Feel The Rush - Monday

Takes a while, in that semi-conscious time between sleep and waking, to realise what day it is. Then the irritating local radio breakfast show duo, my wife insists is the best way to be woken – we have been married a long time – confirm it’s a work day. Traffic already bad, several new sets of road-works.

‘You okay?’ Asks my wife as she pours out two more frugal bowls of some bran-based wood chippings that should lower my cholesterol, but as I can’t abide the stuff, not do much for my blood pressure.

I stop buffing my shoes vigorously and ponder the question.

‘Ask me later.’ I tell her realising I have black polish under my fingernails again. Nobody else in the office bothers to clean their footwear as fastidiously. But I know customers check out your shoes. Know a certain category of vendor will choose not to use you, if they see scuffed and unloved brogues.

The fact is the old cliché no two days are the same, couldn’t be more applicable in house sales or lettings. That sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach each Monday comes from a mixture of apprehension and adrenaline. If the day goes well, you’re King of The Hill, if it doesn’t you’ll feel as lonely and vulnerable as that first day of school, over and over again.

As I drive to work I can already feel the acid bubbling in my stomach – unless it’s the roughage starting to move from the fibre-heavy breakfast. One that promised to remove that bloated and tired feeling within five days. I should really ring the Trading Standards people about that claim, but we’re not really on the best of terms after that taped interview under caution….

‘Morning boss.’ Chirps assistant manger T as he arrives fifteen minutes after me. I’m feeling good. Two offers in the book from the weekend and a couple of promising – on paper – valuations for later. Should I call my wife and answer her question now while I’m the best salesman in Christendom, or leave it until after the day has unfolded? Experience says the latter.

‘New tie?’ Asks negotiator S as she bounces in bubbly and – well, bouncy. I’m flattered she noticed. Every day is a beauty parade of course. It’s why I sit S in the front window desk. But like the fat girl at a disco I don’t get as many offers as I’d like and those I do accept often pull out on me prematurely, leaving me unfulfilled and feeling rather dirty.

‘You seem much more experienced than some of the other agents we’ve had round.’ Says the lady of the house later. Her husband, newly retired and no longer the boss, nods in agreement. Take it as a compliment, urges my inner voice.

‘Bunch of snot-nosed kids some of them.’ He contributes to a look of admonishment from his wife/new line manager.

Despite myself, I like this couple. It’s an emotion I try to avoid. Even the best salesman’s resources are finite. Like the aforementioned big-bird by the dance floor, you can only take so much rejection. It seems to me the best salespeople have skins thicker than Rhinos and a reduced level of human empathy. Like my bean-counter boss, you need to treat people like numbers on a balance sheet – and I was never good at maths.

‘Now fees and your valuation.’ Says the wife briskly and I feel the bran regurgitate. At least she isn’t clutching a note pad, with columns to highlight the most absurdly optimistic asking price recommendation and desperately low commission rate. The sort of myopic owners who will end up with all the information and none of the insight only to realise they’ve made a mistake, several months later.

‘Come on.’ I shout at the car headlining, elation flooding through my veins; signed sole agency form on the seat beside me. Like a footballer scoring a winning goal, or that first time you realise the equipment in your pants can do more than just empty your bladder, I’m more alive than I’ll ever be.

The high can’t possibly last, not in an industry where one in three sales fall through.

I should ring my wife.

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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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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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Expletive Deleted - Tuesday

‘It’s not my fault.’ Pleads loose lettings lady B loudly over the phone, with a line familiar to teenagers everywhere. Her tone is rising dangerously. Fortunately there are no punters in the office, but that also means we’re all listening to her conversation. She’s oblivious, in that concentration zone where all you can focus on is the verbal battle you’re partaking in. It’s best not to swear.

The public can be difficult where property is concerned, moving home is the third most stressful life event after death and divorce, and come to think of it the former isn’t strictly speaking a “life” event. People forget the usual pleasantries if their dream home feels like it’s being snatched away by a combination of bad references, dilatory lawyers and awkward owners, add a ballsy bitch from our lettings department and you’re going to hear a few expletives.

‘I don’t make the…the rules.’ Snaps B, using another well-worn excuse. I fear for what she nearly said. I don’t have to wait long.

‘Don’t bloody well swear at me.’ Snarls B, forgetting all those customer service courses she’s been on. A classroom and some sticky post-it notes of soothing responses, never likely to replicate real life. It’s why those that can, sell. And those that can’t train.

I try to attract B’s attention, making clam down gestures with my hands, but she might as well be in a different office.

‘Perhaps if you paid your utility bills on time you wouldn’t have such a crap credit rating.’ Growls B menacingly, as I feel another complaint coming my way. I’ve already had the Ombudsman wanting file copies of a messy deal a few months ago and the Trading Standards officer doesn’t like me that much after she was gazumped last year. Not a lot of love coming estate agents’ way.

‘I could have let this flat three times over in the time I’ve spent on your tenancy agreement.’ Sneers B in what is looking like an unrecoverable spin towards a hard landing. I’m now waving like a signalman trying to stop a runaway train. I may as well not be there.

B is a nightmare to man manage, primarily because she manages more men than me, plus about half a bottle of gin most days. I should get rid of her, but the process of sacking staff, no matter how incompetent, is so convoluted with employment law as it is that the best you can often do is recommend them for a transfer to another office and shift the problem elsewhere. Promotion works well too.

‘If you abuse me any more I’m hanging up.’ Warns B feistily, as I sense a messy ending. She’s had a few by all accounts and her fair share of abuse outside of the office. Some folks attract the wrong people like magnets - some pick them up in wine bars. It probably isn’t B’s fault the deal is going belly up, or that she’ll probably be adopting the same position with a stranger in about seven hours time, but sometimes you need to know when to back down.

‘I’ve told you. I’m just doing my job.’ Continues B the end of her tether now visible to everyone in the office, observing like rubber-neckers at a car crash. I listen and watch, fascinated and horrified in equal measure. I’ve been close to similar meltdowns a dozen times before but somehow have managed to keep my equilibrium It’s just a mater of time. A salesman’s shelf life is finite.

‘You hear this?’ Demands B theatrically, grabbing a sheet of A4 from the printer and ripping it in two. ‘That’s the sound of your tenancy application being terminated.’ My heart sinks as I think of the extra paperwork this action will doubtless generate. No wonder the rain forests are disappearing.

‘And you have a good day too.’ Shouts B before holstering the phone thunderously, with what sounded distinctly like plastic cracking. ‘F***ing public.’ She says with the hint of a sob. She’s been known to do that, I think, uncharitably. And if it helps get a deal through I’d probably turn a blind eye.

After all, selling is the second oldest profession…

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