Fly Me To The Moon - Friday

‘Much happening?’ I ask trainee F, as I return to the office. It’s a double-edged question. I want the good news, but there’s an equal amount of unwanted tidings in property. The worst being a sale falling through. I’m guessing on-line agents aren’t that bothered if a deal collapses as they get paid irrespective of result. But the traditional, full-service-agent, gets diddly-squat, nada, zip, if a sale doesn’t proceed to completion.

‘Drone salesman called in to see you.’ Announces F, with a soppy smile.

‘What was he selling?’ I ask frowning.

‘I told you.’

‘You told me he was boring, and talked too much.’ I answer shirtily. ‘But then I’ve said before, selling isn’t telling. You remember the two ears, one mouth rule?’

F looks at me bemused. He has the attention span of a cerebrally-challenged goldfish, so I realise he may not remember the old sales’ adage that you must listen twice as much as you speak. As ever negotiator S comes to the rescue.

‘He meant a salesman that sells drones. Those hovering things that you mount a camera on.’ She enlightens, gently.

Now I realise it’s me who is the fool, it’s not a new phenomenon but it smarts every time.

‘You told him I’m not interested.’ I say to F.

‘Not exactly…..’

‘Tell me he’s not coming back?’ I ask groaning.

‘Well he was in town anyway, seeing one of our competitors.’

‘He wasn’t.’

‘He said he was.’

‘How many times, have I told you?’ I demand wearily. ‘Don’t believe most of what a salesman tells you. He’s on commission.’

Reprimand issued, mostly to cover my embarrassment at misunderstanding a drone salesman, I head for the message book to see what fresh hell has been inked in there for me. The salesman is, having a coffee, somewhere up the high street and will be back shortly. The truth is I can’t make purchasing decisions any more. It’s all been re-allocated to head office, where some jobsworth constantly renegotiates our supplier contracts, presumably for free lunches and crap branded pens that break in your pocket and leak ink over your suit. Invariably, we end up with a more complicated purchasing system and a national supplier who is half as efficient as the local business that preceded them, was.

‘I think it would be great.’ Says F gushingly, as I return to a spare desk and nurse a cup of tea, no sugar - I’m on a diet again.

‘Don’t you need a special licence to fly them?’ I ask flatly. ‘To stop people taking out an Airbus on final approach.’

‘They take the footage for you, I think.’ Says F. ‘Or maybe there’s a training course?’

Terrific. Another patronising teacher who tells because they can’t sell, is all I need. And sending F, as the youngest, supposedly most tech-savvy staff member isn't going to work. He still hasn’t mastered the colour printer. The clown causes more jams than a broken-down lorry on the by-pass.

Many of these, drop-in as they are passing salesman, have vanished as more and more business is awarded centrally. Others have died a death, as their product suffers the law of Darwin, rendering them extinct. Time was, I was plagued by map salesman trying to flog you overpriced handouts for lost punters, which they’d lifted - sometimes with dubious legality - from a Ordnance survey sheet. If you showed interest, they wanted names and numbers of all your local business contacts, to try and flog them advertising space in the margins of the expensive street plan. Google maps finished that, thankfully.

‘Why would I want aerial views of half the shite-holes we are trying to flog?’ I ask sourly. ‘It’s not going to help unload an ex-council house someone bought at a knock-down price with right-to-buy, by showing they have a load of spent white goods in the back garden and haven't cut the lawn for three months.’ 

Then in he comes, with a bad suit, sickly grin and an over-sized briefcase.

‘Have I got something you are really going to want.’ He begins gushingly.

You haven’t.

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Window Shopper - Friday

‘Twat alert.’ Announces assistant manager T in a stage whisper. It’s funny how words evolve, when I was a teenager the warning would have meant an entirely different sighting.

‘Where?’ Asks trainee F looking up from the jammed colour printer. If the imbecile can fix it without having to call out the engineer again, my month end profit and loss account will benefit - although it will still show F’s salary costs, so maybe not.

‘Front left window.’ Hisses T, adding. ‘But don’t make it obvious.’ If ever there was a wasted sentence. F turns conspicuously and half a ream of headed paper tumbles to the floor like A4 confetti.

‘The man with the red trousers?’Asks F loudly, as the middle aged bloke looking in catches his movement and shuffles to the right hand window. The man peers in with one hand raised above his beetle brows.

‘Don’t make it obvious we’re talking about him.’ I hiss as F stoops to begin collecting the paper trail.

‘Do you know him?’ Asks F. ‘He looks a bit of a nutter.’

‘Would you like to narrow it down a bit.’ Contributes negotiator S with an alluring giggle.

‘Yep,’ agrees T. ‘If we were that selective with punters we’d hardly deal with anyone.’

T has a point. Seemingly sane people are driven to places they never new existed by property - and I don’t just mean taking impoverished first time buyers to see the ex-council flats with lifts that smell of piss.

The stress and uncertainty of moving home can tip the most steady-nerved individuals into Valium- popping nervous wrecks by the time they’ve had a bad survey, failed mortgage offer and two sales fall through on the eve of exchanging contracts. We earn our money, no matter what they say on the Housing Geek forums.

‘He’s a window surfer.’ I say behind cupped hand, as I slyly watch the man with the dodgy fashion sense while he peruses our window display for the umpteenth time.

‘You’ll get to know the regulars.’ Says T knowingly, adding with feeling. ‘And any man who wears red trousers is going to be a first class tosser if you ask me.’

It’s a sweeping statement. One I should challenge. I’ve learned over the years that the most improbable characters can pay prices you’d think they could never afford on first impression, while seemingly reliable buyers turn out to be raving basket cases when signing the contract looms - even so, red trousers… 

‘But surely even the lunatics have to live somewhere?’ Questions F as he shuffles the paper and tries to feed it back into the printer tray. ‘They must have bought at least once.’

F is, for once, spot on. But with demand for homes consistently outstripping supply I decided long ago that, as long as you achieve the right price for your client, selling to a nightmare buyer - who when push comes to shove will probably let you down anyway - isn’t the best option when there are plenty of alternatives.

‘He’s been on the mailing list for about five years.’ Says T with feeling, before adding with a grin. ‘At least he thinks he has.’

‘But…’ begins F as he tries to ram the paper tray shut, with an expensive sounding grinding of gears.

‘But nothing.’ Interjects T. ‘There’s not enough hours in a lifetime, let alone a day, to keep dealing with habitual lookers. Wasters all of them.’

‘He’s right.’ Confirms big mortgage man M as he gallumps across the office. ‘I did a fact find on him once, way back, and he didn’t want any insurance or payment protection…’

The laughter almost reaches the street, despite our plate glass fortifications.

‘What?’ Asks M, hurt look on his chubby features. ‘Payment Protection was appropriate for some people.’

I have to call a halt on the merriment when I feel a rib about to pop.

‘You can laugh.’ Sulks M. ‘But you all had your introducers’ commission out of those policies I wrote.’ The truth hurts.

‘He’s going thank God.’ Mutters T as the subject of our ire moves on down the high street.

‘Wanker.’ Mimes T.

‘Rate whore.’ Adds M.

‘Twat.’ Says S.

Precisely.

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Avoid the red trouser brigade next time you move and read the e-book - links on the right. You know you should....