Appetite For Destruction - Thursday

I enter the budget hotel car park just as my rival manager H sweeps in with his two bands higher, company car. The vertically-challenged throwback seems to stick to me like a turd on a heel. I’m sure he does it just for another opportunity to taunt me about his superior sales figures. He still can’t reach the bar to pick up his pint though….

‘How’s it going?’ Asks H, as we trudge toward the revolving door without enthusiasm. He isn’t actually interested. Like creepy dark-eyed carrion feeding off others misfortune - he just wants to crow.

I tell him how business is, with the usual poetic licence beloved of sales people the world over. He’s not listening. 

‘Four in the bag already this week,’ he trumpets as we shuffle through the spinning entrance. ‘And multiple offers on two others.’ I’m tempted to jump out of the glass-prison and give it a mighty shove, just to see him spinning inside, little legs pumping like a mini Usain Bolt until he falls and is flattened by the mechanism. But of course I don’t. Imagine the paperwork.

‘Who started this absurd breakfast meeting nonsense?’ Asks H angrily, as I nod at a new eastern european lady behind the reception desk and spot the mis-spelt welcome board detailing which soul-less meeting room we are in today.

‘I think it came over from America in the eighties.’ I tell him flatly.

‘Like Aids then.’ Responds H, nastily.

Political correctness and empathy seem to have passed H by, despite the awareness courses the lesbian in Human Resources likes to run.

We enter the appointed room and an unpleasant waft of congealed fat assaults my nostrils. With dismay, I see this time the breakfast offerings are actually in the same room. Three trestle tables are spread along one wall, covered in disposable paper cloths, and supporting those vast copper containers with lids on. A bunsen burner-type arrangement sits under each vessel, gently stewing the contents that have doubtless been wallowing in their own fat for at least forty minutes. My stomach rumbles audibly. I’m going to regret this.

‘Who’s the new totty?’ Asks H in a louder than necessary stage whisper. He’s indicating an earnest-looking young woman in a trouser suit. She’s almost pretty, in a bookish, boyish way.

‘A new financial consultant.’ I tell him softly. I’ve met the girl once and warmed to her about as much as the solidifying scrambled eggs.

‘She won’t last.’ Predicts H, sitting beside me. Shit on a shoe-style.

‘You can’t say that.’ I hiss. Seeing our bean-counter boss is looking at me challengingly - and that’s before he puts my office figures on the overhead.

‘Just saying.’ Counters H. ‘If she isn’t in tears before the end of the year, she’ll be pregnant.’

If she sits in your office too long, she will be. I think with a shiver.

H doesn’t employ women of child-bearing age except on reception, or in secretarial roles. He’s the sort of throwback that would suit the eighties, except a mullet and shoulder pads would probably tip him over.

I’ve argued long in to the night with H at countless hotel bars, over his misogynistic views, but he remains unmoved and undersized. 

‘Sooner or later they all skive off on maternity leave and end up impacting on the office sales’ figure.’ He argues. ‘Then you can’t employ a proper replacement and they want to keep the cocking company car for the school run.’

I’m hoping Darwin will get him in the end.

‘Bet she doesn’t eat meat either.’ Continues H, as he shadows me to the food station. ‘F•••ing vegans. You don’t get any in African villages, I’m telling you.’

Grudgingly, I have to concede H has a point. The fads and foibles we have to cater for in the workplace have reached epidemic proportions. I’m guessing if you haven’t eaten anything for days but a stale yam, and your mother has trudged five miles to a well, you won’t be demanding Perrier and a Linda McCartney ready meal. Give me the muddy water and something with a heartbeat to eat, bitch!

Just not the sweaty bacon. 

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The Threshing Machine - Wednesday

‘Oh come on, who hasn’t topped up the franking machine?’ I grumble.

‘You, probably.’ Fires back assistant manager T, cheekily. He knows I can’t work out how to reload the unit on-line, but that’s not the point.

‘There was a time when I stared in this business we didn’t have franking machines.’ I tell T sagely, as we puzzle over the convoluted instruction manual and look in vain for any sign of negotiator S returning from lunch. She knows how to top up the mailing machine remotely. T and I clearly don’t - remotely.

