Everyone Knows My Name - Friday

‘You buying again?’ Asks the pretty barmaid who will doubtless be moving on to something more challenging before long.

We’re in the pub, for the Friday drinks session. My team, as always, a few paces behind me at the bar. Within hailing distance to confirm drink requests but out of contactless payment reach.

‘It’s sort of an end of the week tradition.’ I say, as I confirm the beverage requests and try not to stare as the barmaid heaves, alluringly, on the real ale pump, in a low-cut top.

‘Cheers boss.’ Calls out trainee F, as he necks some hideously sweet flavoured cider concoction with ice in the pint glass.

‘Yes, thanks.’ Confirms negotiator S, as she accepts her gin and tonic and appears to scowl, at the barmaid. Surely she’s not jealous, of the slight attention I’ve received? Almost, certainly not.

Buying the team a drink in the pub, is a tradition I inherited when I first started in the business, all those years ago. I keep it up, almost out of nostalgia, as nobody stays for more than a couple any longer with the drink drive laws as they are. The days when the old surveyor and our commercial agency man used to down three pints of a lunchtime, then go on to down-value a competitor’s house sale and let a tertiary-positioned shop unit to Blockbuster, have long gone.

‘Do they ever buy you one back?’ Asks the barmaid, as the others circle round a table, like Red Indians at a wagon train.

‘Not really.’ I say, with a hint of melancholy.

‘You probably put it all down on expenses and claim it back.’ Posits the girl.

‘You’ve not met my bean-counter boss.’ I say sourly.

‘Which one is he?’ She asks, nodding toward my tribe.

‘I wouldn’t be here if he was.’ I say, abruptly.

‘Got the hots for the barmaid boss?’ Asks F, when I join my staff.

‘Eugh.’ Cries S. ‘He’s old enough to be her father.’

I frown at S.

‘Anyway he’s not like that.’ She adds hurriedly.

‘They all are.’ Says lettings lush B, with feeling.

Time to change the subject.

‘Good week guys.’ I pronounce, drawing deeply on my pint and wishing I could stay all evening.

‘Make sure you say that loudly, when  the dirtbags from up the road come in.’ Says assistant manager T.

‘Yes, because they’ll be lying about the week they’ve had, at maximum volume.’ Says S.

And as if on cue, in walk the competitors, all loud suits and lairy attitude. I can feel my skin crawl.

It always amazes me when there is a furore about agents, illegally, colluding over fees in a town and forming a cartel. Every patch I’ve always worked the estate agents are at each others throats, each trying to steal the others’ business and undercut their fees. There’s not a lot of love lost.

‘Alright guys?’ Calls out the manager of our rivals. He’s a good twenty years younger than me with not a hint of grey hair. I dislike him intensely.

‘Yes.’ I answer loudly. ‘Had a cracking week, market is going crazy.’

He looks momentarily annoyed, then recovers his equilibrium.

‘Yes, we’ve smashed it again.’ He crows. ‘Surprised we’ve left any business for you lot.’

He’s a liar, whereas I have obviously just been a little creative with my market report.

‘Arsehole.’ Hisses T.

‘If they are doing that well, why do they have to keep touting our instructions and upsetting our vendors?’ Snarls S.

‘They are all arseholes.’ Says B, gloomily.

‘That lot, or men in general?’ Ask S, with a chuckle.

‘You work it out.’ Growls B, downing her wine in one hit.

I watch as the rival group all get drinks and encamp to the opposite side of the pub. At least with the on-line agents you don’t actually have to see them and chances are they won’t answer the phone….

‘Another drink anyone?’ I eventually ask, after people have been nursing almost empty glasses for an uncomfortable length of time. Suddenly people are downing fluids faster than camels at an oasis.

‘In the chair again?’ Asks the barmaid.

Yes. An orthopaedic one. 

----------

Close Shave - Friday

Back to the traditional barber’s shop for my four-weekly cut. You can’t afford to look scruffy with the amount of competition in our town. On-line agents with their call-centre set-ups might be able to look like extras from The Walking Dead, if all they do is take an up-front fee over the phone, pop a listing on a website, and get back to trawling Tinder. But at the cutting edge of property sales, they have to like you - and the look of you.

