Merry Christmas Everybody - Wednesday

‘I can’t hear myself think.’ Shouts a colleague I haven’t exactly pegged for a an intellectual mind. He staggers on, slopping a pint of gassy lager as he zig-zags towards the free bar. I’m back at the corporate Christmas party and the music is too loud, my dinner suit too snug. It gets tighter each year. I get less tight. The thought of how my head will be thumping in the morning outweighing the lure of limitless alcohol - another reminder I’ve been doing this too long.

‘F**k, there’s some amazing totty in here.’ Shouts assistant manager T, who has appeared at my side as if on castors. His pupils are widely dilated behind the designer glasses. I’m not sure it’s just beer doing that.

‘If you can’t get screwed tonight,’ Continues T with an unpleasant leer. ‘You haven’t got a pulse.’ He pauses and waves at all the young women in bright party frocks, then adds: ‘Or a penis.’ Before wobbling away.

I’m in the seventh circle of hell, only with a smarter dress code. Like most people, I don’t like mixing with estate agents if I can avoid it. This pulsing mass, dancing to what might be drum and bass, but could also be the digital equivalent of a needle stuck in a groove, are making me yearn for a quiet night at home with a lime and soda and some catch-up television. And to think I once tried to climb inside the PA rig at a Stranglers gig.

‘I’m going to shag something tonight.’ Slurs another voice, breaking in to my ear-buzzing melancholy. I look up to see M, my fat finance man has appeared, glass in hand. His stomach is battling to break out of a straining cummerbund and he’s waving towards the table where the Human Resources - or is it People Division now? - ladies are sitting.

I read a survey recently, stating those in accounts and personnel where the most likely to have sex at the office Christmas party. Odd, because our lot spend the other fifty-one weeks of the year trying to shaft us anyway. You’d think they’d want a rest.

I’m tempted to point out the objects of M’s ill-directed ardour are rumoured to be lesbians, but before I can, he slurs. ‘They might be dikes but that chubby one looks like she could be turned.’

I should be reporting him for this, but as he’s heading that way I think I’ll save myself an email and more grief.

‘Here goes nothing.’ Chortles M, as he departs towards a probable disciplinary and a shed load more paperwork. ‘I reckon I can get her back on the straight and narrow.’ Judging by his progress and the likely outcome, nothing is going to be straight and the only thing narrow, as his lardy arse departs, is his mind.

‘You not drinking?’ Enquires a disembodied voice, and for a moment I think I’m hallucinating, or maybe the strobe light has set off some sort of previously unreported fitting session. But I eventually realise H, my vertically-challenged rival manager, is looking up at me. Gin and tonic in each hand.

‘Pacing myself.’ I tell him.

‘Eh?’ he bellows , on tip-toes.

‘Never mind.’ I reply, only to find he’s disappeared towards the dance floor, where I spot S, my negotiator, looking achingly beautiful in a red frock. If he touches her, I might commit some sort of dwarf related homicide that would actually, briefly, make me happy…

Now, as the music jolts from unknown noise to the cheesy Christmas favourites, I feel pressure in my bladder. If I break the seal I’ll be pissing all night, but I can’t resist the pressing need. En-route to the gents’ toilet I pass the bean counter boss, sat at his table with a gaggle of his odious followers. I haven’t seen such uncontrolled fawning since Bambi took to the ice.

‘Condom machine is empty.’ Shouts some young buck I don’t recognise, as I’m greeted by the heady stench of urine and David Beckham after shave, in the toilets.

I’m too old for this shit.

--------

Festive felicitations to everyone, thanks for reading and may your chosen deity be with you.

S.A.

Numbers Up - Friday

‘How did it go?’ Asks negotiator S, as I come back into the office wearing my disappointment like a tramp’s overcoat. I thought she was better at reading body language, most women are, but then again it might be just as well she can’t tell what I’m sometimes thinking…

‘Some people just won’t listen.’ I tell S dejectedly, as I walk towards the message book with trepidation. Bad news tends to hunt in packs, and after a pair of idiots convinced the market will support £50,000 more than their bog-standard end of terraced house is worth, I’m not expecting a call from The National Lottery. 

‘I think people get the estate agent they deserve.’ Opines S pensively.

‘The greedy gits do.’ Agrees  assistant manager T,  joining the conversation as he re-enters from the direction of the gents’ toilet. Terrific, I was hoping for some contemplative time in there with the dog-eared copy of FHM, now I’ll need to leave it a while.

