Hunger Games - Monday

‘The estate agent, right?’ Asks a familiar face, as I try to remain invisible on my trip to the sandwich shop.

I see a lot of people, as I’ve said before, but it’s the homes I remember not the names. This guy I know I’ve met, but I can’t for the life of me remember when. He doesn’t look like a professional, too scruffy, so i’m guessing I haven’t lunched with him on a lawyer’s firm’s tab.

‘You don’t remember me do you? ‘ He presses, making me feel even more awkward, but not as awkward as a mate who was posed the same question by a familiar-looking woman in a supermarket a few years ago. The empty silence he struggled through, was worse than this encounter, when the humiliated woman had to reming him they used to be married thirty years ago. That’s what you get if you trade in every decade. 

‘I do.’ I lie at the man, now standing in front of me. I don’t. ‘Can you put it in context, only I see so many different faces each week.’

‘You sold my late-mother’s house.’ He says flatly, a hint of a tear welling up.

Now I’m not sure if the emotion is a reminder of his lost mum, or the price he had to accept on an inheritance that often disappoints, once the nursing fees have been reimbursed and the other siblings have taken their cut.

Thankfully it comes to me. ‘ The Avenue, right?’

‘That’s it.’ He says smiling. Still no idea of his name.

‘It was a beautiful old house.‘ I tell the man, genuinely. ‘Sort of garden you don’t get any more.’

‘They loved that garden, so did I.’ He says wistfully, as my stomach starts to rumble. This reminiscing is all very well, but unless he is buying or selling another property I’d rather he used a professional therapist to sort out his dead parent issues.

‘So what’s the market doing?’ Asks the man, with an expectant look. Great, free advice that he’ll ignore if it doesn’t tell him what he wants to hear.

‘Are you thinking of buying, or selling?’ I ask, because it makes a difference. 

‘Oh neither really.’ He replies as I start to wonder if all the best sandwiches in the meal deal will be gone by the time I get there. I draw the line at the vegan, low-calorie, low taste options. I need something to have died to fill out the brown bread….

‘I’m just interested in what the market does.’ The man enlightens, as I start to go through an internal checklist of male names, I sometimes run, starting with Aaron and progressing through to Zackary.

‘I love watching those property programmes.’ He continues, as I stumble somewhere around Leonard and Liam. ‘And I’m forever on the internet looking at stuff I’ll never be able to have.’ You and me both fella, but I suspect not the same portals.

‘It is addictive.’ I agree, thinking - unless you are in the industry.

‘I know,’ he gushes. ‘I’d love to do your job, it must be fantastic going inside all those homes every day.’ Not if they have cats, I want to say, but I have a vague recollection that his late-mother’s home ponged of pets, either that or she’d been soiling the carpets.

‘So what do you have to do to get into the business?’ Presses the man, eagerly. Paul maybe, or Peter?

Not paid attention at school, I ache to say, but sooner or later you need to get over your lack of academic achievement.

‘You don’t have to pass any formal exams.’ I say, still unable to believe it myself. ‘ At least not in this country.’ 

‘That doesn’t seem right.’He says frowning. Tell me about it Samuel, or perhaps Stephen. ‘So I could become an estate agent then?’

‘If you wanted to.’ Though why springs to mind, particularly at this guy’s age. It’s a young person’s job. Someone yet to be scarred by life and its setbacks.

‘Food for thought. He says before nodding and wondering off, leaving me bemused.

Spelt bread, with avocado slices. Thanks a lot, William.

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It's Behind You - Thursday

‘You’ve got a ghost house to look at.’ Says trainee F triumphantly, as I walk through the door.

‘Is it going to disappear as soon as I turn up?’ I ask him sarcastically.

F looks hurt, but sticks and stones will break his bones and words won’t - or he’d be in intensive care by now.

I don’t need to visit and market another home with a supposedly interesting angle that I can’t quantify to a belligerent Trading Standards officer, or some prissy pen-pusher still living at home with their parents, who works in a bubble at the Advertising Standards’ Agency.

‘You know ghosts don’t exist, don’t you?’ I ask F flatly.

‘You don’t know that.’ Interjects negotiator S. Good god, I hoped she’d be a bit more level-headed - maybe those enormous breasts are canting her forward again.

‘Well the lady who lives there says she’s seen the ghost lots of times.’ Persists F.

‘After the second bottle of wine, by any chance?’ Asks obese mortgage man M. He may be a peddler of pointless policies, but he does live in the real world. McDonald’s mostly…

‘And she wants to sell, does she?’ I press, starting to lose the will to live.

‘Yes,’ confirms F. ‘I’ve booked you a valuation this afternoon.’

