Drip Feed - Wednesday

‘How many more of these flyers do you want?’ Asks trainee F, as he leans over the chugging colour printer. It seems to be working for once. If the engineer spends any more time in the office he’ll want his own coffee mug.

‘How many homes in the catchment area we’re going to mail drop?’ I respond. Answering a question with another question is an annoying management trait but the query is out before I realise it.

F stares at me with that vacant possession look he’s perfected, as an unpleasant grinding noise fills the air. It takes a moment before I realise it’s the printer, not F’s overworked grey matter, producing the distressing sound. He pushes the stop button and lifts the lid to expose a mangled piece of A4 with a familiar storyline about, homes wanted in your road, sale just arranged, disappointed buyers offering sexual favours to estate agents for first chance of a viewing….

‘F•••ed again.’ Says loose lettings lush B from her cluttered desk. It could be a statement about her activities last night, but I’m hoping she’d referring to the over-priced heap of electronic tat the bean counter boss made all the offices instal. No doubt it saved him a few pence on leasing costs and produced an attractive bottom line, I think, as appropriately enough negotiator S sways across the office distractingly.

Attention jerked back towards the troublesome machine I continue my internal dialogue. The number crunchers love to fiddle with suppliers to justify their existence, but at the coal face it means multiple jams, and call outs so regular that we all have the engineer’s mobile phone on speed dial. Still, here’s hoping the bean counter gets some more sponsors’ corporate tickets to those major sporting events.

‘So how many do you think we need?’ I say to F, once he’s tugged out several mangled sheets of paper and re-set the printer, with a little help from S.

F looks at S despairingly, as she tries to mime something to him. His frown lines deepen as I begin to lose my cool.

‘Electoral roll!’ I bark aggressively, immediately regretting the phlegm-flecked verbal assault.

F looks at the floor and for a moment I thinks he’s about to perform some sort of gymnastic head-over-heels carpet tumble. Fortunately S steps to the filing cabinet, bends over athletically and brings out the list of names and addressees for our office area.

‘In here,’ she says soothingly, handing the thick printout to the thicko. ‘You’ll find the information in here.’

‘Not sure this is that great.’ Says assistant manager T, as he reads one of the less mangled leaflets, with the fact meets fiction claims and a photograph of a house we sold recently in the area.

‘And why’s that?’ I ask him frostily. I changed it three times before giving F the go ahead to copy scores of them. I also remembered to add the warning paragraph about potential vendors checking terms and conditions before instructing us, if they have another agent already retained. Got to keep the Property Ombudsman happy.

‘I’d think we should have the price we sold number seven for.’ Replies T.

‘New owners get a bit pissy about that.’ I tell T, knowing of several complaints over the years.

‘It’s a matter of record.’ AnswersT. ‘Anyone can check with the Land Registry.’

T is right, but the data takes a while to come through and some buyers are a bit cagey about letting the world know their business - and the transaction is called ‘Private Treaty’.

‘I think this is the best way for now.’ I tell T. I might be wrong, the goalposts have been moved on me so many times, I feel like a forgetful council groundsman. But as we now have several hundred copies of the leaflet I’m happy to take a flyer…

‘It’s starting to chuck it down.’ Announces T, as I come back in to the main office post-piss. F and T are standing by a pile of the aforementioned leaflets. S is manning the phones, B is filing her nails.

Not sure where it goes on the profit & loss account, but I take a rain check.

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Deadlier Than The Male - Thursday

I’m sitting in my office watching the sales floor. My colleagues hate me lurking and observing but then some agencies monitor their staff remotely with closed circuit cameras, at least I go for a piss regularly. More regularly than I used to unfortunately.

B, the loose lettings lush, has a young hippy-looking couple in front of her and the discussion is getting heated. B isn’t even bothering to try and chat up the male as he has longer, glossier hair than she does and his girlfriend – the one who’d be wearing the trousers if it wasn’t for the flowery maxi skirt – is looking daggers at her. Not a lot of love lost for estate agents.

‘I’ve told you.’ Reiterates B sternly. ‘You won’t be moving anywhere until I get the employers references back and we sort out why you have a bad credit score.’

‘It’s just the man on our case.’ Replies the beta male dreamily. He’d still be smoking something in the office if it weren’t for the legislation. I stifle an audible scoff at his risible, persecuted lefty response just as M our fat mortgage man waddles by, scoffing more visibly.

‘My father will act as guarantor if necessary.’ Responds the flower girl in a cut glass accent that echoes privilege, a horse of her own and a private education. She must be shagging the shaggy-haired-loser just to piss of her parents. The same ones she expects to underpin her rental agreement. Age brings failing eyesight, but 20/20 insight.

‘He hasn’t responded to our correspondence.’ Snipes B, forgetting half a dozen customer service courses and countless reminders from me, to treat people she’s not screwing with a bit more courtesy. I hear a grinding noise in my head and realise it’s my molars again. A trip to the Polish dentist can only be days away.

Without consciously deciding to, I’m out of my seat and in the main office. If a complaint is coming I’d like to nip matters in the bud. The last thing I need is the bean counter and head office requesting reams of written reports on why someone wants to speak to the Property Ombudsman. You usually subscribe to an organisation for a benefit or two, but I get the feeling the Ombudsman’s office hate agents as much as everyone else does.

The straight A* girl is out of her chair and on her iPhone, moving towards the window imperiously while her slumming it f**k buddy looks pretty vacant and plugs in his MP3 headphones. B is visibly coming to the boil. I try to attract her attention, with a calming signal that makes me look - on reflection in the window glass - like a pianist with an invisible keyboard. The girl is speaking haughtily, her boyfriend tapping his fingers on B’s desk, while B shuffles paper at a speed that might cause combustion.

‘Daddy,’ urges the girl in a voice that has dropped a decade in age. ‘These beastly people are giving Virgil and me a hard time. You need to sign some silly undertaking before we can have our flat.’ I sense an overworked man, in an office grander than mine, trying to swallow his pride and an obligation to pay six months rent about five months after his daughter has dumped slacker boy and run home for mummy’s cooking and cleaning - and the chance to ride Dusky the gelding more regularly than Virgil.

‘Please.’ Inveigles the girl persuasively. ‘I just must have this place Daddy. I’ll die if we miss it.’

I sense but can’t hear another beaten man, on the end of the phone. Women are the decision makers where most property transactions are concerned. B is not even bothering to disguise her distaste but then she’s shafted plenty of men too. The boyfriend is oblivious to the drama, sat engrossed in his own audio-cocooned world, longhaired head nodding rhythmically. He’ll be bald and on the council accommodation list before his thirtieth birthday.

‘You could have been more understanding.’ I coax gently after they leave. B bites, as she’s rumoured to do out of hours.

‘I hate bitches like that.’ She snaps. ‘Manipulating, conniving, using.’

Put pot, kettle and black on the inventory.

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