As I walk in, everyone turns as if a complete cowboy has entered a saloon bar. Admittedly there are plenty of cowboys in this, under-regulated  business of mine, but I’m not one of them. Although by the look of distaste on the assembled blokes waiting their turn for a trim, a few might have clocked me for an estate agent. Who else, other than an undertaker, wears a suit and tie in this day and age?

Reluctantly everyone shuffles along the bench seat to let me sit. All the barbers’ chairs are occupied and more worryingly there’s no sign of my usual man, the one who knows for sure what I do and is usually discreet enough to whisper when he inevitably asks about the property market. I can feel the looks of dislike on the back of my neck, if he does let people hear what I do, and with the mirror I can see them too. They don’t like estate agents but they sure like to know how much their home is worth.

‘He not in today?’ I say to one of the ladies, as she looks my way. She’s cut my hair before and in truth does it better than my missing mate.

‘On the golf course.’ Replies the trimmer , brushing hair from her top and unfolding the lethal-looking razors they use to trim your nape. 

The last thing you need when a barber has one of those in their hands, is to have a heated discussion about the vagaries of the UK housing market. Its a cut-throat business.

Golf is one of the few sports that leaves me cold. Probably, because after a lifetime in sales, I’ve never been able to justify half a day spent looking for a lost ball in some tic-infested undergrowth, while my competitors are signing up deals I am missing.

I nod and settle in to read the free newspapers. The choice isn’t great, just The Sun or The Daily Mail. One features radical opinions and scare stories penned by complete tits - the other….

‘Who’s next?’ Says a woman I’ve not seen before. She has the only spare chair available and I’m in a dilemma. If I say I’d rather wait for her colleague who I know can cut my hair well, it looks like I’m being impolite, or judgmental, or maybe even sexist. It was a lot simpler when I was a lad and the old bloke who operated out of his garage, only did clipper-cuts and favoured young boys, was the only choice. Come to think of it he disappeared in a hurry one day. Nowadays he’d be on some sort of register and I could sue for unwanted follicle-fondling, but at the time that sort of thing was brushed under the carpet.

‘How do you like it?’ Asks the woman, after I’ve reluctantly settled in to the chair. I seem to remember the old pervert in the garage had a similar line, and that’s before his tired old gag, about something for the weekend and a nod to his dusty display case of condoms and unsettling-looking lubricants.

I tell her the preferred grade, with a scissors on top finish and hope she doesn’t screw it up. A month of ridicule in the office and at sales’ meetings I can do without. Plus, I’m not sure I can afford the weekly cost of that Regaine hair restorer, if too much is removed. 

And then it comes, just as she starts long sweeps of the clippers.

‘So what do you do?’

It’ll grow back.

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Gone But Not Forgotten - Friday

To the supermarket, during my lunch hour, on a wife-inspired errand. Only it’s not a lunch hour of course, nobody on commission takes a full sixty minutes. Some other leaner - definitely leaner - and hungrier salesperson will take your business if you dawdle too long in Greggs, the baker.

‘Is it really necessary?’ I’d questioned, when she rang me with the request.

‘They’ll all be gone, if I wait until I can get to the shops.’ She’d replied, following up with the unwanted logic of: ‘In any case you’re just there in town and it will only take ten minutes.’

‘Ten f***ing minutes.’ I mutter as I grab a basket and belatedly realise I haven’t brought my own bags.

‘What’s that love?’ Asks an old lady, looking hopefully in my direction.

Now, I know I’m probably the first person she’s spoken to all day and if I get behind her in the checkout queue she’s going to dawdle for five excruciating minutes chatting to the till girl, while I seethe and rack up more expensive dental work, but I don’t want to engage - not unless she has a house to sell.

‘Just mentioned it’s a nice day, that’s all.’ I say dismissively.

She doesn’t get the body language, or hear very well.

‘Say again my dear, I haven’t got my hearing aide turned on.’ And she taps her ears.