‘Those tossers across the road had been in before me.’ I say nodding toward the opposition agents, not  wanting to read the message book quite yet. ‘Told them their house was worth fifty grand more than it is. Ignored the fact that two identical homes in neighbouring roads have both completed at £10,000 less than my suggested asking price, in the last three months.’

‘Let them waste their time marketing it.’  Suggests T insouciantly. ‘Nobody will pay that sort of silly money.’

I hope not. But then demand is strong, supply is weak and there are an awful lot of idiots out there.

‘Even if they did,’ says S. ‘Their surveyor would down-value the sale price and everyone would be back to square one. Complete wast of time.’

Time-wasters are never in short supply - sadly, sensibly priced homes to sell usually are.

I finally glance at the message book. A couple of vendors to call back, a survey finally booked on a long-standing sale in progress - not bad - then a note to call back my bean counter boss. Sales falling through, feel like a sickening kick in the stomach. Everyday house moving problems, like a slow drip Chinese water torture. And a pedantic, figure-fiddling, frustrated accountant with about as much real-life knowledge of the property market as the last couple I’ve just visited, questioning your every move, is akin to someone grasping your gonads and slowly, incrementally, twisting.

‘What did he want?’ I ask rhetorically.

‘He didn’t say.’ Answers S, with a shrug and an endearing half-smile.

‘Board penetration not high enough?’ Suggests T with a shake of his head.

‘Financial services ratios too low.’ Offers fat mortgage man M divisively.

‘Lettings department doing more business than sales?’ Contributes B, from her one-woman dating desk, unhelpfully.

‘Perhaps he just wants to see how you are?’ Pipes up trainee F, to riotous laughter all round. ‘What?’ He says, crestfallen. 

My God, he’s got a lot to learn.

‘How is he?’ I ask the bean counter’s secretary. You need to cultivate the gatekeeper and although I would’t shag her, I’ve done my best to stroke her ego for the last few years.

‘Bit of a grumpy mood.’ Answers the frumpy middle-aged woman, who if I didn’t still believe I was twenty-five inside, I’d concede is younger than me.

‘Any idea what it is this time?’ I say flatly.

‘Well he’s been hunched over his laptop all morning.’ Replies the woman.

Porn or the P and L accounts then. Either way it’s going to be hard.

‘Your available stock figures are worryingly low.’ Reveals the bean counter after the cursory, insincere, pleasantries. No shit Sherlock. I hadn’t noticed every time I go to the filing cabinet for property details, then return empty-handed like some malnourished Oliver, to apologise to hopeful buyers about the dearth of homes to offer. Hadn’t twigged we were slowly starving. Hadn’t realised the opposition were deliberately mis-leading sellers to win the initial instruction.

‘Increase your suggested asking price by another 10% each time.’ Says the bean counter. ‘I want market share.’

I have market despair. 

---------

It's Christmas - Wednesday

‘Anything happening?’ I ask, returning to the office. The annual stumble round the shops looking for last minute presents didn't go well. I was stopped in Marks and Spencer for the umpteenth time and asked where the ladies’ coats were? Now if they’d asked where the underwear department was, I’d have been more accommodating. Funny how when I’m bumbling round the main store in a suit everybody assumes I work there, but when I linger too long by the lingerie, the actual staff members look at me with suspicion.

‘Not much.’ Answers assistant manager T with a barely stifled yawn.

‘Nothing but time-wasters this time of year.’ Says lettings lush B with a sneer.

‘Or desperate to buy, or rent, people.’ Counters negotiator S.

‘Yes, but the trick is to tell the difference.’ I add sagely.

‘How do you tell the difference? Asks trainee F.

Telling him to put the kettle on was a bit harsh, but the paradox is, you often can’t sort the genuine punters from the complete nutters - at least not until they are on a viewing, in your car, sitting behind you and making you feel nervous. Best that F perfects the art of the perfect brew, before trying to decipher a perfect property storm.

‘Did you have any luck?’ Asks S, nodding towards the shopping bags I’ve deposited beside the desk. 

‘I’ve got a few presents but they are mostly pants.’ I say wearily.

‘Oi, oi,’ chortles fat finance man M, with an unpleasant gullet-rasping sound. ‘Got the red basque and suspender set too, did you?’

‘You haven’t a clue, have you?’ Says S, scowling towards M. You can see why his wife left him.

‘Bean counter rang when you were out.’ Says T, referring to my figure-fiddling boss. 

‘Where did you say I was?’ I ask urgently.

‘Don’t worry,’ soothes T. ‘I told him you were on a valuation.’