‘Nobody is going to want to buy a haunted house.’ Says loose lettings lush B from her desk.

Thank you, I think fleetingly, until she adds. ‘She should rent it instead.’

‘I think it would be cool.’ Says S enthusiastically. ‘We could get loads of publicity in the local press with an angle like that.’

‘And you’d be inundated by every nut-job in the area.’ Says M, shaking his fat face. ‘Loonies and losers with a credit score lower than Greece.’

‘And they are the type that look but never buy.’ I add. ‘Any normal person isn’t going to be enthusiastic about buying a house with a resident poltergeist. Most people prefer the furniture moving to stop once the removal men have left.’

Now I love a home to market with an unusual story. Not least because you can indeed get the press, and social media, to lap up tales that might allow a sensational headline with a stock photo from Getty attached. They say any publicity is good publicity, especially if it’s free, but ghoulish stories and things that go bump in the night don’t exactly enhance your hopes of a quick sale, or a good price.

‘What was she like?’ I ask F wearily. Let me guess. Eccentric.

‘A little bit flaky.’ Confirms F.

‘Single?’

‘How did you know?’

‘With cats?’ I venture.

‘Three.’ Confirms F, looking at me as though I’m the supernatural one.

‘Flowery skirt, with greying hair too long for her age and a fleece covered in animal fur?’ I ask.

‘You know her don’t you?’ Demands F.

No. But I know the type.

Time was, I used to revel in selling homes with well-known residents from the past. I have even sold a couple with those Blue Plaques on the walls, over the years, detailing famous historical figures who once lived there. But the laws as they are preclude any spurious tales about a home’s history, unless they can be verified and quantified. It’s why estate agents’ particulars are so uniform sanitised and dull. Don’t blame me, blame the consumer lobby who assume every buyer has had a full frontal lobotomy before they were given their first credit card. Caveat Emptor is as dead as the Latin language.

‘So why does she want to sell her home,’ I ask F, after scanning the message book. ‘Surely she loves the company?’

‘Apparently the ghost spooks the cats.’ Says F, in apparent seriousness. 

Now I’m starting to like this  apparition. I’d love to be able to frighten away every little spiteful fur ball that has stuck it’s claws into me over the years. They seem to know a cat-hater instantly, even before I start sneezing; and kicking some malevolent moggy while the owner isn’t looking makes a valuation even harder than it is.

‘Good luck.’ Says S cheerily as I leave later. ‘Do you think she’ll be sensible on price?’

Not a ghost of a chance. 

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Cat In Hell's Chance - Friday

‘God that house on the Barratt development stinks something terrible.’ Complains assistant manager T as he comes back in the office vigorously brushing hair off his suit jacket. I made sure he did the viewing as I had the misfortune of listing the house. I was so busy trying to avoid the two yelping dogs and mopping my streaming eyes, that I pitched a little high on price and ended up with the instruction. Prospective buyers have all turned their noses up at the grubby two bed, timber-frame, architecturally bland box but the owners are in denial. How to you broach the subject their home stinks of unwashed pets when every owner is convinced the pong doesn’t apply to their Pongo?

‘They just don’t seem to notice.’ Continues T polishing his glasses fastidiously. ‘I mean how do they expect us to sell it when it reeks like Battersea dogs home?’

‘I could probably let it if you like,’ suggests lettings lush B. ‘I’ve got some pretty scuzzy applicants who wouldn’t notice the odd turd on the carpet as long as they got housing benefit.’

I tell B the owners don’t want to let their house. They could do with letting some air into it though.

‘What did the viewers say?’ I quiz, as T gets his germ-killer spray from the top drawer and rubs his hands together so fast I fear he might spontaneously combust. God knows how much paperwork that would generate - assuming the sprinklers actually worked.

‘Said they’d have to redecorate throughout, change all the carpets and relay the back lawn where the grass has gone piss-stained yellow.’

‘Not about to make an offer to take that in to account, then?’ I ask optimistically.

‘No,’ corrects T. ‘The owners would have to do that before they’d even consider looking again.’

I’ve learnt from long and painful experience pet lovers just won’t accept their beloved bundle of hair and excrement might be a hurdle to top dollar for their home, even when prospective buyers are hurdling poo on the patio. They just don’t get it. Dogs might seem friendly but if they salivate or ejaculate on your trouser leg it doesn’t usually result in a deal, unless you cater for a very specialised market. Cat owners think their feline friends are a cut above canines but in truth I dislike them even more. The fine hair has me sneezing and wheezing like a peanut allergy sufferer who has face-planted a plate of dry roasted. Plus I need to remain polite and don’t carry an adrenaline stick. And cats know you hate them, I can fool the owners most of the time but an overindulged Tabby will clock my discomfort before I’ve handed over a business card.

