Thick And Thin - Monday

‘Got a valuation for you this evening.’ Chirps negotiator S as I return to the office.

She should be pleased, these are the lifeblood of any estate agent. Without homes to sell you don’t survive, no matter what the market’s supposed to be doing. The only cloud on my immediate horizon, is the “evening” bit.

‘How late?’ I ask cautiously, not wanting to put a dampener on S’s success. 

‘Only 6.30.’ She replies with a winning  smile.

Yes. I think, but it’ll be 7.30pm before I’m out of there even if they are complete nutters, and there will be a pretty angry wife waiting with some incinerated supper. Still it could be worse.

‘And he’s a bit creepy.’ Adds S sheepishly.

‘How creepy?’ I ask hurriedly. Estate agents have been abducted by homicidal people before and I don’t particularly want to be the first to be dismembered and served with those African beans and an Italian red.

‘Not chop you up creepy. I don’t think.’ says S reading my mind. Fortunately, she can’t do that all the time.

‘Just desperate and gullible creepy.’ Adds B, from her lettings’ desk, with a sneer.

Gullible I don’t mind, particularly when it comes to negotiating a sole agency fee, but desperate isn’t always good - unless he’s lost his job and has to sell…

I look at S for some further information but she clams up and looks embarrassed.

‘He’s one of those fat, bald, ugly middle-aged blokes with a young Thai wife in tow.’ Enlightens B with a knowing smirk.

‘I didn’t necessarily mean that.’ Counters S defensively. She probably did.

‘You know the type.’ Continues B, hitting her stride. ‘Can’t get a British woman, because they have a mind of their own and can be picky about sweaty creeps with body odour, so they abuse some third world girl with the offer of untold riches and an ex-council flat.’

Wow. B’s goods are more damaged in transit than I thought.

‘She seemed perfectly nice.’ Counters S, with an awkward look my way.

I have a horrible feeling I might have some forms to fill in to send to Human Resources, I’ve detected sexism, possible racism and fattism, at the very least.

‘They are all nice until they get their feet under the table.’ Says obese mortgage man M, entering the fray. He’ s still smarting several years after his wife left him for a man who could see his own penis without a mirror.

‘Keep on her good side.’ Suggests assistant manager T, to M. ‘You might find she’ll be keen to load him with big portions and a bigger life policy.’ M’s podgy face lights up. Since they rumbled endowments and PPI policies he’s been looking for the next big thing.

‘They are all on the make.’ Says B. ‘Before you know it the stupid sap will be sending money back to Thailand for some made up relatives.’

‘That’s just so wrong.’ Snaps S sparkily. She’s rather splendid when riled.

‘It’s just as well nobody knows what we say.’ Says T with a chuckle. ‘The public wouldn’t like to hear what we really think of them.’

Hmm. Fortunately my team don’t show much inclination for reading, blogs or books. At best I’d guess we have a couple of men’s magazine perusers, a buyer of fantasy mags from the geekier end of the sci-fi spectrum and a closet Mills and Boon fan.

‘You can mock me.’ Continues B. ‘But I know how men work.’ That’s beyond dispute.

‘And you are all suckers for pretty girls, even ones half your age.’

‘Bit of a sweeping statement.’ I say, trying to avoid looking at S.

‘Bollocks.’ Snaps B. ‘And everyone knows the sort of oddballs that get Thai wives off the internet  wouldn’t have a hope in hell of shagging a British girl.’

‘Apart from the fat ones who will bonk for biscuits.’ Says T, unhelpfully.

The awkward silence hangs in the air like a fart in lift.

‘What?’ Asks M eventually.

‘Nothing.’ I say, thinking of the forms again.

‘I’m not fat, I’m big-boned.’ Says M huffily.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

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Speaker's Chair - Tuesday

With a cancelled appointment and hair just beginning to bother the ears, I bowl into the barbers without checking the clientele through the window. Too late, I see there’s a bench full of customers waiting and worse still, one of them is a rival estate agent. Spotting my indecision and not wanting to lose a punter, the owner gives me a smile, worse still remembers my name and beckons me to sit with an optimistic.

‘Wait won’t be long.’

It’s a good skill with the name, one I wish I could master, but I recall properties not people after all this time. The barber knows I don’t like to discuss business when in the chair, not least because he’s tried to move several times over the years and you don’t want to upset a man with a cut-throat razor in his hand and an interest in how much his home has gone up in value in the last twelve months.

The luxuriantly haired oily operator from the opposition outfit shifts up grudgingly and equally reluctantly I park my backside next to him. He’s reading a free copy of The Daily Mail, so his political persuasion is fairly clear. ‘Alright?’ I ask with no interest in the answer, unless his office is about to close.

‘Can’t complain.’ He replies, before adding unnecessarily. ‘On a bit of a roll at the moment actually.’ So he’s a liar as well as being freakishly hirsute.

I check out the other customers. The dusty bloke with three days stubble and workman’s boots is scanning The Sun without any apparent embarrassment, and the hippyish mid-fifties man with grey hair, a goatee and an absurd ponytail, is glued to The Guardian. All political persuasions catered for by the astute owner. Just hope nobody wants to talk property. Fat chance.

‘You short on stock too?’ Asks my rival with the plentiful locks. There was a time when my hair had that sort of lustre and grew thick and dark. Too many sales falling through and too many targets being ramped up annually have taken their toll. Now when I give my instructions to the trimmer it’s, ‘just a tidy up ’ and a hopeful, ‘and leave some length on the top please.’ Not much they can do about the grey and I steadfastly refuse to dye it like those fading lotharios trying to hang on to their second Thai wife.

‘We’re doing okay.’ I fib. It’s a tradition amongst sales people to over-inflate their performance and it’s not about to stop when quizzed in public.

‘You two alright to sit next to each other.’ Jokes the barber as he brushes down his just finished customer and the man tips him more than I usually do. I frown and reconsider any sort of gratuity this time. He remembers my name but not always my preferences.

‘Sorry.’ Says the barber ushering in the man with the ponytail who it turns out only wants his absurd facial hair trimmed. ‘I forgot you estate agents like to keep a low profile out of the office.’ There’s a rustle of papers being folded and the whole shop looks at the pair of us with ill-disguised distaste.

‘Go on then you lot.’ Challenges the Sun reader curtly. ‘Tell us why people like me are priced out of the market.’

‘Market forces mate.’ Says my rival clambering into another just vacated chair and getting the young, well-endowed girl hairdresser all the blokes like to use. Not sure if she means to keep brushing you with her tits when she leans in but she gets good tips, and at the end of the day we’re all selling something – unless you’re a civil servant.

I realise everyone is looking at me, now my rival is occupied with whispering his preferences to the girl.

‘Supply and demand tends to drive the market.’ I venture, adding. ‘That and availability of funding.’

‘Too many bloody immigrants and freeloaders.’ Interjects a well-spoken man clutching on to The Telegraph and an image of a country that no longer exists. The Sun man wades in, the hippy with the trimmed beard adds his opinion and I wish I were bald.

Still itching now.

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