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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Sale Or Return - Thursday

Diverted to some early doors Christmas shopping, after standing on a doorstep for twenty minutes waiting for a viewer who didn’t turn up. Must remember to delete them from the mailing list when I get back to the office.

‘Big issue madam?’ Asks a swarthy Eastern European man in heavily accented English. I’m just forming a sarcastic reply, when I realise he’s addressing the woman hurrying the other way. She’s late for work; the Bulgarian is looking for work – and of course, a home. Not sure any Government can solve our burgeoning housing crisis. I certainly can’t, so it’s a supermarket sweep style dash round the department store to buy presents for my wife.

This early, the road sweepers are still brushing up the detritus from last night’s takeaways. And delivery vans are disgorging pallets of cheap Chinese tat for the pop-up shops in vacant retail units, to flog.

Stepping round a coagulated slick of vomit even the pigeons aren’t eating, I make a beeline for the opposition agents’ windows. I prefer spying on their displays when there is nobody in, but some are still holding their morning meetings and some clearly don’t bother. Irritatingly, I spot several homes I valued and failed to get instructed on. They are all on for too much money – at least I hope they are…

‘Morning Sir.’ Trills an overdressed girl on the perfume counter as I enter the dated store, one whose days must surely be numbered as the march of Internet shopping continues. But then they said that about estate agency a decade ago and we’re still here. I grunt an acknowledgement back. At least she got my gender right.

‘Can I help you with anything?’ Presses the assistant. Good persistence, but a closed question - my sales head is always on. I bought the perfume at duty free in the summer, this is a much more challenging task. I ask where ladies lingerie is, cheeks blushing already.

‘Third floor sir.’ Says the girl with a knowing smile before adding. ‘Do you know her size?’ I answer in the affirmative. I imagine she gets a fair few blokes buying for themselves – one way or another.

I hobble up the stairs. I’ve been in enough dodgy lifts to last a lifetime, and with the shop girl’s question ringing in my ears, I remove the hand-written note from my wallet. Ferreting in the airing cupboard, then my wife’s underwear drawer for sizes wasn’t the most relaxed start to the day. I really don’t need to answer a withering: ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing in there?’ question, more than once in my life.

I should just get a voucher, or if it must be clothing take a safer option, but there’s only so many scarves and pairs of socks you can buy. I walked straight past Ann Summers though, their outfits I find a bit tarty and the material is unbelievably scratchy. What? It was a fancy dress party actually – so don’t judge me.

‘Terrific.’ I mumble to myself. The nightwear and underwear section is on the far side of the floor. I can feel the underemployed assistants watching me as I shuffle towards the big pants section. Worse still there’s a pretty woman holding a bra and knickers set against herself as I walk past the designer gear. I strive for eye contact in sales situations, but my head is so far down I barrel into a dummy in a basque and find myself grabbing a rigid pretend woman by the waist to stop her tipping over - again not for the first time...

‘Would you like a gift receipt with that?’ Asks the young girl packing my purchase. Is it that obvious the item will be coming back on the first shopping day in January? I tell her yes.

‘And you’re sure on the size?’ Continues the assistant breezily. Not really. Why are they always between sizes? Either way I’m likely to cause offence. I plumped for the larger. Psychologically, it’s a better fit.

‘How did it go?’ Asks negotiator S, back at the office. She’s probably referring to the aborted viewing, but I cover it.

‘A bit of a let down.’

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Open All Hours - Thursday

I’m alone in the office with just imbecilic trainee F for company, as we cover the lunch shift. It’s not a lunch hour; such as you might get working in public service, or a heavily unionised environment. Here you grab some sustenance on the run, in between appointments. Spend too much time scoffing rather than selling and one of the, far too many for every town, opposition agents will be gobbling up your commission opportunities. It’s dog eat dog out there…

F takes a call from an abrupt, just short of rude, man wanting property in a road his wallet won’t stretch to. F frowns as he holsters the phone. I watch the rudimentary cogs grinding in his skull. You can almost hear the base material on base material friction.

You’ve been doing this for, like, ages.’ Announces F eventually, with not the most flattering of openings. I nod warily, as he continues. ‘So, did people always hate estate agents?’

‘Pretty much.’ I tell him, remembering my first sale as if it were yesterday and the fact that the buyer thought they’d paid too much and the seller thought we’d sold too cheaply - and not justified our commission.

‘What you have to understand,’ I tell F wondering if it’s worth the effort enlightening him when I’m trying to engineer a second written warning from a reluctant Human Resources department, who do take lunch hours but don’t like Industrial tribunals. ‘Is property is adversarial,’ I continue. ‘Each party is looking to stiff the other. Add in idiotic surveyors, incompetent solicitors, nervous lenders and a chain longer than on the Titanic’s anchor and you can see why people hate the process.’

‘Yes but why hate us?’ Asks F naively.

‘Because we’re the conduit.’ I tell him, instantly regretting it.

F’s face screws up painfully. Finally he asks.

‘Isn’t that some sort of internet scam?’

Still no entry exam for estate agency.

‘Anything happening?’ Asks fat mortgage man M as he waddles back into the office, face buried in something greasy from Greggs the bakers. He doesn’t need an hour to consume more calories than I eat in a day. I tell him the stark truth.

‘No leads for me then?’ Complains M, spitting flakes on to the carpet, that – unless I do it again - won’t be vacuumed for another 48 hours, after the bean counter’s cleaning cut backs.