‘Well we won’t need a franking machine for much longer anyway.’ Opines T, as he stabs at the reset button aimlessly. 

‘Why’s that?’ I ask, knowing the answer, but not liking it much.

‘Because hardly anyone doesn’t have an email address now, wait a few years for the old buggers to die off, or be shipped to nursing homes, and we can send everything out electronically.’

I’ve only just got used to having a franking machine. Technology keeps galloping past. I feel like a carthorse on a racecourse.

The door opens and trainee F rolls in, whistling in a key no musician has ever heard of.

‘Can you top the franking machine up?’ I ask plaintively

F frowns, then says hesitantly.’ I’m a bit short this month, can’t we use petty cash?’

Sometimes I wonder if it’s just me? Perhaps the world has moved on to another level and I’m some anthropological throwback just waiting for the mercy killing of extinction.

‘He means how to reload it on-line.’ Says T coming to my rescue and saving another expensive trip to the office swear box.

’S usually does it.’ Replies F unhelpfully.

‘What if she’s run over by a bus?’ I snap angrily.

‘She hasn’t been has she?’ Says F, eyes brimming up. Good God. In the office, out with pernickety punters, in the high street battling shoppers - you are sometimes never more alone than in a crowd.

‘These were new fangled not that long ago.’ I tell T and F as collectively we stare at the franking machine handbook. It might as well be written in Swahili for all I can fathom. 

‘What did you do. Deliver by hand?’ Asks F to a snort of derision from T.

‘Stamps!’ I shout with more volume than I intended and a side-order of spittle. ‘We used to get A4 sheets of stamps from the Post office and fill, fold then stick.’

‘It must have been like the dark ages when you started.’ Says F after we’ve given up hearing a Fax machine screech every time we unsuccessfully tried to credit the franking machine. S will be back soon, unless the Number 10 really does wipe her out.

‘Well,’ I begin warming to a theme. ‘You didn’t just push a button and upload details to a property portal.’

T moves away, saying flatly. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘And you couldn’t take a dozen photos on a digital camera and retouch them when you got back to the office.’

‘Did you still get dustbins in the foreground back then?’ Shouts T from the kitchen, impertinently.

He knows I hate badly framed photos, with no thought taken before snapping. Company cars in the picture, or the numpty taking the photo reflected back in a window, are two other pet hates.

‘We used to have a film company collect the 35mm rolls every day and bring them back twenty-four hours later.’ I tell F, as he stifles a yawn. ‘So you had to make sure you got a good shot or you ended up with fifty sticky-backed mini-prints to go in the bin.’

‘Did you have one of those retro black and white numbers?’ Asks F, seemingly interested again.

‘He means Polaroid, the instant ones.’ Says T plonking two mugs of grease-flecked tea on the desk.

‘I did as it happens.’ I answer dreamily. Fondly remembering the huge plastic cameras and the excitement of waiting for the pull out print to develop.

‘Good for revenge porn shots and selfies?’ Asks F lewdly.

Never more alone.

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The Only Way Is Up - Friday

Back in the budget hotel car park with a lowering sense of deja vu. This time there is some sort of barrier to negotiate and draconian threats of clamping cowboys if I don’t report to reception and obtain the appropriate get out of jail card.

I note a couple of new company cars, for those producing better sales figures than my office and the mood darkens. Then, as if to compound the misery, H my vertically-challenged rival manager, sweeps in with a shiny new German motor. The urge to key it with British Leyland lives, rises briefly, until I realise that the car park is monitored by CCTV. 

I’ve imagined many ways of resigning - with varying degrees of style - but being caught red-handed scratching graffiti on a BMW’s door, championing a defunct manufacturer that built crap cars isn’t my exit of choice. But man, it’s tempting.

‘You have ticket no?’ Asks the slightly stern looking girl on reception, as I make it through the revolving doors without being spat out into the car park again. There's a deep Freudian message in there somewhere but I’m too tired and simple to find it.

‘I’m with this lot.’ I say to the receptionist, indicating the crooked Welcome board where once again they've misplaced a couple of possessive apostrophes on two of the delegations. Not that I’m in a position to complain, I still get them wrong - and still receive reprimands from grammar pedants when I do - but at least someone is reading my output. Far better than being ignored.

