Barn Dance - Sunday

‘Wow what’s this worth?’ Asks my wife’s friend in stunned admiration. We’re on a long weekend break with the friend and her husband, plus another couple, all of whom know I’m an estate agent but have still agreed to share a vast barn conversion with us.

You either love or hate barn conversions, there’s no middle ground. I’m staring at the soaring trussed roof, two vast original beams spanning the width, one with the original builder’s name burnt into the wood, date of construction in the mid nineteenth century. It’s a fair bet the more recent timber-framed homes, built for humans not livestock, won’t last as long as this sturdy structure - although you could probably fit a dozen starter homes in the space.

‘Well ?’Asks my wife’s friend again, as I realise everyone has dropped their bags and are looking at me expectantly. Not many people want to holiday with an estate agent, but everyone wants to know property values from you. I can only imagine doctors are quizzed on fellow travellers’ bodily growths, and how best to remove a vacuum cleaner nozzle from a penis without visiting A & E, in the same way. I can only imagine…

‘It’s not an easy one to value.’ I begin to a chorus of scorn.

‘You would say that wouldn’t you?’ Scoffs one of the men. ‘Probably want to knock it out cheap to a contact and pocket half the difference.’ It’s only the fact that he’s half-smiling and we’ve paid up-front for three nights, that stops me from grabbing a farming implement from the wall and knocking him into the stalls.

The fact is, one-off homes, are hard to value. It’s why you see guide prices, or offers in the region of, in agents’ advertising. Sometimes the only way to find a property’s value is to test the market, with maximum exposure. A trick those snobs who think they’ve kept some mysterious allure about their home by shifting it ‘off-market’ to some cash-in-hand oligarch with a red-trouser-wearing buying agent in tow, miss completely. They probably deserve each other.

Reluctantly I give the two couples my guesstimate. Predictably, one set think much higher, the other way lower - pretty much a mirror image of every seller and buyer. Then the home-proud owner arrives to demonstrate how everything works.

‘We’ve designed it all to be eco-friendly and energy efficient.’ Gushes the woman excitedly. Paid over the odds for untried technology then, I think, as I spot the colour- coded waste bins that mean I’ll be expected to sort through and separate tea leaves from leftover animal parts later in the weekend – or not. 

The specification is impressive and the vast open plan living area with galleried landing is fantastic for three day parties like this is planed to be, but actually living there 24/7, trying to get away from cooking smells or noisy children, would pose a few logistical problems.

‘Wouldn’t you love to live somewhere like this?’ Asks my wife, as I kneel in supplication before the wood burning stove that has refused to light, despite me shoving in almost a box full of distinctly un-eco firelighters I smuggled in as contraband. I’m not getting any more splinters from chopping kindling again. Axes just make me mad.

‘It’s an illusion, ‘ I tell my wife bluntly, as someone else’s Daily Mail goes up in flames. A pleasing accelerator for the suspiciously green looking logs.

‘These place are just not that practical and it’s a thirty minute drive through cow shit to find a Tesco Express.’

‘Mr Grumpy.’ She says spinning.

Mr Practical I think, turning to see the newspaper sputtering to ash with no sign of the wood taking.

‘There are no radiators.’ Proclaims my wife, shivering and looking at the unlit log burner accusingly. That will be under-floor heating. It’s environmentally friendly but f***ing freezing. 

‘How does the hot water work?’ Asks someone else’s wife later, appearing in a dressing gown as I open the second bottle before the sun has reached the pig sheds.

‘It’s solar powered.’ I tell her trying not to look at the towelling-free gap at thigh level. ‘You might need to wait for it to heat up.’

‘How long?’

I’m guessing about May.  

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Sound Of Breaking Glass - Sunday

Not sure how long this eco-friendly surge will last as I rather despise the worthy, beardy, touchy-feely, all animals should be cherished and not eaten brigade. But I’m off to recycle again. I’m going before the sun has barely risen, as I woke in the small hours once more, fretting about contracts and month end sales figure, plus I’d like to get to the recycling point before too many people can see me.

Company car loaded, a faint smell of alcohol permeating into the cabin space, I set off in the half-light only to see that obsessive car cleaning neighbour is already out on his drive, caressing his vehicle again. He’s wearing bright yellow rubber gloves and has his jet-washer plugged in and ready to go. I’m trying to stop planet pollution and this tool is about to subject the neighbourhood to early morning noise pollution. If I ever want to sell, he’s the type of twat that solicitors will be asking about in pre-contract enquiries, so I dare not put any complaint in writing. Don’t ever leave an audit trail - unless you are fending off the trading standards people.

The man looks up as I drive past and gives a cursory nod. He knows what I do and, like many, doesn’t like it. But then he’s some sort of number-cruncher – akin to my bean-counter boss - so the feeling is mutual. I just have the grubbier car.

To my dismay, the recycling point is already busy as I pull up and brake a little too sharply. I’m rewarded with a muted rattling and at least one shattering sound from the back of the car. Terrific.

I can see an old boy looking at me, even as I start unloading my considerable cargo. I seem to attract nutters like flies to a turd. Nothing in my body language says engage with me please - I do enough of that during working hours - but he’s clearly desperate to catch my eye and begin a conversation.