‘You could chase up some of your back catalogue of non-written business.’ I suggest sourly. M looks at me with distain. He wants fresh meat – and two veg all wrapped in pastry, if he can get it. He certainly doesn’t see keen on foraging for scraps.

‘Bunch of piss-heads coming up the road.’ Says M nodding his chubby face towards the window and doubtless hoping to change the focus away from his non-performance. M only pulls his weight when he gets on the scales.

‘I don’t know how people can afford to get drunk during the day.’ I pontificate, knowing the answer is probably, ironically, in lettings’ lush B’s copy of the Daily Mail on her desk.

‘You might want to lock the door.’ Suggests M retreating to his office, leaving an aroma laced with processed onions.

It wouldn’t be the first time a bunch of drunkards came into the office to abuse an easy target. I dodged the flying chair last time, but I’m not as agile as I used to be.

Before I can decide, the group of Neanderthals are glaring through the glass making rigorous jerking gestures with cupped forefinger and thumb, while one of their number bangs on the window. The last two times I called the police we were closing for the day before the squad car arrived. I’m guessing there are more than a few constables who can’t get on the housing ladder.

The door spills open and the boldest, drunkest, low-life leers in and grunts.

‘You f***ers are the reason we can’t get no place to live.’

Not the fact you aren’t working and are spending all your benefits on cheap cider then, I ache to say - if it wasn’t for the fear of anaesthetic and more emergency surgery.

The spit will come off the carpet in a couple of days.

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Display At All Times - Tuesday

‘I’ve just realised something.’ Announces borderline retard trainee F, gazing out of the window at a scene bleak enough for a Dickens novel. Fingers lift from keyboards, a call is curtailed and the photocopier conveniently comes to the end of a run.

‘What?’ Asks F alarmed at the sudden wave of attention.

‘Enlighten us.’ Says assistant manager T, smirk barely suppressed.

‘Is it that you’re not cut out for estate agency?’ Suggests lettings lush B rather brutally. I give her a stern look but she’s screwed over harder men than me.

‘No, not that.’ Says F gamely.

‘Tell us then.’ Suggests negotiator S gently.

‘Well,’ replies F. ‘When the weather is rubbish, you never see any traffic wardens.’

The communal groan sounds like an amplified death rattle.

‘They’re all in a café somewhere.’ T tells him dismissively. ‘They only penalise local business when the sun is shining.’

‘Is that true?’ Asks F turning towards me for confirmation.

‘Yes and no.’ I answer enigmatically.

‘What does that mean?’ Quizzes F.

‘Mostly yes.’ I tell him, ditching the veneer of mystery.

A brief and pointless discussion flares about local authorities throttling the lifeblood from already endangered high streets, with punitive business rates, draconian parking penalties and absurd waste collection regulations. It won’t be long before the only units open in most British towns will be charity shops on rent-free leases and…oh estate agents.

‘You should use your Doctor On Call badge a bit more.’ Says F with a girlish chuckle. S looks at me judgementally. She doesn’t approve, but then she doesn’t have to try and park for viewings and valuations where visitors’ spaces are forever occupied, cowboy clampers are waiting round the corner whatever the weather, and a residents permit is a lot harder to obtain since a few foolhardy property people got caught using empty homes as a drop address.

‘You never did say where you got that On Call badge from, says mountainous mortgage man M as he waddles past, puffing like a leaky steam train. ‘And you never let me borrow it.’ He adds sourly. As if M would ever convince a parking Nazi he was a doctor.

‘It was in an empty house years ago.’ I tell the assembly to a disapproving intake of breath. The community noises are beginning to become almost orchestrated.

‘Like another repossession?’ Asks F unhelpfully.

‘Nothing like a repossession.’ I counter defensively - at least not that kind. ‘It had been cleared, it was left in the bottom of a wardrobe.’

‘Still not right though is it?’ Posits S sanctimoniously. One could go off her if she didn’t have the most monumental tits.

‘So he never, like, asked for the badge back then?’ Continues F doggedly. The group moan is a mixture of bass and soprano in what I think might be a minor key, but the guitar is still in the shop window and those aborted piano lessons were half a lifetime ago.

‘He’d have been self-medicating pretty impressively.’ Says T.

‘Huh?’ Asks F.

‘He’d have come back from the dead.’ I enlighten F, as I wonder how I’ll ever resurrect my career with dullards like him on my team.

‘Could we maybe photocopy it?’ Questions B. ‘So we could all have one.’

‘I’m not even sure it’s still a current type.’ I tell her, wishing I’d had the gumption to throw it away, something I’ve considered numerous times – until I spot another traffic restriction or a warden working on their suntan.

‘Yeh but if you can beat the system that’s pretty cool isn’t it?’ Says F.

The long buried – much longer then the dead doctor – punk rock ethos flickers somewhere inside, unless it’s that acid reflux again. They do say there’s nothing in socialism that a higher-rate tax code, a company-funded pension and a mortgage won’t cure. Still working on the full set and Babylon is still burning…

‘Aye, aye.’ Says T gazing out the window. ‘Here comes the warden must be clearing up out there.’

‘Does he know you’ve got the hooky On Call badge?’ Asks M on his way back from the kitchen.

I hesitate but some opportunities are too good to miss.

‘I only use it in an emergency.’

Ahem.

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