‘So Estate Agents, no?’ Queries the girl. The staff seem to have shifted subtly over the past twelve months. I’m sensing a move further east, to newly admitted European nations. One thing is for sure not many indigenous locals seem to work here. The probably don’t get many UKIP delegations staying.

I acknowledge my guilt in ending up in a profession roundly despised by even third world cleaning staff and the girl, with roots badly in need of more peroxide, hands me an exit ticket. If only the career one was so easily taken.

‘I like to buy in this country.’ Says the girl with a crooked smile. I just stop myself from looking pointedly at my watch. No need to be rude before she is.

‘Only,’ continues Tatiana - happy to help according to her name badge - ‘The prices are as high as the mountains, no?’

When she puts it so charmingly it would seem churlish to point out appending NO as a suffix to every sentence tends to negate the earlier statement. So I agree with her and take the proffered, date stamped, escape ticket. Then despite my smile, her mood darkens.

‘And it’s all you peoples fault, no?’ She barks like a concentration camp commandant. Terrific, I think, as I head for the elevator my denial clearly not believed. I should check the back of my jacket to see if I’m sporting some sort of motif to make me more recognisable when the book and negotiator burning starts.

So, not only do buyers and sellers not understand how the market works, I can now add vast swathes of former Russian satellite states’ immigrants, along with “property expert” television presenters and politicians. Perhaps I should learn how to work in Housekeeping instead of housing, at least the shit tends to remain in the pan - or the bed.

The lift doors swish shut behind me and I steel myself for another piss-poor Powerpoint presentation from my bean counter boss. I read somewhere that Microsoft were stopping those tacky Clip Art inserts. The bean counter will be distraught not to have that ghastly graph with the briefcase wielding drone trudging uphill endlessly. Sales is a Sisyphean task, at least I think it is. Look it up, because it’s all Greek to me…

Then I notice the lift carriage is carrying adverts for local business outlets. The cut price clowns with cheap fees and cheap suits are staring me in the face. I spend my life persuading owners that a slashed percentage charge by an estate agent could end up costing them money, but some just won’t listen.

Just hope the lift didn’t have hidden cameras.

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Hot To Trot - Tuesday

‘Looks like it’s going to be another warm one.’ Says my wife, tugging back the curtains to let an unaccustomed cascade of light into the bedroom. I wince at the brightness and in preparation for the long-running dispute that I can sense is about to recommence.

After decades of selling homes, in all markets and all weathers, I still can’t quite get use to the few short months when the bedside alarm ushers in the local radio retards, in daylight. Incidentally, it’s probably just me, but it seems you need to have some sort of speech impediment to get into broadcasting now - and a name with no vowels in it.

‘What are you wearing today?’ Asks my wife. This would seem like a perfectly innocent question to a bystander - although why anyone would be standing in my bedroom unannounced I can’t imagine. Move along, nothing to see here. But I know there’s a barely hidden agenda.

‘I’m not going through that again.’ I tell her as I stumble towards the shower.

‘I’ve ironed a couple.’ Counters my wife artfully.

‘I’ve told you a hundred times,’ I say wearily. ‘I’d look like an Australian bank manger in a short-sleeve shirt.’

‘I’m not suggesting you wear the shorts and knee-length socks.’ Counters my wife, eyes heavenwards.

She just doesn’t get it.

The UK weather doesn’t present too many occasions for this sort of marital dispute, but over the course of my stubborn career I’ve had this running argument, every few days our summer doesn’t resemble an Indian rainy season.

‘You’ll be much more comfortable.’ Says my wife as I arrive back five minutes later, soggy and still groggy. She’s holding up a flimsy piece of clothing enticingly, but not in a good way. Short-sleeves just don’t look professional in my opinion. I strive for that Barack Obama level of cool, roll up the long sleeves if you have to, but don’t resemble a barman in a Spanish cocktail bar. The item she’s presenting was an unwise purchase for a Greek holiday and I’m pretty sure I didn’t even wear it then. Although after several glasses of post-prandial Ouzo I can barely remember my own name, let alone which dodgy Marks and Spencer summer shirt I was wearing when I danced on the table.