Of course you haven’t. Why waste the batteries when you can annoy the hell out of everyone who you do eventually get to speak to, by asking the same thing three times, while they try to pay for a slimline sandwich meal deal and collect two ridiculous pot plants that their wife wanted and could have bought at the weekend, when she spotted them the first frigging time?

‘Nice day.’ I repeat, upping the volume substantially and pointing outside for dramatic effect.

‘No, still not coming through’ The old duck says with a gummy grin. ‘I turn the batteries off to save them.’ She tells me conspiratorially. ‘They’re so expensive.’

Not as pricey as cracked molars, I think uncharitably. 

‘Don’t I know you?’ Presses the tenacious grandmother. I don’t need this. Despite my low, on-line profile, I’m pretty well known in my town. I’ve been in most of the streets and many of the houses and you can see me in the office window, lit up like a poor man’s Madame Tussauds dummy, for most of the winter once the clocks change.

I tell her. Chances are she’s been in the office many a time, she might even have fallen over on the uneven paving slab we keep reporting to the council. If we’ve picked up one bruised pensioner and administered plasters and hot tea until the ambulance arrives, we’ve done a dozen.

‘Well you probably knew my husband before he died.’ She says, eyes lighting up. I certainly haven’t met him since you cremated him, I think sourly, eying the checkout line and seeing it grow. I cock my head, in seeming interest, you never know when the house will become too much for her. And she tells me.

That sour-faced bastard, I think angrily, trying to keep my feelings from my face. She’s just named one of the most cantankerous, pedantic and destructive chartered surveyors I’ve come across in my entire career. The old sod delighted in picking holes in properties, down-valuing the sale agreed price and putting deal-wrecking retention’s on the proposed mortgage the borrower wanted. If he turned up to collect the keys on a sale you could effectively take down the sold subject to contract board and start all over again.

‘Nice chap.’ I mouth as convincingly as I can. ‘The town has never been the same since he passed away.’ Well fifty percent accurate, I think. The fact that when we heard he’d croaked, it was one of the few times on a Friday night that all the estate agents in the pub, spoke to each other and smiled, is something she doesn’t need to know.

I really am a nice guy.

Heart Of Glass - Friday

‘Have you seen the cut-price cowboy’s window?’ Asks assistant manager T, when I arrive back from another bitch-fest of a managers’ meeting. He’s caught me unawares, as usually I’m the first in and take advantage of the early hour to check out the oppositions’ window displays. It’s old-fashioned I know, as most people snoop via the internet, but old habits die hard.

‘Surprised you’ve actually looked.’ I say, a little churlishly. T can be more laid back than an ex-pats sun-bed, but perhaps he’s finally showing a flicker of ambition.

‘Couldn’t miss it.’ Replies T. Perhaps not.

‘Why?’

‘There’s a big board across the main window, looks like someone took a disliking to them and smashed it.’

‘Is that why you are late in?’ Asks loose lettings-lush B with a smirk.

‘He had a managers’ meeting.’ Says negotiator S, supportively and she knows all about support.

‘He could have bricked it last night.’ Suggests T, with a chuckle.

I did brick it last night, but that was only when preparing my figures for the breakfast meeting grilling. Financial services sales were way below target for the month and I knew I’d be in for flack from the bean-counter boss. Once a figure-fiddler, always one.

‘Probably a disgruntled buyer.’ Says S.

‘Or seller.’ Offers T.

‘Or pissed off tenant.’ Says B.

Everyone looks expectantly at morbidly obsess fiancé man M. ‘ What?’ he demands defensively.

‘Well you were responsible for PPI sales to a shed-load of people who weren’t eligible for a pay-out.’ presses, S.

‘That was an admin error.’ Says M.

‘Like endowment mortgages and accident sickness and redundancy policies for the self-employed.’ I say, with a chortle.

‘Oops.’ I say as the door trembles in it’s frame.’ M has stormed off, narrowly failing to shatter our front window. Fortunately, in this business I have a glazier on speed-dial.

‘You pissed him off.’ Says S, with a winning smile.

‘Where do you think he’s going?’ Asks trainee F.

‘To ring the bean-counter, probably.’ I say wearily.

