Vintage Collection - Friday

‘Computer is down.’ Says trainee F by way of a greeting, as I return to the office.

‘Well I’m pretty fed-up too, after the tossers I’ve just seen.’ I tell him grumpily, but he doesn’t get the weak attempt at humour. 

When I was in my estate agency infancy, so were computers. I’ve struggled to keep pace with the burgeoning technology, to the stage where I yearn for an earlier age. One where you got to know your mailing list by telephoning them, and still had the excitement of waiting for negatives to be developed, when you took a property photo. Now, computers are like some digital deity, imbued with a sense of super-intelligence much more than the sum of the parts - a bunch of soldered wires and micro-circuits with an overdeveloped sense of their own importance.

‘All the computers?’ I ask, dumping my equally old-fashioned briefcase on the floor and gesticulating round the office.

‘They’re all on the same server aren’t they?’ Replies F.

Probably.

‘I’ve rung the help desk.’ Says negotiator S gently. She knows I think that title is an enormous misnomer, at least she is after my last rant and the subsequent explanation of misnomer, minus the expletive.

‘And?’ I reply peevishly.

‘They are sending out an engineer. It’s a fault at our end.’

Of course it is. Each new bunch of bandits over the years who flog us the hardware and more deviously the tailor-made software, tend to stitch the company in to costly maintenance contracts and whenever operators find glitches in the system, or parameters not catered for in issue 1.0, there’s an exorbitant charge for updating to a new version just to fix their crap product in the first place. I could go on - for several versions.

‘What’s the matter with the intranet?’ Asks obese finance man M as he waddles out of his office, pained look on his chubby features.

‘It’s crashed.’ Replies F.

‘Our end or theirs?’ Says M.

‘Ours of course.’ I tell him sourly. He’s probably only notice because he can’t access his f***ing Facebook page. I refuse to go down that route, not least because you need to give your true name and age. You can find me on Twitter though - anonymously - @theagentsdiary….

‘Has anyone tried turning it off and back on again?’ Asks M, brow furrowed. He’s from a similar vintage to me, one that didn’t grow up with Nintendo 64s and Play Stations.

‘That only works on stand alone peripherals.’ Responds F.

I didn’t think he knew the meaning of the word, so I’m not about to challenge its accuracy. Although I’m pretty sure it is tech-speak for printers and scanners. Pretty sure.

‘In my day,’ I begin to a low collective groan. ‘We didn’t have any computers in the office.’

The phones are as quiet as the eerily blank flat-screens and we’re still waiting for the pre-pubescent engineer to arrive. He’s probably only available after school hours.

‘So how did you prepare sales details and upload photos on property portals?’ Quizzes F in bemusement.

‘We had one electronic typewriter and a secretary in  each office.’ I tell him, feeling like the ancient mariner - only with a less seaworthy boat.

‘Typewriter?’ Responds F depressingly.

‘Like a printer and a keyboard all-in-one, sweetie.’ Enlightens lettings lush B, with a lipsticky smile.

‘Old school, or what.’ States F rhetorically.

‘And,’ I continue warming to the theme. ‘We got to know the applicants personally, by ringing them on a regular basis. Not just pushing the send button on electronic mail outs.’

‘So how did you, like, keep track of them?’ Questions F.

‘An index card system, with hand-written names, numbers and requirements.’ I tell him primly.

‘Man, that’s insane.’ Says F. ‘You’d need to be on the phone all day long.’

‘You had to qualify the applicants properly.’ Contributes M, before adding. ‘And find out if they needed finance and insurance.’

‘So you could flog them PPI and endowment’s?’ Challenges S.

‘They were good products at the time.’ Mutters M unconvincingly. before waddling off.

‘This could be him.’ I say, as a kid in school uniform walks up to the window.

It wasn’t.

Still down.

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Hey Ho-Ho-Ho - Thursday

‘I want to ask you something.’ Announces negotiator S tapping gently on my office door. It’s always open, but there are occasions when I’d like it shut.

My thoughts start to churn. Firstly I’m guessing, with relief, she’s not pregnant or she’d be telling not asking. I’m also hopeful she isn’t going to be resigning, for the same reason. Although the silly season of “head hunting” opposition agents’ staff tends to mushroom whenever prices rise, resulting in countless fledgling firms setting up with more bank loans than experience.

‘Of course.’ I tell her magnanimously. ‘Ask whatever you like.’ S smiles warmly and I feel pretty flushed too.

‘Can we do a Secret Santa, this year?’ She says coquettishly. And suddenly my mind is racing faster than a shoplifter on their toes. I lose track of time, as inappropriate visions of me in red trousers and a neatly trimmed grey goatee, having an incognito assignation in S’s bedroom, flash by. Then reality slaps me like a fish in the face.

‘You mean we each buy presents nobody wants for each other…?’ I ask falteringly, hoping she’s not as hot on mind reading, as she’s hot.