‘Are you even doing anything?’ I shout at my car dashboard, as the traffic slows and I try to calculate if I’ll still be the first in the office - almost certainly. My arms are warming like a couple of kebabs on a barbecue, and I’m more hot under the collar than usual. I spin the dial on the fan and all I get is more noise and a higher velocity of warm air. The air conditioning in my ageing company car, needs topping up again. I just can’t face the customer service hell hole the local main dealer provides. There are only so many molten-plastic-laced cups of vending machine coffee you can endure, only to be told: ‘The parts for that ain’t in stock mate. You’ll have to come back next wednesday.’

‘Morning.’ Says negotiator S warmly, as she breezes through the door and I sit at the main desk, sweat dripping down my back unpleasantly. S looks hot too, but in a much less sweaty way - although….

I watch as she walks to the kitchen area, puts the kettle on then returns to her desk. Demure just about covers it. She’s in a skirt and sleeveless blouse combo. The top must be man made, as the fibres are under almost as much pressure as I am.

Then the door opens again and the contrast couldn’t be more dramatic. B our loose lettings lush click-clacks in on those vertiginous heels. She’s rocking the slutty teacher look. Skirt shorter than S’s by a good three inches, dark lacy bra showing conspicuously through a white top. More make-up than a circus act. And stockings.

Finally M, the man-mountain mortgage peddler arrives. He’s perspiring like a cook at a Chinese take-away. Deep damp patches under his arms and a moist line down his dark blue shirt, tracing his vertebrae. No sign of a jacket.

Not cool.

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Higher And Higher Baby - Wednesday

‘Ugh, I feel like I need a wash after that place.’ Says the pretty young woman as she clambers into the back seat of my company car. A wicked inner voice tempts me to drive off now and leave the lummox of a boyfriend at the kerbside, but I keep the engine ticking over while the musclebound hunk with the tattooed arms squeezes in behind me. How is it the most beautiful women always seem to be on the arm of a neanderthal thug? It’s not as if he’s a professional footballer - or they wouldn’t be looking in this price range.

‘I wouldn’t keep me dog in that place.’ Pronounces the protein shake junkie, as I feel his knees knocking against the back of my driver’s seat. There’s another notch back on the runners and I’m wondering if I can shift the seat back to the end of its travel without him noticing.

‘I hope the other two we’re looking at are better than that flat.’ Says the girlfriend disconsolately. They are, I’ve shown them the grottiest unit first, by the time they get to the last, and priciest, flat they should be less likely to carp on cost or carpets. I won’t let this pair out of the car until I’ve exhausted every possibility of a sale, plus all the time they’re with me they can’t be with an opposition agent. 

‘So what is the market really doing?’ Quizzes the female as her less verbose half grunts and swipes at his smartphone which I’m guessing is a lot brighter than he is. 

If I knew the answer to that one I’d have a buy-to-let portfolio and an exit plan, I think glumly. Hindsight is a wonderful thing but I’ve missed more boats than a seasick asylum seeker.

I give the two of them a generic, fat-free, answer about interest rates, affordability, supply, demand and confidence. It can be tailored to suit buyers or sellers and altered for a rising or falling market. Tell people something with enough conviction and they’ll believe anything , and to date I’ve had no convictions…

‘That one wasn’t much better.’ Says the woman as we head back across town to the flat I wanted to show them all along. The Hulk is on his phone again muttering in some sub-English shorthand about what appears  to be a night out with the boys. With a beautiful girlfriend like his, he’d be better advised to stay at home. At least if I flog them something I might get the re-sale when they split up.

‘The next one you’ll love.’ I tell them catching her eye in the rear view mirror and seeing a look of mistrust she’d be better off delivering to Conan The Barbarian beside her.

‘I hope so,’ she replies. ‘I’m beginning to think we’ll never catch up with the market.’ Isaac Newton knew what goes up must come down, but I’m not about to tell her that and it looks like her partner has already been hit on the head with something much heavier than an apple.

I sense a deal with this pair and I’m not letting them go. I’ve already established the young woman’s parents are contributing the cash deposit to unlock more attractive loan rates, and allow them to grab the bottom rung of a retractable ladder. I read somewhere that two-thirds of first time buyers now get financial help for the deposit from their parents. The bank of mum and dad as it’s now known. All the benefits of an inheritance without the family squabbles and funeral arrangements.