I was pricing up, I suppose, so I’ll settle for that.

‘What did he want?’ I ask. Looking at the day and date on the nearest computer screen. I can already guess.

‘If we were going to have any more contracts to invoice this month.’ Confirms T with a shake of his head, adding. ‘Has he never tried to get a solicitor to answer the phone in December?’

He’s never even sold a doll’s house, let alone a real one. But he’s good with numbers. Accountants will inherit the earth, the fact that they are meek and terminally dull is just a lucky coincidence for Matthew, or whoever ghost wrote his bit of The New Testament.

‘You could pretend you were The Pope asking for an update on your sale and most lawyers would still not take your call at this time of year.’ Says S ruefully. It’s too late for divine intervention to save my sales figures this month. Better to hold some deals over until January and have a flying start. I just need to keep it a secret from the boss, he want to have his Christmas cake and eat it.

‘Hi everyone.’ Says the board man as he breezes through the door. He clearly knows the bean counter is looking at board movement costs again, as he’s wearing an unconvincing smile and clutching an even less plausible tub of those Celebrations chocolates every shopping outlet has piled high, throughout the month.

‘All ready for Christmas?’ He asks chirpily, before adding a cheap looking card to the bounty he has deposited. And Bounty is about right. It used to be bottles of whisky, or a good red wine, now we share some crappy chocolates in the sure and certain knowledge that we’ll have loads of the coconut ones left come next year.

‘Thought he’d never go.’ Says T after the board man has indulged in some stilted chit-chat for five minutes before realising he’s about as wanted as another estate agent in town.

‘I felt a bit awkward we didn’t do a Christmas card for him.’ Says S sweetly.

‘Why should we?’ Quizzes B, with a scowl. ‘He wants our business, not the other way round.’

That’s B, goodwill to all men - at least when she’s pissed.

Happy Christmas and a prosperous New Year everyone.

---------------

Friday On My Mind - Friday

‘For crying out loud does she think I was born yesterday?’ I snarl at the phone, as the handset rocks in its cradle again.

‘Problem boss?’ Asks trainee F perceptively.

‘F***ing solicitors.’ I tell him, with a resigned look towards the office swear box. F looks at me studiously.

‘Not literally.’ I say, realising F has taken a statement at face value again. Although we do have to kiss lawyers’ arses quite regularly, I’ve never gone the whole way.

The legal fraternity and estate agency have a love hate relationship, we have to pretend we love them - they hate us. The two professions grudgingly recognise an unwelcome mutual dependency but agents generally think lawyers are too tardy and not pro-active enough when it comes to conveyancing. Whereas lawyers see our commission invoices and in common with the rest of the public, think we charge too much.

‘They don’t like being rung on a Friday.’ Says negotiator S soothingly. She’s right, and as she does the majority of the office sales progressing, has a fairly good relationship with most of the legal practices in town. It’s the out of town outfits, who will probably never deal with you again, that tend to duck your phone calls chasing progress reports, or try to fob you off with some neutral comment like, “it’s all going well.”

‘Partner is in court?’ Asks S, eyebrows arched attractively.

‘With a client?’ Contributes assistant manager T with a grin.

‘Only works part time?’ Offers F, joining in the guessing game as to why I’ve nearly broken another phone.

‘Put the request in writing?’ Says fat mortgage man M waddling across the office unpleasantly.

I crack an unlikely smile. ‘Something like that.’ I concede. ‘Just, I knew the secretary was lying.’

Now, when I entertain a solicitor - an increasingly rare event since my bean counter boss started forensically scrutinising every expense claim - the legal-luncher is often at pains to point out they don’t like being bothered on a Friday. It’s the day most sales tend to complete (the moving day) and often - a few weeks before - when contracts are finally exchanged.

I accept that plea from the more pro-active practitioners. The firms who ring you back, willingly give progress reports to you, and by proxy their client. The type of organisation that move 

as swiftly as the antiquated English and Welsh conveyancing process allows - the Scottish are a whole different ball game. But as often as not, ducking my phone call is a result of not having touched the file in days, sometimes weeks, and the reluctant recipient hiding behind a “delayed local search” or protracted “mortgage offer”smokescreen

‘I think we should always deal with the solicitors we know.’ Says S emphatically. ‘They get our recommendations and give us reciprocal business.’ Once again she’s right, but the big corporate estate agency chains want group agreements with soulless outfits that run call centres and centralised conveyancing pens. In my experience the service is poor and the fee kickback goes to a central fund rather than the local office. But then my boss thinks I’m a luddite, or he would if he knew what one was…

‘Bean counter’s secretary on line three.’ Says S late afternoon. ‘He wants to know why our weekly stats are not in yet.’