‘Of course.’ Replies S with a broad grin. ‘What else would you think?’

You don’t want to know. You really don’t - and neither do Personnel /Human Resources/People Division.

‘I know you hate everything to do with Christmas.’ Continues S with an admonishing frown.

I don’t. I just hate the false sentiment of Corporate greetings’ cards, the alcohol-fuelled mayhem of firms’ Christmas parties and the annual battle as to whether a property business needs a rickety nativity scene and cotton wool in their window display. And that’s before the recent pressure to feature a multi-cultural, non-denominational, secular display that won’t offend vegans through to morons, with all faiths in between.

‘We could agree a maximum spend for each present.’ Coaxes S. ‘Say ten pounds?’

God, it was £5 last time I agreed to the nonsense, I think, Ebenezer-like.

‘Or maybe five?’ Offers S. Worryingly, she does seem able to read my mind.

‘It’s just…’ I falter.

‘What?’

‘A bit false.’

‘We’re doing a Secret Santa this year.’ I announce, once everyone is back from lunch. I know, I know.

‘Who persuaded you to do that?’ Quizzes fat mortgage man M.

‘Nobody.’ I state, falsely.

‘Yeh, and you expect us to believe you?’Sneers loose lettings lady B from her desk. I really hope I don’t draw her name out of the hat. I’m guessing batteries alone for her novelty item would swallow the whole tenner. Not to mention - well, not to mention…

‘It will be great.’ Endorses trainee F with a soppy grin. As if I needed confirmation I was making a mistake.

‘I used to love Christmas Eve,’ continues F dreamily. ‘Shivering in bed with anticipation. Not able to get to sleep.’ Probably because he was unsure which of his mother’s latest “Uncles” was going to come down their family chimney.

‘How much do we have to spend?’ Demands M frostily. ‘I hope it’s no more than a fiver.’

Irony doesn’t begin to cover it. This from a man who flogged expensive endowment policies, then morphed seamlessly through to Payment Protection Policies which I’m still receiving phone calls about. 

‘I thought ten pounds would be fair.’ I tell M pompously. I can feel S staring at me but I dare not look. If she ever runs her own office she’ll have to learn you need more than one face.

‘Can we choose who we buy for?’ Asks assistant manager T, looking rather pointedly at S.

‘We thought a blind draw.’ I announce, regretting the third party tense immediately.

‘What do you mean we?’ Probes M.

‘I meant me.’ I bluster. ‘That is I.’

‘It’s not what you said.’ Says B, unhelpfully.

I knew this was a mistake.

‘You doing a window display?’ Asks rival manager H, when he rings later to boast about his sales figures.

‘Not that keen.’ I tell him.

‘Stupid cows in my office want a tree, lights, all that crap.’ Snipes H. ‘And they want to buy each other presents. You’re not that soft are you?’

Several faces actually.

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Dark Weekdays - Wednesday

‘They looked quite young to be at your desk.’ I say to negotiator S as a fresh-faced couple leave the office clutching several sets of sales particulars.

She looks at me and smiles. ‘What instead of being across at the lettings desk?’ And she nods towards B’s vacant station. B has been missing for several hours, ostensibly to do a landlord’s check out, but with her it might just as easily be a liquid lunch - then doing a landlord.

‘They have the Bank of Mum and Dad on their side.’ Says S ruefully.

The phenomenon of parents helping children with their first home deposit is not new, but with rising prices it’s become much more common. If your parents have never been able to option a right to buy on their council house, have failed marriages and the accompanying financial hit behind them, or are just plain skint, it’s not quite so easy to place a tentative foot on the property ladder.

‘Did you get a FS lead?’ Says a muffled voice from behind me. I realise M the portly purveyor of dubious financial services has snuck up behind us, while eating something crumbly.

‘They were all fixed.’ mutters S unconvincingly. 

I should press her on the oversight, after all there are office targets as well as personal ones. But in truth I’ve never liked the conflict of interests flogging products to buyers produces, when you are acting for the homeowners. Probably why my career in corporate agency hit a ceiling so low I’m stooping prematurely.

‘You could have got me in there for an alternative quote.’ Grumbles M shedding flaky pastry on the office carpet again. He’s right. The consultants are trained to do a bit of disturbance selling and to knock competitors out of the equation with promises of “exclusive rates” only available to them. Traditionally, it involves smoke and mirrors and insurance products designed not to pay out, or to wriggle more than a snake in a bag, once you try to make a claim. I still remember the endowment policy and payment protection plan fiascos.

‘They were adamant.’ Counters S with a rather fetching pout. I almost believe her.

‘I’m not happy.’ Mutters M waddling away. Try some more comfort eating then, fat boy, I think sourly before turning back to S and asking.

‘Did you book any viewings for them?’

'Three on the trot this afternoon.’ Says S with a triumphant smile.