‘I’m not sure,’ says the woman after the tour of my target flat. ‘What do you think Luke?’ Tough question, I’m not sure Luke has developed much further than a single cell organism. ‘Dunno.’ He mutters. It’s the best they’ll get with their spending power. I need to close the deal.

‘If we saved for another six months, what could we get for, maybe, another £10,000?’ Asks the woman.

‘This flat, only with a higher asking price.’  I tell her bluntly.

Don’t blame the messenger.

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Starting Gun - Wednesday

‘I want to lose some weight, obviously.’ States negotiator S. It’s not that obvious to me, she has the sort of curves race track designers and anorexic models yearn to acquire and I’m fairly confident there’s no silicon involved.

‘Load of twaddle.’ States bloated mortgage man M as he sways towards the kitchen with that rolling gait only truly morbidly obese people can display, short of a bumpy cross-channel ferry ride.

‘You won’t be cutting back then?’ I ask, trying to mask any irony.

‘You seen my targets?’ Replies M from round the door, echoing sound of the biscuit tin popping. ‘I’ve got no time for faddy diets. I need all the energy I can get if I’m going to flog that much unwanted insurance.’ From the mouths’ of….

We’re doing the New Year’s resolution thing, while the office door rattles in its frame and biblical levels of rain scour the pavements of congealed vomit and solidified chewing gum.

‘I’m going to try and pay off some of my credit card bills.’ Says assistant manager T with less than convincing authority. The man runs a bigger percentage deficit than most European countries – apart from the French obviously.

‘Really?’ I probe, hoping if he comes to terms with reality on the APR he’s suffering, he might take some ownership of the office objectives I’m labouring under. There’s more chance of M making the second WeightWatchers’ meeting - the one after the weigh in.

Everyone turns towards B, our loose lettings lady whom I’m fairly sure she hasn’t sobered up since New Year’s Day. I’m not expecting much perspective viewed through the bottom of a gin and tonic glass.

‘I’m going to attempt the impossible.’ Announces B rather sadly. You can almost hear several estate agents’ minds spinning rapidly, bit like an ailing hard drive on an elderly PC if I had to articulate it audibly.

‘So what is that exactly?’ S finally ventures.

‘Find a good man who isn’t gay or married.’ Replies B, to an unwelcome nod of recognition from S.

She has a point. I see a lot of low-life’s representing the male of the species, on weekly matrimonial valuations and regular fractious family disputes over the deceased’s home and chattels. Plus, B has screwed her way through most of the penis-toting Marriage Guidance members’ list, and rumour has it has woken, fuzzy-headed, with more than one camp man who agreed to try and be turned after several Campari’s and the promise of trying on B’s high heel collection….

‘Good luck with that.’ I tell B, thinking M has more chance of ditching the doughnuts and becoming slimmer of the year, than B stopping serial swigging and shagging

‘What about you?’ I ask F, our intellectually challenged trainee. F looks at me with those little boy lost eyes. They don’t work. I’ve tried dumping him on a leaflet drop at the far end of the office patch, but he still finds his bedraggled way back to the office. I guess that’s care in the community for you.

‘I want to get my own flat and maybe even….’ F tails off.

‘What?’ Ask three voices at once.

‘No, you’ll only laugh.’

‘They won’t.’ I tell him encouragingly.

‘Well maybe get on the company car list?’

Okay. I was wrong about the hysterical giggling.

‘And what about you, boss?’ Asks T, after the exaggerated rib clutching has subsided and the ladies have worked their way through several tissues. F is looking forlorn, but it’s a tough business. Although curiously, he’s the only staff member whose aspirations have revolved round their working life. If F hits his targets and his colleagues do too, an ageing sign-written Mini might not be out of the question.

I realise all eyes are on me now, as I ponder the question. Yes, we’ve done the weight loss and reduction of alcohol intake thing at home, and I realised long ago, after too many house repossessions, that living on credit you can’t afford is a short cut to a lengthy local authority housing list, or a crummy bed and breakfast.

I yearn to say, quit the property business and become a successful writer. I actually say:

‘Beat last year’s office turnover.’

Loser.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

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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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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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