Because I’m still chasing two much-needed exchanges and the sodding solicitors won’t return my calls, I think angrily.

‘Can you say I’m with someone?’ I asks S limply, realising even as I say it I’m parroting the fob-off I’ve been given several times today by my legal friends.

‘Don’t think she’ll believe me.’ Says S hesitantly. 

Of course not, but it’s hard to prove as long as S has punched the hold button securely and not just put her hand over the mouthpiece as that idiot F keeps doing.

‘Say I’ll call her back.’ I offer. The irony not lost on me.

‘We had a blinder of a week.’ Crows the ringleader of our opposition, as the two groups jostle at the bar. It’s a Friday night ritual - come good week or bad.

‘Smashed it.’ I reply loudly.

Cracked the phone handset actually, but it’s a brief exchange…

-------

I know, Robert hasn't worn well. In the meantime - or in between days - just time to nominate this Blog for UKBA15 Awards. Self-nomination is so tacky and not really worthy of an estate agent...

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Here Hear - Wednesday

‘That’s marvellous,’ I say gushingly, using an adjective I tend to reserve for those over pensionable age. ‘I just need to do the tedious bit now.’ I continue. ‘The paperwork.’

‘What’s he saying?’ Questions the elderly husband who is slumped in a worn armchair staring at me with those rheumy eyes that indicate a light slowly dwindling. The wife. a grey haired, slight but formidable lady, turns towards her ancient husband, ex Royal Navy, and ups the decibels several notches.

‘He needs to put everything in writing.’ She hollers, as the old boy fiddles with his hearing aid again.

I’m in a dated but well-proportioned 1930s built semi-detached house on the outskirts of the original town. The sort of strip development that filled fields pre-war as the population recovered after the Great War, before being decimated again by Mr Hitler and his henchmen. Doubtless, as now, people grumbled about new housing being built in their back yard. nothing much changes - other than the asking prices.

We’ve agreed the asking price for this home moments earlier, it’s bullish but reflects the market and the potential the house offers. It’s rife for modernisation and boasts the sort of garden no current day developer would leave behind. Maximise price, minimise square footage being the accountant-driven mantra of today’s builders.

I engage in neutral chit-chat while I try to complete as much of the paperwork as I can while the old man’s hearing aid whistles and chatters in the manner of a land line when it picks up an incoming mobile phone signal.

Price and vendors’ full names and the address completed I re-iterate, hesitantly, the agreed fee.

‘Oh don’t give me percentages dear,’ says the wife briskly. ‘How much in pounds and pennies?’ Shit. No agent ever likes to articulate the exact amount. Reluctantly I tell her.

‘Ooh, that’s not much less than we paid for the house.’ Says the woman wincing. ‘And I’m afraid it’s plus VAT.’ I say trying not to visibly cringe.

‘How much more is that?” Quizzes the woman, turning frostier by the moment.

‘Twenty percent.’I whisper

‘In English.’ Demands the wife. I tell her.

‘Stone the crows.’ She gasps. It’s an option…

‘I can’t hear what the lad is saying.’ Grumbles the old fella at ornament-rattling volume.

‘He says it’s going to be bloody expensive Arthur.’ Replies his wife loudly. No point reminding them it is No Sale No Fee at this juncture, or that those who move subsidise all the time-wasters who don’t.

‘Now I just need some proof of identity and address.’ I say flatly. Seems the Government has contracted out of just about every state function to the lowest, and often, least effective bidder. Or in my case a dupe who is made to provide the function for free. Estate agents are now quasi Border Control and Income Tax administrators as I need to ensure these ancient crumblies haven’t just crawled out from under the Lidl delivery lorry, or are masterminding an illicit drugs cartel from their tumbledown greenhouse.

‘What’s he saying?’ Bellows the old man in frustration as his hearing aid whistles like an asthmatic kettle. If I articulate any louder the next door neighbour will be able to join in.

‘He needs our passports and a utility bill.’ Soothes his wife.

‘Eh? What the devil for?’

‘What for love?’ Quizzes the wife with a wry smile.

‘Border Control and Money Laundering.’ I tell her apologetically. She repeats the phrase at what I imagine is the mythical number eleven on an amplifier. 

The old boy looks at me with distain.

‘Eh?’ He snarls angrily. ‘He wants the border and my lawn doing? Tell him we have a gardner Liz,  and if they don’t like us as we are they can lump us.’

