Assured Shorthold - Tuesday

‘F***ing tenants!’ Screeches loose lettings lush B fiercely, as she bangs the phone handset into its cradle with plastic-shattering velocity.

I leap from my chair, rush to my door - always open - and hastily scan the office. Fortunately there are no members of the public to be seen, just a startled selection of fellow staff members.

‘What?' Challenges B angrily, seeing my face.

I don’t need another argument. I can have those with other agents touting my register, lawyers who don’t answer the phone and charge by the letter instead, surveyors frightened of their own shadow who still down value sales despite overwhelming evidence that the price is right. I could go on….

‘Expletives in the office.’ I say nodding towards the swear box, that to be fair I’m no stranger to when a sale falls through. But if captain’s of industry, politicians and ex-television presenters from the 1970s can all get away with saying one thing and doing another, I can afford some minor dual standards. 

‘What is it?’ Asks negotiator B, in a show of feminine solidarity.

‘They all seem to think it’s my fault personally that the weather is shit and their ceiling is leaking.’ Rails B. Shit is at best a 50 pence offence , so I let that one go.

‘And they expect someone to be at their door with a mop and some roofing felt before they’ve finished insulting me down the phone.’

‘That’s a bit unreasonable.’ Soothes S.

‘It is when it isn’t their bloody door anyway.’ Counters B

Bloody still count, I wonder?

‘You know which tenants are the worst?’  Snarls B.

Please don’t say anything racist or homophobic, I think nervously, then I will have to report her and the paperwork will be endless.

‘Who?’ Asks trainee F earnestly. I cringe.

‘The lazy sods on housing benefits.’ Snaps B. The prejudice rings around the office as awkwardly as her earlier F-word, pinging off the filing cabinets like a submarine echo-sounder.

‘That’s a hell of a sweeping statement.’ I manage to say admonishingly. S nods in agreement with me, as do her over-sized breasts. F just looks bemused, unless it’s the distraction S has just unleashed.

‘You don’t have to deal with the wasters.’ Answers B abruptly.

‘I though you advised your landlords not to take housing benefit tenants.’ Says S neutrally.

‘I do, but some of them don’t listen.’ Replies B with a sneer, adding. ‘And a few bleeding heart liberals who ended up accidental landlords seem to think they’re salving their conscience by letting a young mother with three children by three different fathers get free housing.’

Ouch. Prejudice no doubt. I’m just unsure which piece of legislation I need to look up, several probably…

True, when the authorities paid rent directly to landlords, or their agents, there were less cases of arrears, now the tenants get the money first it can end up being spent on drugs and alcohol - or nappies and basic foodstuffs. You pay your money and they take their choice. But equally, there but for the grace of whichever deity you subscribe to, goes you and me…

‘They’re not all on the take.’ Announces S curtly, the sisterly solidarity was pretty transient.

S is right, way back when the celebrities were taking liberties with young women, I was taking tickets for free school lunches. The walk of shame to the dinner ladies’ serving hatch still haunts me now.

‘You don’t have to deal with them in sales.’ Snaps B. She has half a point, we get a different class of waster - but they can be just as corrosive.

‘I just think you should treat everyone the same.’ Replies S doggedly.

‘They all want spoon-feeding,’ responds B. ‘Don’t seem to understand builders are busy and that I can’t stop the rain. I’m damned if I’m giving everyone a free ride.’

The silence lasts long enough to become awkward. From what we’ve heard she often does give free rides and I can see I’m not the only one thinking it. Although on reflection, it probably takes a couple of gin and tonics. Not sure which legislation that comes under….

Cheers for now.

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Building The Pressure - Monday

Out in the car with trainee F. Ostensibly, he is here to learn but he reeks of sow’s ear. We’ve just measured-up a new instruction and taken some photos. The pictures had better be good because the home is on for £20k more than I’d have liked, after a rival agent tried to prise the business away telling the vendor she was about to place it on the market too cheaply. The signed sole agency saved me but the compromise was a higher price – at least for now.

‘It won’t sell for that money will it?’ Asks F, indicating the digital camera in the foot-well.

‘No,’ I tell him with as much certainty as anyone can muster where property is concerned. ‘And even if some nutter does offer over the odds, their surveyor will downvalue it.’

‘We deal with a lot of time wasters don’t we?’ States F rhetorically as I glance at the dashboard clock, see we have thirty minutes to spare, and indicate left.

‘This isn’t the way back to the office.’ Says F showing the sort of local knowledge estate agents major on – even borderline retards.

‘Little detour.’ I tell him swinging into a bumpy, yet to be top-coated road, with the sort of raised drainage ironmongery beloved of shock absorber retailers and scrap metal thieves everywhere.

I pull up by the freshly minted marketing board of a new build showhome. The photoshop-doctored picture shows the sort of attractive mixed race couple, with two children, who only exist in advertising agencies minds and who certainly can’t afford these prices. Not without a bank of Mum and Dad handout. The garage has been converted with the help of some sliding patio doors into a sales office, and as I ease out of the car, with a shooting pain down the leg, flags are fluttering overhead like sparse applause.

‘Are we going in?’ Asks F incredulously as he follows me, spaniel-like.

‘Why not?’ I reply. ‘Market research.’ I pitched for the sales on site, some months ago, but the medium sized developer decided to sell direct. Something that still rankles.

‘But you hate time-wasters.’ Persists F as I march past the only other car in the car park, an ageing Honda Accord, which is doubtless the sales lady’s motor.

‘Do what I say not what I do.’ I tell F as I spot the owner of the car through the glass. She’s reading a book.

‘Can I help you?’ Asks the woman as we slide the door back and a gust of wind sends her leaflets fluttering across the cheap Ikea desk. It’s a closed question as expected, and she is also as predicted. A fifty-something fading glamour model who has had some work done. Fake blonde hair to match the fake fruit in the bowl and the unreal asking prices. There’s probably some botox involved too.

‘So you’re estate agents.’ Echoes the woman with a look of disappointment I see most days. She only just stops herself from picking up her paperback. ‘I thought you were probably selling something, or a gay couple.’ She continues, stifling an unseemly yawn.

F and I exchange uneasy glances neither wishing to articulate, out loud, our thoughts. Probably for the best.

‘This is alright.’ Enthuses F as we walk round the show unit. The saleswoman didn’t bother to come with us, once we promised to take our shoes off to protect the cheaply sourced foam-backed carpeting. Doors have been removed from the kitchen and lounge to give the illusion of space and some prissy designer has colour co-ordinated the throw cushions and curtains. The furniture looks to be three-quarter size.

‘They’re too much money.’ I tell F authoritatively. Builders always want a premium for their product and I priced these 15% less than the developer is asking. The first sale always sets the benchmark for new developments and nobody has exchanged contracts on one yet. The sold subject to contract stickers in a couple of windows, almost certainly Harry Potterish works of fiction.

‘Not buying?’ Asks the woman ruefully as we leave.

No, but I’ll be back.

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