile.

Not sure publicising the nickname for my pedantic little figure-fiddling boss was the smartest move I’ve made, but once the lid’s off the box…

‘I’d rather not initiate a call.’ I tell T as he nods in understanding.

‘Secret girlfriend?’ Suggests lettings lush B with a salacious smirk.

‘He’s happily married.’ Counters negotiator S sweetly.

‘Yeh right.’ Contributes fat mortgage man M sarcastically. ‘We deal with more matrimonials than the Citizen’s Advice Bureau.’

‘You’re so cynical.’ Says S with the sort of naivety that only a girl with a single-hand boyfriend count since school, could muster.

‘If you must know,’ I tell the team, glad of the delay. ‘I’m about to ring a customer help line.’ The laughter takes a while to subside.

‘We’ve got to listen to that.’ Pleads T, tears of mirth not far away. ‘Could you instigate your open door policy?’

I promised myself I wouldn’t use the F-word and I fail even before I dial the suspiciously coded number that will probably cost me 45 pence a minute, or at least the bean counter - an upside I hadn’t expected.

‘I’m guessing it won’t be a pleasant experience for the end-user.’ Suggests S with a smile. I bang on day in, day out, about listening to clients needs and responding positively without resorting to a script. Major on the point of difference someone human can give, if they really go the extra yard – metres are available too you Trading Standards Nazis – and respond to requests by doing what they say, by delivering top-notch service. Without it we’re just another agent that nobody likes much.

‘You should tape it so we can have a giggle later.’ Suggests T. The secret recording equipment was banned some time ago, but not after we had several Christmas parties-worth of tapes where other agents responded to fee enquiries and mailing list requests, with laughable ineptitude.

It’s illegal to record without permission.’ I say limply. I think it is, but then I can’t keep up with conflicting legislation at the best of times. I’m supposed to be the Freedom Of Information Act officer - but I try not to tell anyone. The Data Protection Act just adds to the confusion. The thought of telling the call centre drone that I might record my call for training purposes gives me some amusement though. It won’t last.

‘You’ll probably get some dozy Indian who can’t speak English.’ Snarls B with the lack of political correctness that wins her lots of love from Eastern European tenants, trying to rent without references in English.

‘You can’t say that.’ Counters S feistily.

Race Relations Act, I’m 99% certain…

‘We are experiencing high levels of calls,’ clanks an automated voice I already hate as much as that officious woman on my wife’s car sat nav.

‘Of course you are.’ I mimic. When don’t you? I insist my staff answer within three rings but this doesn’t seem to apply in Mumbai. And the accountants think they’re saving the company money by sacking UK staff.

Ten minutes of unlikely 80s soft rock later I’m given several keypad choices, none of which are what I want. I press the # key repeatedly, just for the hell of it. I read somewhere if you don’t conform you jump the queue and speak to a real person. Instead I’m asked for my date of birth, something that really pisses me off.

Far off birthday recited twice, order number parroted in the slow fashion you’d talk to a toddler, or a tottering pensioner, and I’m asked for my home address. The expletive vow fails again.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that.’ Chimes the digitised voice. ‘Did you say: 4 Duck’s Lake?’

Close, but no cigar - and no refund. I had to hang up to take a call from my boss.

-----

Read don't ring, it's better value:

http://amzn.to/ttGZ4j