Slight confusion over, unpaid civil servant role reluctantly carried out, I get towards the finishing line, feeling as lost and worn out as the ancient mariner.

‘We don’t want a For Sale board do we Arthur?’ Shouts the wife. The bean counter boss has been riding me weekly - not a pleasant picture - over my board rate penetration. My plea falls on deaf ears.

Low key, high volume marketing then.

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Follow Me Men - Tuesday

‘Right,’ I say clapping hands together dramatically. ‘We need contracts to exchange this week. So let’s chase those solicitors.’ The last time I saw so many disenchanted faces was at Wembley Stadium and the less said about that night the better.

‘Most of them won’t even take your calls.’ Pronounces assistant manager T imperiously, to nods of confirmation. It’s not the sort of second-in-command support I’m looking for. T is a man born too late. I could envisage him sipping red wine about twenty miles behind the front line while the distant sound of guns struggle against the sound of the Belgian prostitute pleasuring him. I, of course, am knee deep in the mucky stuff with my head above the parapet.

‘If we can just get two or three exchanges before the end of the month we’ll have a fighting chance of meeting the quarterly target.’ I plead, imagining the inevitable phone call I’ll receive from the bean counter boss if the office under performs. He’s another one likely to be sucking on a bottle of Bordeaux, while a piece rate European worker fiddles with his…balance sheet.

‘I can never get a solicitor to speak to me.’ Says dozy trainee F to suppressed giggles.

‘We need to nurture these relationships,’ I pontificate, to looks of distain. ‘Granted it’s a love hate thing.’

‘Yes they love to hate us,’ replies T. ‘And we hate having to love them.’

‘Or at least pretending to.’ Adds negotiator S.

I can see I need to lead by example again. No man’s land beckons dangerously.

‘Lawyers can give us lucrative probate business.’ I tell the team.

‘We give them more solicitor-free buyers usually.’ Responds S

‘And the only outfits with probate departments are the old fogey firms with a load of ageing dinosaurs still practicing. You try dialling a Diplodocus.’ Says T to an irritating round of laughter.

I thought the same way when I started it this business, but some of the lolloping, vegetarians my team are referring to, used to play me at five-a-side football in simpler times. I like to think I’ve evolved. These guys don’t respond to emails, shy away from e-commerce and take a fortnight to turn round a letter. Extinction beckons – as it does for me if I don’t get some income invoiced.

‘So,’ begins F with his now standard hesitance.’ The firms with probate departments….’

‘Have lots of elderly clients.’ Interjects T

‘They’re just the least responsive to deal with.’ Says S.

S is right, but if we get a cold winter and plenty of icy pavements I want to be taking their calls, or more likely opening their letter, charged at £50 a pop to the deceased estate.

I can feel the meeting drifting so I look at the empty diary and make a decision.

‘Everybody in my office, I’ll make a speakerphone call and show you how it’s done.’ The words are still bouncing off the filing cabinets and I’m already regretting them. You are supposed to learn by experience.

The ringing tone echoes round my office as my team lean in expectantly. It chimes for long enough to really annoy someone in sales, but I persevere. It’s one of the firms I’ve been referring to and the file has been outstanding nearly three months. Finally someone picks up and I press a finger to my lips dramatically.

I recognise the voice and feel my confidence swell.

‘Hello Carol.’ I announce in a familiar but professional manner and I give her my name.

‘Who?’ She replies frostily, to the sort of silent hilarity not seen since the last Laurel and Hardy film with no soundtrack, played to a packed cinema of Flappers.

I press on daunted, telling her the client and case I’m chasing.

‘That’s all progressing fine.’ Says Carol dismissively, as eyebrows raise and a few murmurings stir. This tells me nothing. I ask to speak to the partner in question.

‘I’ll see if he’s in.’ I give the thumbs up to all as Carol adds. ‘Who shall I say it is again?’

After a minute, I already know the answer - but there’s no gap in the barbed wire.

He said he was out.

---

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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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Inflate After Leaving Aircraft - Friday

‘How about these two?’ I suggest to my wife, holding up a couple of summer casual shirts that I maybe shouldn’t have bought last season. Her look alone confirms I won’t be shopping alone for clothes again in a hurry.

‘I’ll find something and get them ironed.’ She says, as I look at the two dodgy purchases as if for the first time and remember how the female shop assistant duped me into buying the garish-patterned tat a Hawaiian would be embarrassed to wear. She must have been on commission.