‘I was thinking McDonald’s and some comfort eating.’ Says T.

Either way, I’m expecting a bit of a stink later.

‘What is it with people and estate agents’ windows?’ Asks S, after we’ve all settled with a mug of tea and the phones have gone quiet.

‘Easy target.’ Says T.

‘Well, moving is the one of the top three most stressful events in someone’s life.’ I say, reminding them of the well-quoted statistic. ‘And if it all goes pear-shaped….’

‘…And one in three deals do.’ Chorus S and T in unison, prompting congratulatory high-fives.

‘…well then, you can see why people get angry and the first person they blame is the estate agent.’ I conclude.

‘I reckon it’s just as likely to be another estate agent who stuffed a paving slab through that bunch of shitesters window.’ Suggests T. ‘They undercut me on commission twice last week.’

Everyone looks quizzically at T.

‘No, I didn’t do it.’ He clarifies, hurriedly.

Inside I’m a little disappointed, but then I have been for years.

‘That’s the problem with the on-line operators.’ Says S. 

‘Call centres you mean.’ States T.

‘Yes, there’s no physical presence, nowhere to go in to for help and advice, no human face.’

‘No window to break.’ Says T, shaking his head ruefully.

He still didn’t do it. Sadly.

‘Yes, but it’s not only their window is it?’ Continues F, nodding up the high street to where our cut-fee competitors lurk. ‘You always hear about cars going through estate agents’ windows.’

‘That’s just old codgers with automatic cars, who shouldn’t be driving.’ Says B. ‘ If I upset one of my landlords they’re not about to stick their Range Rover through the display.’

F is stupid, admittedly, but he has a point, I don’t have the statistics but I’m fairly sure I’ve read a disproportionate number of reports detailing cars ploughing through property purveyors’ windows over the years. It’s as though people don’t like us….

‘There’s the glazier’s van.’ Says T later, as the well-known company drive past, huge slab of replacement plate glass mounted down one side.

Smashing.

-----------

Buenos Dias - Thursday

‘Where are you going?’ Asks my wife as I gravitate towards a shopfront across the street.

She knows, without needing to ask. Like a pitiful self-harming junkie, I can’t leave it alone even on holiday.

‘Just going to look in the window.’ I tell her, before glancing the wrong way and nearly stepping in front of a pre-pubescent boy on a Vespa. The dark-eyed lad shouts something incomprehensible, in Spanish - I’m guessing not a compliment - and swerves between two parked cars before disappearing.

Sheepishly, I cross with a bit more care towards the brightly lit window.

‘Really. Another one?’ Asks my wife, beside me now with that look of resigned acceptance I’ve seen before.

‘You’ve looked in enough shoe shops to bore Imelda Marcos.’ I tell her unchivalrously then decide not to mention the umpteen trinket outlets we’ve been in. How many scented candle and naff fridge magnet shops can one city support?

I’m gazing in the window now, scanning the quality of the photos, the prices in Euros and even the pointless Energy Performance ratings that nobody needs when you have temperatures that rarely dip into single figure celsius, and an infinity pool.

‘They are all the same.’ Opines my wife. It’s tempting to draw a comparison to handbag shops and perfumery outlets, but I can’t afford a divorce at my time of life. I’ve seen too many men kiss goodbye to a four bed detached and half their pension, to rock the boat. Middle aged blokes, dyeing their remaining hair, joining Tinder and living in a rented studio flat, isn’t a good look.

‘I don’t know why you do it.’ Continues my wife chidingly. ‘It’s not as if you like other estate agents.’

She has a point. I detest most other practitioners. They are either undercutting me on fee and service, or overvaluing to please gullible owners. It must happen in Palma too, just with better looking players and warmer weather. 

‘I’ll be along there.’ Says my wife, pointing to a row of shops with expensive-looking dresses in the windows. Seems like I’ll be paying for my obsession, one way or another.

I turn back to the window and look at the two smart-casually dressed agents, inside. The male is almost prettier than the female. They are both gazing listlessly at massive Apple iMac screens with the sort of resolution that makes you believe you are actually on the terrace, with a glass of sangria in hand.

