Accidental Landlord - Monday

Loose lettings lush B, has a grumpy-looking middle-aged couple sat at her desk. It’s fairly obvious the expensive German saloon car with personalised plates illegally parked outside the office window, is their car. The latent socialist insider me, wants to despise them, but I’ve learned the hard way not to be too quick to judge. There are two sides to every story.

‘First thing you need to know.’ Says the man to B, assertively. ‘Is I won’t entertain any tenants on benefits.’

‘I get that one-hundred percent.’ replies B, with feeling. ‘They are the bane of my life.’

‘We’re on the same page then.’ Responds the man. ‘I’ve spent too much on lawyers and court fees to have another single mother with a sob story and three kids by three different men, spend the rent money on alcohol and tattoos and not pay me.’

Now I hate stereotyping and there are plenty of decent people who have fallen on hard times, who need help. The trouble is there are too many for the taxpayer to cope and an awkward minority turn private landlords away from renting to them, by trashing their properties and spending the state-paid rent money on anything but the rent.

‘We will only consider proper couples, in decent jobs with cast-iron references.’ Says the woman, leaning in towards B, as if she doesn’t want anyone else to hear. I am, of course, listening fervently. For a moment I thought she was going to say they wanted to exclude potential tenants on racial grounds. We’ve come a long way since landladies put signs in their front windows stating, No Blacks or Irish, and thank goodness for that. Although her undertones tend to suggest they might want us to profile people on their sexuality. It’s illegal and won’t be happening on my watch.

I really want to dislike this couple, but then they may have become accidental landlords like thousands of others when past chancellor, Gordon Brown, ransacked their pension pots, by moving the tax goalposts. And if I could afford any savings, money that didn’t make any tangible interest, maybe I too would want a sensible return by buying a second property. I certainly wouldn’t want some irresponsible scumbag, who trashed the decor, alienated the neighbours and didn’t pay the rent in there. And, I suspect, neither would you.

‘Is that your car?’ Says assists manager T, pointing at the Mercedes with the blinking hazard lights, as he hurries through the door.

‘Yes.’ Says the landlord warily.

‘Only the traffic warden is on his way up the high street, with a glint in his eye.’

‘Blimey,’ says T with a chuckle as the door rattlers in its frame and the disturbed air swishes around the office. ‘Didn’t think old people could move that fast.’

‘They weren’t that old.’ I counter defensively, as the car disappears from view, just as the trainee nazi traffic warden skulks past. He looks in threateningly. God, it’s no wonder there are so many empty commercial shop units in town.

‘I’m glad they are gone.’ Says negotiator S, with an attractive pout. She’s magnificent when angry.

‘Thanks a bunch.’ Snarls B, as she watches a potential client drive away.

‘They were pair of bigoted old bastards.’ Snaps back S. ‘There are laws about people like that.’

‘Would you like some drunken-slapper in your house, not paying the rent.’ Asks B, without a hint of irony. She freeloaded at the last boyfriend’s flat for six months, drinking his sauvignon in return for sex, until he changed the locks. 

If the last ten UK Housing Ministers had the hint of a strategy and had stayed in place long enough for the sign-writer to put their name on the Westminster door, maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess. Reliant on a pressurised private sector of landlords to plug the gaps. For years this country has had too few properties, over-inflated prices for the average worker and no sustainable social homes building policy.

Given half an hour and a box of bird feed I could train a budgie to do a better job - but I’ve got to fly.

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Band Aid - Tuesday

A scream echoes round the office and nearly gives me a heart attack. At my age and with celebrities sharing the same birth decade dropping like flies, I can’t afford too many sudden shocks. As it turns out, F the idiot trainee, is the one risking electrocution.

‘What have you done now?’ I demand, as I enter the main office and see F hopping around his desk like some epileptic frog. 

The question is rendered as redundant as he should be, when I see a pool of hot coffee spread across his desk, seeping into his keyboard, as the free mug from a lending institution I really dislike, sits on its side almost empty.

‘He’s spilt his drink.’ Says negotiator S, as she moves to F’s work station and starts to dab at the puddle with some tissues.

‘Careful you don’t short-out the circuitry.’ Cautions assistant manger T, making no attempt to help. My circuitry is close to meltdown, I think uncharitably, and I can’t just be mopped down then switched off and on again.

‘How did you manage that?’ I demand, as F stops jerking around and patting at his sodden shirt sleeve. He won’t know.

‘I don’t know.’ He confirms, clutching at the dampened material, before saying pitiably. ‘I think I may have some sort of burns.’

‘Well it won’t be first degree.’ Suggests loose lettings’ lush B. She knows F flunked an expensive private education and is also well aware you don’t need any qualifications to become an estate agent.

‘You’ll be alright.’ Soothes S as she finishes clearing up the spilt beverage and begins to lift the dripping keyboard.

‘Careful.’ I tell her. ‘It might give you a shock.’

‘It’s low voltage. Shouldn’t be dangerous.’ Opines T still sitting in his chair, some distance away from any potential electrical arc.

‘I’ll get the first aid box.’ Says S, dropping the stained tissues into F’s waste paper bin and heading for the kitchen.

‘Slim chance of anything useful in there.’ Says obese mortgage man M. ‘Health and safety Nazis took everything out of the box, last visit.’

M is right. The paracetamol and Ibuprofen I left in the red plastic container were confiscated. The cream for minor cuts and abrasions removed, in case of allergic reactions and the scissors taken - presumably to stop me from stabbing someone from head office with a job title as meaningless as Esperanto.

‘Yep, he’s right.’ Confirms S, as she lifts the lid of the first aid box and pulls out a couple of faded bandages and square of linen that might double as a sling for a petite pantomime performer, should Snow White be playing at the local theatre.

‘About as useful as a chocolate tea pot.’ Confirms M, with a hearty chuckle.

‘That could cause even more nasty burns.’ Says T, with a smirk.

‘Good one.’ Says T.

If they high-five each other, I might really need to call casualty.

‘They’ve even removed the safety pins.’ Says S, with a shake of her pretty head, as she empties the useless contents on to the desk.

‘But surely….’ Begins F, still waving his arm around piteously.

‘Don’t even go there.’ Says T.

‘No point.’ Adds M, smugly.

Put your hand in the air and you’ll be needing a first responder, I think, scowling at the blubbery buffoon.

‘You’ll be wanting this.’ Suggests B, as she tosses an embossed A4 sized stationery item at me, while S tenderly inspects F’s arm, now his soggy sleeve is rolled up. Fleetingly, I wonder if I can produce a spillage she could attend to. Best not.

I Frown at B. She’s given me the company accident book. A journal where all incidents, no matter how trivial, must be recorded - for personal protection and insurance purposes. Translation: to cover the companies corporate arse cheeks, should someone wish to sue, retrospectively.

‘If I fill anything out there’ll be a load of pointless paperwork.’ I grumble.

‘Your shout.’ Says M, ducking responsibility with surprisingly agility, for one so bulky.

‘I think I’ll live.’ Says F, stoically.

I’ll be the judge of that.

I take a chance. 

If the ambulance chasers turn up, I’ll feign illness.

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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.

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