‘Don’t be late tonight.’ Cautions my wife as she studies her third or fourth list religiously and a pile of clothing, enough for a month’s expedition somewhere exotic, sits behind her while the iron ticks up to temperature. She can’t be serious. Last day before holiday is a nightmare every year. If you didn’t need a break beforehand, nine hours of trying to ensure everything in the office will run smoothly without you is enough to send you gibbering towards airport security looking deeply suspicious. And that’s before they check your occupation in the passport….

‘So that’s the list of things to take care off.’ I tell the team at my last morning meeting before leaving. T the assistant manager takes the printout, one I’ve also emailed to everyone’s inbox as a belt and braces exercise. Sales and surveys to chase, vendors to keep sweet, viewing and valuation targets to meet. The list isn’t exhaustive, but I’m pretty knackered already.

‘Just relax and have a great time.’ Says negotiator S sweetly. My wife said something similar last night, but I was too stressed to start the holiday early. It never helps that one of the countless television stations satellite services afford, is invariably running a scare programme the week before you go anywhere, called something like: Terror in The Skies, Air Crash Investigation or Three minutes and 35,000 Feet To Live…

‘I just find the nearest airport bar and down a couple of Gin and tonics when I travel,’ informs lettings lush B unhelpfully. I’m supposed to be driving the hire car at the other end, so that is not a great option. B’s other vacation-time recreational activity is – allegedly - shagging every Spanish waiter she can find. Not sure my wife would approve of that either, no matter how many tips it might save us.

‘Off somewhere nice?’ Asks the dusky lady in Boots the chemist, as I go to the counter. I’m clutching copious medicinal supplies, together with several gallons of sun tan lotion, after beach treatment and enough insect repellent to fend off more MPs than can usually be found in The Commons at question time.

I tell her the destination as I pile my purchases on the counter. She’s pretty, but too young for me. I’m still relieved I decided to pass on the intriguing battery-powered ring-shaped device placed alongside the prophylactics, one that apparently gives vibrating pleasure to both partners, but might cause a stir at the X-ray desk. I’m not going through that rubber-gloves indignity again. Anyway with my back I can hardly lift the cases, let alone touch my toes.

‘He’s not back until after the weekend.’ Says the solicitor’s secretary I ring with the clock ticking and my list growing, not diminishing. This is the third conveyancing clown I’ve rung in as many minutes. One was ‘in court.’ A lie. The other was, ‘with clients,’ equally improbable. All three won’t be getting any lawyer-free buyers introduced to them for a while. I’ve a memory like an elephant where snubs are concerned.

‘Bean counter, on line three.’ Announces trainee F, late in the day. I’ve told him not to announce my boss like that. Granted it’s my nickname for the little figure-fiddler but F is more likely to forget to put him on hold.

‘Everything under control?’ Begins the bean counter in a lethally loaded question. If they can cope without me it’s not the best signal to send. On the other hand, if I’ve not left the office on an even keel he’ll be even more pedantic approving future holiday dates. I take a chance.

What could possibly go wrong?

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Love Lies Bleeding - Friday

‘These sales figure are just not acceptable.’ Grumbles the bean counter boss, as he clicks his laptop tracker pad angrily. The stark figures flash up on the collapsible screen and there is nowhere to hide. Under the cheap laminate hotel table isn’t an option and there is no under-stairs cupboard immediately to hand. Not any more.

One-by-one, the pernickety figure-fiddler, reads out the sales, lettings and financial services performances, office by office, as if we can’t see for ourselves - those not too vain to don glasses.

H my short-arsed rival manager sits beside me and grins. His office is top of the pile, about the only time he can claim to be higher than anyone else – unless the circus is in town. But even his lucrative patch isn’t generating the sort of figures it once was. His ex-wife won’t be blowing such a big bonus come year-end...

It comes to my office and after all this time I’m almost beyond squirming – almost. Tell him to go f***k himself urges that mischievous inner-voice that really should stay tethered to a blog or anonymous Twitter feed. As if he could do any better continues the gobby Gremlin, as I try to focus on the bean counter’s rhetoric about shaking trees and rattling something, other than begging bowls.

I offer up some platitudes about renewed effort, a tele-sales push and re-visiting failed valuations with more vigour than I can truly muster for idiots who want too much money and aren’t prepared to pay a fair fee. The spotlight moves on and I sit back, heart pumping, trickle of cold sweat running uncomfortably down my back. One day I really will just stand up and tell him to stick his budget projections where the sun doesn’t shine. I’ll march from the hotel room, head held high, muted applause from my colleagues urging me to the car park – where I’ll find my company car and a glove box full of failed endowment statements and my latest mortgage deficit – one day…

‘Anyone in this room can be replaced.’ Snarls the bean counter unpleasantly, as I wonder if people behave like this in the public sector? Those that are not on long-term, fully funded, sick pay.