The woman, or part-time supermodel if the property career doesn’t work out, catches my eye then looks away. She’s made a quick judgment. One I try not to make in my own office, as I’ve sold many homes over the course of my career, to scruffy-looking oiks who haven’t shaved for a couple of days and are dressed like a loser. In this case, she might be right. I’m a time-waster.

‘So what did you learn?’ Asks my wife when I’ve caught up and noticed, with relief, she isn’t carrying any glossily branded bags. We’re looking for somewhere to have a coffee.

‘They’re no different to us.’ I tell her half-heartedly. ‘Just better-looking, with superior lighting conditions for the photos.’

‘Do they have to be qualified to be an estate agent?’ She asks pointedly. She knows how to push my buttons after all these years. I studied after work for a year and sat four three hour papers. Yet nobody has asked about my exams - ever.

‘Well, the rest of the world does, pretty much.’ I tell her curtly. She nods, then points to what looks like a delicatessen ‘Over there might do cappuccino.’

I start to cross and nearly get wiped out by a trio of tourists on those ridiculous Segway machines.

‘You’re out of your element, aren’t you dear.’ States my wife rhetorically, tugging my arm and leading me across the street like an errant schoolboy.

‘I don’t believe it.’ I bellow, as we reach our destination. They sell coffee, and cake. They also have more Apple Mac machines and pretty women. And in the window, property pictures and prices.

‘This is different.’ Announces my wife, gleefully.

It will never catch on.

Will it?

-------

Dog Day Afternoons - Wednesday

‘Messer alert.’ Warns assistant manager T, as he squints through the window display.

I look up from my keyboard and see a casually dressed late-middle aged couple peering hesitantly through the glass.

‘On holiday?’ Questions negotiator S, joining the conversation.

‘Who’d come here on holiday?’ Counters T. He has a point, but then we don’t know where this pair come from. I’m guessing not Syria though.

‘They look like they are lost.’ I venture. ‘Probably coming in for guidance.’

‘Don’t these people have smart phones?’ Asks T, testily. No, they don’t. And the older ones who are thinking of downsizing, until they see what developers charge for shrunken-square-footage flats, don’t even have computer.

‘Well, we’re about to find out.’ Says T, as the couple move towards the door. T clambers out of this chair and for a moment I think he’s going to grab the door, something I’ve been trying to install for years, but predictably he heads for the gents’ toilet instead. Wonderful, now it’s either S or me, as idiot trainee F is nowhere to be seen and loose lettings lush B is filing her nails and looking disinterested.

S is first to make eye contact and the newly arrived man perks up, as most do at the sight of her. The couple gravitate to S’s desk as I watch and listen, as sales people should.

‘How may I help you?’ Asks S, with an open question and devastating smile. The guy is going to need a pen and paper - unless he wants to crib from my list.

‘We want one of those maps you people hand out.’ Interjects the man’s wife, curtly. Clearly not liking her husband’s glassy-eyed stare gravitating towards S’s impressive cleavage.

Definitely old school. We stopped handing those out for free about a decade ago. Most people use Google and can navigate round the strangest town without recourse to an illegally reproduced Ordnance Survey sheet, festooned with adverts for ropey removal companies and shady solicitors. S patiently explains we don’t supply the dated cartography hand-outs any longer.

‘I’m surprised.’ Responds the woman sniffily. ‘With the amount you lot charge, you’d think you could afford it.’

Terrific, another estate agent hater. You wonder why they come in. Oh, hang on. because it’s free and they shut the local library.

S patiently probes the couple, qualifying their needs to establish whether there is any potential business from their visit. A home to sell, one to buy, lettings opportunities, even an insurance product, or a liars’ loan from fat mortgage man M, who still isn’t back from his trip to grab a quick lunch….

‘So you just want directions.’ Concludes S, without betraying her anger, in the tone.

‘A map would have been nice as well.’ Says the woman. I should register as a charity.

S writes down the necessary information and even escorts the time-wasters to the door. You never know who they’ll speak to, or when they might come back to actually do some business. We kiss a lot of frogs, in this industry.

