Hot In The City - Tuesday

‘Thank God you are here.’ Cries trainee F as I stumble into the office, sweat pouring down my back. It’s one of a handful of days in Britain where the jet stream has finally lodged somewhere north of Aberdeen and sunshine has appeared.

I’ve just walked through the park where a motley collection of students, winos and civil servants on flexi-time, are lounging around consuming, drugs, cheap cider and ice creams. It hasn’t improved my mood, after an abortive valuation with a couple who seemed to think their ex-local authority semi, bought at a massive discount, could now be sold for north of £500,000. I didn’t see any solid gold bathroom fittings…

‘What is it?’ I demand of F, thinking some disaster has befallen one or more of our sales in the protracted pipeline. He spreads his hands wide, as if I’m the idiot with a squandered education and the IQ of something asexual, raised in a test tube.

As ever, I look to S my pretty negotiator for guidance, just as an unpleasant trickle of sweat runs straight down my spine and in to my underpants. God I hate wearing a suit and tie at the best of times, but when the sun finally peeps from behind the blanket of grey, it is even more unpleasant.

S looks towards the ceiling and I follow her gaze towards the hulking air conditioning cassette, where I now see a steady flow of fluid, dripping into a waste paper basket on the floor.

‘Oh for f***ks sake.’ I bellow and instantly look at the swear box on top of the filing cabinets. Another massive fail to go alongside the useless ceiling unit that sits unused for 360 days of the year, then pisses bacteria-riddled water into the office on the one day you actually need cooling.

‘Hadn’t you noticed how unbearably hot it is in here?’ Asks F indignantly.

You know what? I hadn’t actually, what with sitting on a stained couch in a superheated smoke-filled lounge, trying to persuade a pair of greedy bastards that their shabby home in a pretty shitty area wasn’t in fact Buckingham Palace in disguise.

‘Has anyone called the engineers?’ Asks obese mortgage man M, waddling across the office, shirt sleeves rolled up, unpleasant dark stains under his armpits. Fashion tip: Don’t wear a dark blue shirt when the sun comes out - and don’t haul round several scores worth of unnecessary lardy poundage either.

‘Fat chance of seeing them before the first frost.’ Predicts assistant manager T.

‘Well we can’t work in these conditions.’ Contributes loose lettings lush B, unhelpfully.

‘Just leave the office door open?’ I suggest, more in hope that expectation.

‘Christ no,’ snaps T. ‘You don’t want every nutter under the sun coming inside.’

I’m tempted to point out that no office had air conditioning when I started out in estate agency. But I was mocked relentlessly when I told them we used to have to send off 35mm films for next day processing, before we could produce property particulars. They already think I’m a dinosaur, no need to hasten my extinction.

‘Is there not some rule about maximum office temperature, before you can go home?’ Asks B, rather too enthusiastically.

‘I think it’s only a minimum temperature, not a maximum one.’ Says M, mopping his brow, with an unpleasantly discoloured linen handkerchief.

‘What about that Shops and Factories Act poster in the mens’ dumper?’ Suggests T.

Yeh, I need to relocate that before the next visit from the Human Resources nazis.

‘Any luck? Asks S, gently after I’ve spend twenty fractious minutes on hold, before speaking to a moron with English as a second language, at our mandated air conditioning maintenance company. The bean counter boss sacked the local family firm we’d used for years and gave the contract to some centralised bunch of shitesters, who quoted rock bottom price for subterranean service.

‘It seems they are very busy this time of year.’ I say sarcastically.

‘Bloody thing sits there idle all year and when you actually need it to do something useful it’s a monumental waste of time.’ Spits T.

I don’t think he’s talking about F, but it’s a sticky moment.

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Cold Not Comfortable

Slip-sliding across the sort of frozen pavement that causes fallers and shattered limbs in the elderly population, I can’t help wondering if the probate business might pick up in a month or two. Every cloud has a silver lining.

‘Spare some cash for a cuppa?’ Calls a gruff voice as I sashay sideways like some inept celebrity, dancing on ice. I spot the unshaven tramp-like figure lurking in a boarded up doorway. The unit will shortly become a charity shop, which might help the dishevelled man eventually, or heaven forbid, another estate agent that most definitely won’t.

I’ve spent a couple of decades avoiding wastrels and beggars who plead for funds to fuel drinking and drug habits while I work fifty hour weeks to keep a roof over my own family’s head, but lately as I attend yet another repossession, I’ve started to think but for the grace of a god I’ve seen no sign of, it might be me one day. With my sales experience I’d hope to make a more convincing case though - there’s no way this guy would spend any money on a mug of tea.

‘Sorry mate.’ Says a voice I recognise and I hurry on and nearly take a tumble for my troubles. Black ice and an increasingly black mood will have me falling sooner or later. A phlegm-filled expletive is spat in my direction as I hurry on towards the office. I think another wino might just have realised my profession.

‘It’s cold in here.’ I say out loud as the ringing of the just-silenced alarm fades away. The talking to myself has become an all too regular occurrence. I’ll be stopping strangers in shops soon on the pretext of not being able to reach some item on the top shelf, them trying to engage them in conversation. Only a short step to asking estate agents to come and value my home, when I’ve no intention of moving.

I punch the heating control to no avail. The bloody system isn’t firing-up again. I can see my breath in the air and a quick glance at the thermometer confirms a temperature that the Shops and Factories Act might not find acceptable. I have a feeling the guidelines state something like 16 degrees centigrade, or 13 in an active environment. Not sure if folding leaflets for a chilly drop later, counts as active, so I decide to hide the thermometer instead.

‘Bit parky in here isn’t it?’ States assistant manager T, arriving moments before opening time. There’s still no sign of the other staff.

‘I hadn’t noticed.’ I fib, cheeks colouring and sending a little warmth my way.

T marches to the heating programmer and fiddles with the buttons, as he presses and curses the rest of my team arrive, puffing and stamping feet.

‘Heating is f***ed again.’ Announces T unhelpfully.

‘What’s the thermometer say?’ Asks lettings lush B.

‘It’s not on the wall.’ Replies T turning to look at me accusingly.

‘Tea or coffee guys.’ I ask, using a well-tried distraction technique.

‘If he’s making drinks there must be a catch.’ Rumbles obese mortgage man M. No danger of him getting chilled to the bone.

‘Isn’t there a statutory minimum temperature you have to have, or you can go home?’ persists B despite the viscous black coffee I’ve made her.

‘It’s just advisory.’ I tell her to less than convinced glances. ‘I’ve called the engineer. I’m sure he won’t be long.’ Both statements lack credibility but I’m betting the former will be the more accurate.

‘Oh great.’ Moans T, looking out the window and sipping on his own tea.

‘What is it?’ Asks negotiator S, hunkered down over something hot and steamy I’ve provided. For clarity, her coat and my trousers are still on.

‘Mad Mrs Munroe.’ Replies T. ‘Hasn’t she got anything better to do?’ Probably not, her husband died some time ago and like a lot of people she’s been fantasising about property and a second coming for years.

‘Nothing for you today Mrs Munroe.’ Says T heading her off at the door. The poor woman looks confused.

‘You know my name?’ He’s been in her bedroom three times, despite the sign on her front door.

No cold callers.

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