He’s bullying the girl from the office at the bottom of the list now. I’d like to jump to her defence. A younger, more chivalrous me, a man who had yet to compromise his principles with credit cards, life cover and more debt than a banana republic, would be standing up for her, pointing out the office had a crap location, too many competitors and a poor housing mix – but then she’s just come back from maternity leave, so at least she’s had a break from this childish nonsense…

‘We can’t buck the market conditions.’ Suggests the girl weakly. It looks as is one of he breasts is leaking through her blouse, unless it’s a milky teardrop.

‘You need to up your penetration.’ Says H from alongside me. He can be such a big prick for a small man.

‘That’s right’, agrees the bean counter. ‘We must take market share from the weaker players. Let’s shut some of these other bastards down.’

And the local estate agents’ association wonders why nobody attends the monthly meetings.

‘How about another price reduction competition?’ I find myself suggesting, to groans from around the table. It works, it worked in the past, but it’s not palatable unless you can explain the benefits to all.

‘My vendors won’t reduce, they keep reading surveys telling them price are going up.’ Counters a manager with a town boasting near on full employment. God I wish I could ban, pointless, contradicting surveys by vested interests. Strange how owners never latch on to reports showing declining values.

‘I can sell everything I can get.’ Boasts H, as I use all my willpower not to stab him with the plastic knife I couldn’t cut the bacon gristle in my greasy sandwich with. ‘I just need more stock.’ Continues H from somewhere around my ankles. ‘There are plenty of mug punters.’

‘You alright?’ I say to the new mother in the foyer.

‘No.’

Me neither.

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Red Card - Thursday

‘Call me old fashioned…’ I begin.

‘You’re old fashioned.’ Interjects assistant manager T to barely suppressed hilarity. Not sure what happened to the respect campaign but when you realise you are starting to sound like one of those grumbling pensioners you used to think euthanasia was a solution for, self-worth can be a dwindling commodity.

‘What is it?’ Asks negotiator S kindly. I reckon she was born too late or I was born too early. Unless I’m as delusional as all those old crumblies living in over-priced sheltered apartments, thinking they’ll be leaving a worthwhile asset to their beneficiaries.

‘A bloody email.’ I say contemptuously.

‘You get loads of bloody emails.’ Says T.

‘Not with a sodding digital Christmas card attached.’ I tell him witheringly.

T and S walk to my computer screen and scan the wretched download, something with all the, goodwill and peace to all men content of a land mine, as far as I’m concerned.

‘I think it moves.’ Suggests S leaning in and brushing my arm with her substantial frontage.

‘Click on it.’ Suggests T as I try not to gulp audibly.

‘Do you mind if I use your mouse?’ Asks S innocently. There’s only so much unwitting innuendo I can take with my blood pressure. I nod acquiescence and try not to let the aforementioned red-stuff rush anywhere but my head.

‘Look it’s rising up.’ Exclaims S to a momentary feeling of horror until I realise the tacky Santa and sleigh montage is moving in clunky fashion, as the reindeer take flight and a Merry Christmas message flashes on the screen like some virtual virus.

‘Seriously?’ I gripe in Scrooge-like fashion.

As the scene plays out to a tinkling digitised soundtrack, I read the attached message stating sanctimoniously that the sender company are saving the environment (their franking machine bill) by not using the physical postal system. Not content with expecting me to swallow that bullshit, the text informs me that any cost benefit from not mailing the traditional way will be donated to a charity. One I’ve never heard of.

Now I’m ambivalent about corporate Christmas cards at the best of times, as the sentiment is more about reciprocal business than Christian – other religions are available – goodwill. But if you are going to make a list of recipients who might be of use to you in the coming year, at least make the effort of actually buying and sending a touch me, feel me, put me in the office window, three-dimensional piece of tinsel-tinted-tat.

‘You don’t like it then?’ Concludes S moving back to her desk.

‘It has all the sincerity of a politician claiming they only do the job to serve their constituents.’ I tell her.

‘You’re so cynical.’ Replies S with a look of disappointment I’ve seen before.

‘You start idealistic, move on to brutally informed then migrate to pessimism.’ I respond before adding and instantly regretting: ‘It’s the circle of life.’