‘Tossers?’ Asks T as he returns from the toilets, as the couple leave.

Don’t even tempt me.

‘Nothing in it for us.’ Answers B, finishing her filing in a cloud of cuticle dust. She was listening then, just not engaging.

‘Do agents still bother with handing out map folders?’ Asks S, looking pointedly at me. Well I have been here longer than some of the roads on the latest editions.

‘Think that doddery old independent does.’ Answers T, nodding up the high street towards one of our long-standing competitors. It’s a wonder he is still in business, but he dabbles in commercial lettings and earns a bit for the occasional survey.

‘He still have that old dog in the office?’ Asks T, with a scornful laugh, before adding. ‘And I don’t mean that sour-faced receptionist covered in cobwebs.’ Everyone chuckles at the image. Estate agency moves on, or dies, and there’s rumour she passed away some months ago but the owner hasn’t noticed. They don’t get a lot of footfall in their tertiary position. Having his wheezing labrador, slumped and panting in the office doesn’t exactly bark cutting edge agency, either.

Wrong direction completely.

---------

So What Do You Do - Wednesday

To the new chiropractor-come-sports injury masseur-come-witch doctor. Like a punter at the roulette table, I know the odds are stacked against me and this time I’m not expecting free food and provocative staff in low-cut tops. It’s me who is making a tit of myself.

But that’s the thing with long term pain conditions. You’ll try anything, no matter how seemingly obscure, for the faint hope of some relief from the constant, wearing, nagging discomfort that follows you like a sadistic spectre, from morning ‘till night.

I approach the door with trepidation and a dull throbbing in my coccyx. As I walk in I’m greeted with the cool waft of air conditioning that actually works, unlike our ageing office unit that still pisses on your head, like some angry dominatrix, as soon as you heat up.

‘Hello.’ Chimes a soothing female voice and I spot a pretty twenty-something woman behind the fake timber-veneer counter. She’s slim and attractive so I know I’m not back with the NHS physiotherapist. She seemed to spend more time consuming pies than massaging thighs, when I was referred. I know the ailing health service is under pressure but a handout I could have printed from the internet and the offer of a daytime pilates class with a bunch of pongy pensioners, was never going to hit the spot.

‘How may I help you today?’ Continues the woman, standing to reveal a perfectly starched white top, of a semi official nature. The NHS biffer wore a creased nylon billowy blouse that might easily have doubled as a cheap parasol on a sunny day. I’m obviously paying through the nose for all this pleasantness, but at least she’s started well, with a open question. I give her my name - something I don’t do lightly - and appointment time.

‘So, if you could just fill out our questionnaire on your health background and doctor’s details while you wait, it would help enormously.’ Soothes the woman. Not bad, apart from the annoying habit of people under the age of thirty beginning every sentence with the word so, it’s a good start.

Half way through the form, with the scent of something resembling those joss sticks people burnt in the sixties, in my nostrils, I get to the occupation question.

‘How is my occupation relevant?’ I ask. I instantly regret it. The woman seems to quite like me. I know it’s sales too, just with more soothing music and less body odour - but as soon as she hears I’m an estate agent I’m expecting the atmosphere to become frostier than a butcher’s meat locker.

‘It helps us to understand any stress you might be under, whether you job is sedentary, and physical strains or posture issues.’ Reels of the receptionist smoothly. I’m pretty confident I tick all those boxes. So I do. Then pass her back the form, looking at my shoe laces. She scans it and I’m fairly sure I hear a sharp intake of breath, either that of their air conditioning is about to dump on me too.

‘So you’re an estate agent.’ She finally says, after an interminable silence, punctured only by the quasi red indian chanting, piping from some hidden speaker. No sign of the sperm whale, so far.

I fess up and get ready for the inevitable opprobrium, and a secret do not resuscitate style addendum being added to my notes, to forewarn the back doctor. I’m surprised.

‘I adore property.’ Gushes the woman, face coming alive. ‘I would really love to do your job.’ She continues animatedly. You wouldn’t.

‘I can’t think of anything more exciting than looking at people’s property all day long.’