I could almost kiss her - almost.

‘Not sure my Mum will ever sub me for a deposit.’ Says trainee F who has been stuffing envelopes at a snails pace throughout the conversation. That’s because she’s on her fourth partner and wasted tens of thousands on a private education for you, I think. I still reckon she could get a refund. If they can claw back thousands in compensation for mis-sold insurance products, surely a law firm could stop chasing ambulances for a while and try suing the school for turning out a well-spoken dullard, after six years of tuition?

‘Of course it must of been easier back in your day.’ Says F, adding patronisation to crinkling sales particulars in envelopes unnecessarily, on his list of misdemeanours.

‘It didn’t seem like it when my mortgage went up three points to 15% in the course of an afternoon.’ I snap back, referring to the chaotic day when Britain was thrown out of The European Exchange Rate mechanism and my complete sales pipeline collapsed overnight. It was named Black Wednesday and I’ve had a few of those in my career, not to mention Thursdays, Fridays…

‘Fifteen percent?’ Echoes F incredulously. ‘You are having a laugh.’

I wasn’t chortling at the time.

‘Were they really ever that high?’ Asks S gently. I forget how young my team are compared to me - except when we go out for the increasingly rare, sales award evening. Then I feel like their dad and dance like it too.

‘They were.’ I confirm, before adding. ‘I don’t think it’s ever easy to buy when you first start out.’

‘I’m going to wait for prices to crash.’ States F moodily.

Be careful what you wish for.

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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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Divided Loyalty - Monday

‘I’m going to need a price chop on flat four.’ Announces morbidly obese mortgage man M at the morning meeting. Immediately I bristle. Not visibly, I got that under control after a few months in the business, but inside I’m angry.

‘Why’s that?’ I ask in a studied tone of neutrality. Only I’m not neutral, I’m old school estate agency. I want my clients – the owners – to have the best deal possible. They’re the couple that entrusted me with their home sale. Who chose me over at least two other agents pitching for the instruction. I have a duty of care and a certain amount of stubborn pride that hasn’t been eroded by years of ramped-up targets working for faceless financial institutions, more interested in the buyer than the seller.

‘Crap survey.’ Reports M derisively. ‘Needs new window frames soon, communal parts aren’t up to much and the sale agreed figure is too high.’ That’ll be the price the buyers were happy to pay four weeks ago then, I think sourly. Before M tucked them into a nice loan deal and some high-commission generating life insurance.

When I first started half a lifetime ago, when a Ford Orion Ghia and paisley ties were fashionable, it was simple. The estate agents acted for the seller and the buyer was pretty much the enemy. Then a raft of banks, building societies and insurance companies bought into partnerships with the sole aim of tapping into naïve first time buyers. The object was to snare them for life as a customer before another institution did. Endowment mortgages were flogged with ruthless singularity and it wasn’t unheard of for buyers to be favoured as long as they used the financial products the paymasters wanted flogged.

‘I’ve got at least two other buyers who’d pay the price agreed.’ I tell M wearily, still not wishing to junk all my principles despite my own moribund repayment vehicle – yep, I have an endowment too.

‘Yes but if it’s not worth the money.’ Repeats M dogmatically. He still seems to think chartered surveyors know values. They just chop a bit off the agreed price and churn out a survey so shot-through with caveats it actually says nothing actionable, to the practiced reader.

‘I’ve got an introducer’s fee due on the buyers.’ Says negotiator S with a rueful smile. She is good at channelling purchasers into M’s chubby paws and my bean counter boss loves bolt-on fee earning opportunities. But it’s a difficult square to circle and I often wonder if the punters – sellers or buyers – are getting the best deal. Then I remember I need to make some pretty chunky payments each month. It’s not easy to love yourself in this industry.

‘Get me a copy of the report and I’ll talk to the owners.’ I tell M gloomily. I’d love to tell the buyers to twist, and wheel in another purchaser possibly at more money to show the owners I’m on their side, but in reality that sale might come up against the same hurdles, only a couple of months down the line – and my mortgage needs paying every four weeks.

I remind M that there may be money to fix the windows in the maintenance sinking fund, but I know the management company in this block is as suspect as my allegiances. The original developer is rumoured to own the company charged with the upkeep of the building and like many, is using the arcane leasehold tenure system as a cash cow to milk ground rents and inflict skyrocketing service charges. I’d never buy a flat without a share in the freehold – come to think of it I’d never buy a flat period. Not again anyway.

‘This is blackmail.’ Wails the lady vendor when I tell her the buyers need three thousand off, or they’ll be off. I warned her at the beginning not to start packing until contracts were exchanged, but the room is full with cardboard boxes.

‘They shouldn’t be allowed to do this.’ Continues the joint-owner balefully. She looks at me as I think, don’t ask for a fee reduction lady, but instead she says: ‘What would you do?’

Take the money and run.

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