Hanging On The Telephone - Wednesday

The phones are jangling insistently as I enter the office after another fruitless appointment. Negotiator S is looking harassed, locked into what sounds like a difficult call. B the letting lush is over by the printer ignoring the residential line again. The ringing in my ears gets louder.

Coat still on, I grab a handset and punch the flashing light. Corporate greeting parroted I find out why we are so sought after.

‘You have a two bedroom flat advertised in the paper for £95,000,’ says an uncultured voice. ‘Can we view it?’

My mind goes blank. Have I finally cracked and regressed back through some sort of mental time warp to the nineties, when I still thought I had career prospects and good hair? The other lines still chime and B still fiddles with the printer paper tray. Where the hell is everyone else?

‘Can you grab one of our lines?’ I ask B fractiously, after I’ve realised what has happened and dumped the caller to a rarely used swear word in response.

‘I’m trying to get a contract sorted.’ Snaps B, shoving the offending paper tray back into the machine with an expensive grating sound. If the engineer comes out again this month he’ll need his own coffee mug.

I take one of the ringing lines as S finally finishes her call and grabs the other one, look of unflattering fatigue on her, as yet, unlined face.

‘It’s not £95,000 madam,’ I say apologetically. ‘The paper have missed a number two out.’

As I say it, M our obese mortgage man waddles back from the direction of the gents’ toilet, my newspaper under his arm. He’s clearly not missed a number two out, I think angrily, as a vision of having to eat my sandwich in a rush while scanning the headlines M’s been perusing before washing his hands, flashes in my head like strobe lighting.

‘So what are you saying?’ Quizzes the lady caller curtly. ‘Is it £95,200 then?’

Can people really be that stupid? I think, before answering the rhetorical thought in the affirmative.

‘I’m sorry it should have read £295,00 madam.’ I say, bracing myself for the vitriol. Quite inventive as it happens, but with a more commonly used expletive this time.

‘You lot are all the same,’ rants the woman, certainly no longer a lady. ‘It’s just a con to get us to call.’ She couldn’t be further from the truth, but I’ve no time to explain as another two lines have just started trilling and I like to answer within three rings. Any quicker and it sounds desperate, much longer and you appear uncaring and understaffed.

S and I simultaneously explain the misprint to another pair of dreamers just as trainee F wanders in, snout in a McDonald’s takeaway bag. I point to a third line just illuminating - which is more than he’s ever managed to be. He nods and takes another bite from his burger. I physically feel an artery constricting.

‘Where on earth is everyone?’ I grumble when the activity has finally quelled.

‘Lunch.’ Says F wiping a dollop of ketchup from his chin and only succeeding in smearing it across his face like some lipstick-smudged tart after a busy night by the wheelie-bins – or B in lettings.

‘So is this, like, a new instruction?’ Asks F when I find a copy of the free paper and angrily highlight the printer’s error.

Punching him is no longer a viable option, although God knows it’s tempting. I make a mental note to bring his lack of awareness up at our monthly one-to-one, if I remember…

‘They can’t really expect us to be selling a two bed for that money in that location.’ Says S wearily as assistant manager T walks back in carrying a brace of expensive-looking shopping bags.

‘Alright?’ He asks warily, the atmosphere frostier than a mortuary fridge.

Not really.

‘Bloody idiots.’ Pronounces T, once I’ve informed him why the phones will be uncommonly busy for the next three days.

‘The paper or the punters?’ Asks S walking towards the kitchen slowly.

‘Both.’ Answers T before adding. ‘Does anyone want to see my new shirts?’

A snip apparently.

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Glazing Over - Monday

Morning meeting over, I loiter in the main office as my team set about the delegated tasks. Then negotiator S looks up and calls across to her only other female colleague, loose lettings lush B.

‘That’s going to brighten up our day.’ She announces and they both turn towards the window. Any hope of it being a punter with a suitcase full of cash – although with money laundering rules even that pleasure is denied – is soon forgotten. It’s the young window cleaner. They think he’s hot. So does he.

‘When he comes inside.’ Suggest B with a disconcerting chuckle. ‘Ask him to get right in the window display and clean the sills.’ B isn’t usually that bothered about the office appearance, but S confirms why.

‘You filthy cow.’ She says to B. ‘You just want him to bend over in those tight jeans again.’

Now I’ve had countless memos and ball-achingly dull courses reminding me that sexist behaviour in the workplace is unacceptable, but generally they’re generated by the humourless, sexless, women in the Human Resources department, and generally they’re aimed at males. Should I say something? After all, my risqué thoughts have to stay in my head, or at least wait until I write the blog.

‘Here come the soap suds.’ Announces B with a dirty laugh. And the women watch mesmerised, as the lithe lad smears the window with a foamy mix that hopefully will loosen the sticky pizza and puke combo in the bottom right corner. One I couldn’t completely flush away with warm water and the washing up brush, M the mortgage man uses to clean out his soup flask.

‘And bend, then stretch.’ Chimes S in a throaty, x-rated commentary that could earn her good money on an adult chat line. I might ask her to replicate it next time we have to ring round the mailing list to generate much-needed viewings.

‘You two are disgusting.’ Chides assistant manger T as the window cleaner re-appears with each confident sweep of his squeegee.

‘What?’ Challenges B aggressively. ‘You don’t letch after all the totty that comes in looking for flats?’

‘Or want to take them out on a viewing even though they can’t afford anything we’re offering?’ Says S.

‘He’s coming in.’ Announces B. ‘Look like we’re not interested.’

Too late for that, I think. I can recognise much subtler buying signals than the two women are emitting.

‘Morning boss.’ Says the lad towards me, before offering the females a broad smile and adding. ‘And morning lovely ladies.’ I can almost feel the atmosphere moisten, unless it’s the slosh of water he spills on the fake laminate floor as he stretches, as requested, to wipe the layer of dust and dead flies from around the corporate, guide to buying leaflets, lying underneath the displays.

‘How’s the search for properties going?’ Asks T brutally, as the snake-hipped cleaner emerges from under the halogen lights, with even more of a winter tan than before. It’s a cruel question. We all know the lad, on piece rates and self-employed with no more than a year’s accounts, will never get a mortgage. He’s more a payday loan kind of guy.

‘It’s you lot.’ He says in reply, stooping to mop the puddle on the laminate, just as I’m fretting where the yellow Wet Floor Hazard sign is. If someone goes arse-over-tit on site, the paperwork is endless and the accident book is used to prop the rear fire door open.

‘What about us?’ Asks S coyly.

‘You keep shoving the prices up. Making it impossible for ordinary guys to get on the ladder.’ A cheap joke about some steps and the outside fascia needing cleaning flashes by unspoken, as B says suggestively.

‘What you need is a more experienced Cougar to look after your housing needs.’

‘Scared the shit out of him.’ Jokes T, as the window cleaner exits, leaving a waft of aftershave and soap bubbles.

‘It’s depressing they all still think prices are our fault.’ I say as I spot a mark on the window he missed.

‘He’s a renter for life.’ Pronounces T, adding. ‘And he probably thinks a Cougar is something in the zoo.’

The mauling was nasty.

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