‘It can be rewarding.’ I tell her neutrally. Best not to dash her hopes too much, not before her colleague gets their hands on me when I’m semi-naked and vulnerable.

Just then her phone chimes and a disembodied male voice asks her to send me in. Saved by the bell.

‘Do you need many qualifications?’ Asks the receptionist earnestly, as I hobble towards the appointed door..

No. Just open an office and get hands on.

Then the pain starts.

-------

Boys And Girls - Friday

‘Have you seen this ridiculous article?’ Asks assistant manager T, as I walk across the office fretting nobody is on the phone.

As I can’t see his computer screen, it’s not an easy question to answer. Hopefully he’s not on another frivolous social networking site, they seem to suck more time from a working day than porn portals used to - before they were blocked by our main server.

‘Here look.’ Encourages T, spinning his screen and showing me an article, surprisingly, with a property based theme.

‘What is it?’ Asks B from her lettings’ desk.

‘You’ll love this.’ Predicts T with a smirk, as I skip read the vacuous, poorly-researched article. ‘It seems lettings agents are inherently sexist.’

That’s all I need. Some things are just taboo in the new world of office politics, and now the porn has been made inaccessible it’s anything remotely, sexist, racist or disability related. I just hope T isn’t about to say anything contentious.

‘That’s f***ing bollocks.’ Snaps B angrily.

Terrific, I’d forgotten inappropriate language. The swear box is already getting hard to lift.

‘Why do you say that?’ Asks negotiator S, as she joins the nascent discussion, that might be heading towards an argument, shortly.

‘Because most lettings’ agents are women anyway.’ Answers B.

‘Women can be sexist too.’ Responds T, looking at me for some sort of support that isn’t going to be forthcoming. Since Lady Di died, I’ve not been interested in minefields.

‘That’s a typical male response.’ Argues S, her eyes alive with fire. God, she’s attractive when roused.

‘And that’s a typical female retort.’ Bats back T, as I sense I’m losing what little control I had.

‘Men get called out for decades of sexist behaviour and they start whining that it’s not fair.’ Snarls S. ‘You try getting wolf-whistled at, every time you go on a building site wearing a hard hat.’

It wasn’t me. I was talking to the site foreman, who also had a hard hat on.

‘What does the article say?’ Asks B, in a move I hope will defuse the situation. So I quickly finish reading the scant piece. Before I can deliver a verdict, T says to B.

‘Anyway, you are guilty of being pretty sexist yourself. You are always lusting after young male tenants and commenting on their butts when they leave the office.’

‘That’s different.’ Replies B.

I’m not sure it is.

‘This writer…’ I begin.

‘A woman.’ Interjects, T.

‘Yes, this writer, reckons she doesn’t get the same treatment as men when she tries to rent places.’

‘Probably doesn’t.’ Announces S, icily.

‘Says,’ I continue. ‘That she is patronised when she asks technical questions about boilers and maintenance but then doesn’t get the same discounts on the rent that men negotiate, when she comes to sign a tenancy.’

‘That’s got nothing do do with having tits.’ Spouts T, as I die a little inside again. ‘More like they are just big tits, and too stupid to get a deal.’

‘What do you think?’ Demands S, looking at me piercingly. I feel naked again. Not even a hard anything, to protect me.

‘Yeh, what do you think?’ Adds B.

I think women are usually the decision makers when it comes to choosing a home. I think women, if they stay long enough in the profession, are often the best estate agents. I think, women have more empathy and patience, as a rule. Something the tortuous property transaction process demands in spades. I also know, that women dominate the lettings industry, at least outside of London, as traditionally the lettings side of the business was seen as a junior partner to the sales operation. That’s been turned on its head in recent years. Probably why I seem to feel dizzy most of the time.

‘I think we are in an equal opportunities industry.’ I hear myself saying pompously, to groans of derision - both male and female. ‘It’s purely down to ability, who succeeds in this job.’

‘Yeh, but there’s a lot of pricks.’ Says B, unhelpfully.

‘Yes, and we’re often just treated as pleasant to look at adornments.’ Adds S.

Shit, I hope she hasn’t finally realised why I insist she sits at the desk nearest the window.

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