‘Morning.’ Announces the pensioner cheerily, as I struggle to lift far too many sagging and slightly soggy cardboard bottle carriers.

I give him the sort of nod the compulsive car cleaner gave me earlier, but I know that won’t shake him. He watches as I begin the laborious task of posting spent beer and wine bottles into the metal containers. To a cacophony of clanking, I deposit an embarrassing number of glass vessels, a vague recollection of the time and place of consumption flickering through my mind as each crash and smash echoes accusingly back at me. He’s still looking.

‘Good party was it?’ Asks the man brightly. God, surely there’s a 24 hour help-line for these people? They shouldn’t have to hang around Tesco Express car parks. Do I tell him it wasn’t a party? Mention I’m an estate agent and I don’t have that many parties- or friends - but need to drink heavily after six days a week of wearing engagement with members of the public, people like him? Probably not.

‘I just haven’t been here for some time.’ I tell the stalker neutrally and not entirely truthfully

‘I’m off the sauce.’ Announces the man explaining why he has that slightly wired look and has started the engagement I didn’t want. He clearly hasn’t tried to move house for a while, I think, sourly. But I’m wrong.

‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ The persistent pest questions, as I return for my third trip to the car, cardboard containers replaced by those supermarket carrier bags. The ones they are reluctant to give you now and only hand out if you surreptitiously ask for them like some pervert requesting top-shelf material involving farm animals and Wellington boots.

‘Possibly.’ I say neutrally, shoving two bottles of dusty convenience store sourced merlot from a particularly bleak night when my wife was at fat club and my day had involved slim-pickings and two sales falling through, into the bin

‘It’ll come to me.’ Insists the man, as a trickle of stale red wine runs down my arm as if I’ve slashed my wrists.

‘I’m the estate agent.’ I tell him curtly.

Conversation over.

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Machine Rage - Wednesday

I’m in Tesco Express again, against my better judgement. The Misdescription Act regulates outlandish marketing claims in property, with draconian punishment by the Trading Standards drones if you transgress. So I’m wondering, just how they get away with the Express bit?

‘Come on.’ I mutter gracelessly as a crumbly woman fiddles with her purse when she finally makes the one living staff member behind an actual till.  I’ve purposely avoided the bank of flashing self-scan positions on rapidly dwindling principles, but I’m already regretting my stubborn Luddism. ‘Oh get on with it.’ I grumble as the OAP with time to kill and a resistance to lung cancer, decides to ask for ten of some obscure cut-price cigarette brand, then thinks it would be a good idea to chat to the woman serving.

I’ve only come in to pick up tea and coffee for the office. We’ve run out again because nobody had the foresight to mention the bottom of the tin was winking at them when they spooned out the last granules. Gallingly, I’ll be subsidising the office caffeine and tannin intake for the next month or so, as since the bean counter boss cut the petty cash float to pennies, I’m expected to fund sundries at my expense. He’ll doubtless quibble over the receipts when he finally deigns to sign them off.

‘You gonna use the self-serve?’ Asks a thirty-something woman behind me with a basket of goods in her hand.

‘No,’ I answer. ‘You go ahead, I don’t get on with them.’

She pushes past me with a cursory nod and begins the un-edifying procedure of obeying a computer and packing your own goods to the tune of an automated voice. A voice I just know would be admonishing me by now with an, unexpected item in bagging area report.

‘This is rubbish isn’t it?’ Says a male voice behind me. Now I’m never that keen to engage in conversation with members of the public unless there’s a fee at the end of it, but something in this man’s tone makes me recognise a kindred spirit, so I turn.

A greying-at-the-temples man with a cheap suit and a sour demeanour is looking back at me. I’m hoping he’s older and less successful than me but it’s a close call.

‘They should just put a couple more minimum wage checkout people on.’ I say tersely as the queue behind us builds to about ten dour-faced shoppers, all looking at their watches and slowly marinating in their own frustration. I notice the elderly woman monopolising the one living and visible staff member has now fished a lottery ticket from her handbag and is asking for that to be entered separately. Ring the f**ing bell, I ache to scream. Just get some more help.

‘I tell you, if I ran my business like this I’d go bust inside a month.’ Says my new best friend, as I wonder idly what he does for a living? I’m not about to ask or I’ll have to confess my own profession and a fight is already a distinct possibility amongst the angry shoppers. And now, as I wish I’d succumbed and tried the self-scan, I notice the woman who went ahead of me has come up against a problem and the light on top of the station she’s at, is flashing for help. Finally, as the OAP oblivious to the fact that a jar of Nescafe to the skull might finish her off where a sixty year nicotine habit has failed, asks for a strip of scratch-and-win Instants, the staff member rings for assistance.

‘Watch this.’ Predicts the man behind me with a world-weary tone I thought I’d patented. And a spotty youth with an Every Little Helps badge appears and goes straight to the rescue of the woman who has jammed the self-scan till.

‘You got the coffee?’ Asks portly mortgage man M when I enter the office, ears buzzing with anger.

‘It’s in the shop, on the floor next to the queue this way sign.’ I tell him before adding. ‘And no, I didn’t get any biscuits either.’

Not sure I belong here any more.

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