‘My cat doesn’t smell.’ Says B a hint of steely challenge in her voice. I’m just glad she said cat not pussy so I’m not about to argue. I’ve had the same problem with staff members who reek of body odour over the years.

‘You’re just the same as all the other owners.’ Taunts T unhelpfully. ‘God, some of them even let the fleabags sleep on their beds.’ There’s an awkward silence as B glares at T. She’s rumoured to be fairly relaxed about just who squats on her duvet.

‘You let your cat on your bed don’t you.’ States T with a grimace of realisation.

‘They’re cleaner than some men.’ Snaps B angrily.

Why didn’t I pay attention at school? If I could come round again, if I had nine lives…

‘How are you going to broach the subject when you do the viewing feedback?’ I ask T, coming back to the more immediate problem of the house with a litter tray in the kitchen and more hair on the sofa then the husband’s head.

‘You tell me.’ Counters T. ‘You’ve been doing this for like ever, and you put it on the market.’

‘Gently mention punters are showing a bit of resistance to the dogs?’ I say weakly.

‘They’ll have to take us as they find us.’ Mimics T in a parody of a hundred other vendors who want maximum money without using a vacuum cleaner.

Won’t be cleaning up this week.

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Animal Farm - Monday

‘What’s this woman like?’ I ask negotiator S who is adept at booking valuations and overcoming objections. The charm helps with the females and the huge tits seem to raise the men’s spirits.

‘Might be a bit of a man hater.’ Warns S with a distracting shrug.

‘Woman hater too.’ Adds lettings lush B from across the office. ‘I went to see her yesterday to see if she’d rent instead. She didn’t seem to like me much.’

It’s an open goal but I can’t face more tears and a possible three-page form from Human Resources to complete, so I let it pass.

‘Do we know why she’s thinking of moving?’ I ask both women, while scanning the valuation form. I see the information, in S’s handwriting just as B answers in the negative and S confirms her notes.

‘She’s got a job move and has to decide whether to let her flat or sell.’

‘Time frame?’ I ask, information being power. B shrugs as S answers. ‘Needs to be in post end of next month.’

I’m pleased, a committed mover. In theory if I don’t get the sale B should get the rental business. A win-win situation, only I want to win and B is more interested in wine, and probably her next Internet dating shag. I start my preparations, the now slightly battered Samsonite briefcase – I refuse to buy a man bag – loaded with agency contracts, corporate brochures, spare tape measure, digital camera, breath fresheners, anti-bacterial spray and plenty of Kleenex.

‘Ask her if she wants to do full management or find a tenant only.’ Instructs B casually as I prepare to leave. I feel my blood pressure climb another notch or two. Furring arteries already clogged with too may punters and too many pasties. If she can’t close the business – or her legs for that matter – I don’t see why I should mop up after her.

‘Oh by the way.’ Adds B as I head for the door, anxiously synchronising my watch with the office clock. ‘She has cats.’ B smiles a lipstick-stained grin. The sort of look countless men, who lied about age and job prospects on their profile, must have seen just before they realised they’d made a big mistake.

‘Do you have your tissues?’ Asks S. A question I’ve not fantasised about receiving from her with my clothes on and a 3.30pm appointment with an allergic reaction, to look forward to. I answer in the affirmative and begin thinking how long I can last in the flat before my nose is running, my eyes streaming and a warm pussy is rubbing my leg against my will.

‘I don’t want any sales bull.’ Opens the frosty Ms when I introduce myself and hand over a business card. She won’t notice it but even before I’m over the threshold I can smell the stench of felines. Dogs are only marginally less offensive, they stink a bit more but at least they’ll fetch a stick if you toss one, and bark at a burglar. Cats are just sly, disingenuous, self-serving, untrustworthy users. What you might find on the ideal personality traits for some estate agents, now I think of it..

‘All I want is a price and how low your fee can go.’ Hisses the woman as two tortoiseshell cats slink from behind a hair-strewn sofa. One is purring obscenely the other spitting menacingly. ‘Do you like cats?’ Asks the lovelorn woman pointedly. The Property Misdescription Act lists over thirty specified areas where it is an offence to give a false or misleading answer – as far as I know it doesn’t cover animal adoration. Probably another set of legislation completely. I fib.

Perched on the sofa, suit collecting shed hair like Velcro, I try to pitch for the business as one cat eyes me suspiciously and the other winds itself in and out of my legs. You can see why this woman is single. The cats are substitute children and boyfriend all in one. If they’re not seeing off suitors and salesmen they’ll be out toying with baby birds and shitting in neighbours’ gardens before sleeping on their owner’s pillow.

Several sneezes later, I’m blown out.

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