‘That’s more of a linear progression.’ Chips T with a smug smile.

‘It comes to all of us eventually, particularly if you stay in this business.’ I tell him, disliking myself even as I spout the bile-laced response. My romanticism withered after the first few sales fell through and I realised anyone who stated: “My word is my bond”, was a pathological liar.

‘So we won’t be sending out any company Christmas cards then?’ Asks S a hint of sadness in her eyes. I feel like I’ve just told her Santa won’t be coming to fill her stocking ever again, but I just end up fighting a shameful image. One that would give the harridans in Human Resources a whole new inappropriate behaviour chapter to write, on the company standing orders.

‘He’s got a list on the computer.’ Says T knowingly. He’s right and at first I believed in it. Thought it was a nice sentiment to acknowledge those you’ve dealt with all year and to wish them well for the future. But time, a bean counter boss and a less than healthy profit and loss account has chipped away at my belief. At best I’m agnostic now.

God help me.

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Plasma Scream - Monday

I feel the sharp tug of the blade and hope against hope it won’t bleed. You don’t need a shaving cut when you are already running late and facing a meeting you’d rather not attend and a day you’d rather not have. I wait for those few seconds that taunt the unwary bristle-cutter, just long enough for a little hope to bubble to the surface, before the claret does.

‘Shit, shit, shit.’ I shout in anguish as the surprisingly vibrant crimson liquid, given how tired I feel, oozes through the snowy shaving foam.

‘Are you alright in there?’ questions my wife, as I stare morbidly fascinated at the blood pumping from the cut. ‘Did you want the laxatives or the Diocalm?’

‘Different type of shit.’ I mutter, as I wipe at the place in question and a tomato sauce-like smear ruins the perfect juxtaposition of virgin white and little bleeder.

‘Have you cut yourself?’ She asks unnecessarily as I slope from the en-suite with a piece of coagulating toilet paper welded to my face. The options for lacerating sarcasm are endless but there’s been enough slicing for one morning.

‘Do you want to wear a blue shirt rather than the white?’ Asks my wife, as I try gingerly peeling the hardened tissue from the wound after breakfast. ‘Does it make any difference?’ I ask testily, as a sharp pain makes my eyes water when the temporary fix parts company with my face. I wait again, peering in the hall mirror pessimistically. It takes a fraction longer, but the blood starts to flow again.

‘Do you ever get the feeling someone up there doesn’t like you?’ I say rhetorically, as I hurry up the stairs again to the bathroom. I’m running short of time and my heart is thumping by the time I make the last step. Something guaranteed to keep the wound open and flowing. A fact confirmed as I look in the shaving mirror again, to see a tear-shaped rivulet of red weeping down my face. Too many metaphors to choose from, I think gloomily, as I wonder how stupid a plaster will look and how much grief I’ll get walking in to the meeting sporting a flesh-coloured face-appendage. Salespeople are not renowned for their compassion.

‘Nobody will notice.’ Speculates my wife absurdly, as I come back down with a blue shirt and an even bluer demeanour. I’ve opted for another scrap of tissue, one that has now darkened to a crusty brown hue, rather than a plaster. I hope to peel it off in the car park and pray some clotting has formed, other than in my heart arteries, by then.

Bad enough facing a bunch of braying colleagues, keen to fall on the weakest pack member to deflect from their own failing and sales figure, but I have a string of valuations later in the day. Like the clean shoes fetish I have and the matching shirt, suit and tie obsession, I know the slightest perceived slight or oddity can cost you the business. Look wrong, or look at the wife, daughter or boyfriend wrongly and the business flows away faster than an opened vein. It’s a bloody nightmare.

‘Hah. Who smacked you in the mouth?’ Laughs H my poison dwarf of a rival manger, as I slide into the meeting room, absurd circular plaster on my face after a failed attempt at a clean removal of the blotting paper-like bog roll, in the car vanity mirror. The blood took a little longer to rise to the surface but it came in the end.

‘You’re late.’ Snipes the bean counter from the head of the table, lifting his weasel-featured face from the laptop just long enough to see who was going in the bad books. Loss column presumably.

‘Angry punter?’ Asks H loudly, to a round of laughter from the table.

‘Who’d you shaft?’ He continues on a roll, other than the half- eaten bacon one in front of him. ‘Buyer, owner or their pet?’ I’d like to impale him with a suitable implement, but the budget hotel only supplies plastic cutlery and my wit is no sharper than my razor.

Cuts like a knife.

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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