Waterworld Too - Tuesday

The rain is back with a vengeance, as I battle through rush hour traffic for a late viewing. You can see why the more sprightly pensioners head for Spain in their early dotage. I’d advise them to keep a foothold in the UK property market, not sell-up completely for the lure of all day piss-ups and a pool, but you can’t tell them. They trickle back when their health starts to fail and they discover the much-maligned NHS its still better than a paid for clinic, more used to dealing with drunken British teenagers than early onset dementia.

I pull out slightly to avid a great sheet of standing water adjacent to a bus stop. I’m rewarded with a nodded thank you from two people in the queue and a bolshie blast on the horn from some boy racer coming the other way. I open my hands in question at the spotty oik as he speeds past oblivious to the road conditions, and get a single rigid finger thrust at me in return.

‘Tosser.’ I mutter towards the headlining. Not sure if Ford deliberately targeted the Ka at semi-literate retards with more tattoos than brain cells, but they seem to have cornered the market in aggressive kids who have somehow passed their driving test, but have more chance of becoming Prime Minister than successfully parallel parking.

‘Terrific.’ I mutter to myself as I crawl down the appointed street looking for a parking slot. These terraced houses were built just post-war and planners didn’t envisage owners, or more accurately around here renters, with three cars per household. The rain is lashing down still, as I finally find a space half across the double yellow lines, and switch off. As the downpour refuses to abate I wonder how those new houses they plan to build on what everyone who 's lived around here for more than twenty years knows is a flood plain, will fare.

As the car clock approaches five minutes before the appointed viewing time, I twist awkwardly to retrieve my umbrella from the back seat. I’m rewarded with a stabbing pain in my lower back and a view of a slightly soiled squab - that old woman viewing the retirement flat turned out to be as incontinent as her aroma indicated - devoid of anything other than a yellowy stain.

‘F**k!’ I bellow, as a vision of my brolly, sat by the office door still dripping from my earlier failed valuation, swims - appropriately - into view. The car is still rocking from my expletive as a teenage mum, with a toddler on one arm plus twin babies in one of those double buggies struggles past, looking at me suspiciously. God knows what she’d doing out in this weather, unless she’s searching for the fathers….

I stand on the doorstep, clipboard in hand and watch the rain lashing down. The owners are at work, not home until late obviously, how else could they service a mortgage without both working punishing hours? They are, needless to say, childless. I try not to become a Daily Mail reader, as I pogoed to The Clash in my youth, but some days I can feel my angry middle-Englander trying to escape.

Fifteen minutes later I’m still surveying the soggy street and trying to avoid a persistent drip that is determined to get down my shirt collar. I could go inside, I have the keys, but there’s one of those passive-aggressive stickers on the door’s side panel, warning Hawkers, Circulars and cold callers to not knock. They might as well put up those offensive notices from the fifties telling Irish and blacks they can’t rent round here. I’m guessing the woman of the house will know if I’ve lurked around inside without potential buyers with me, and you never know when people have motion sensitive cameras rigged any more. It’s taken all the fun out of the knicker drawer…

‘Have they rung in to cancel?’ I ask when negotiator S eventually answers the office phone.

‘Do they ever?’ She answers, semi rhetorically.

‘They’re not coming are they?’ I say, completely rhetorically.

I’m sinking here.

--------

Back On The Chain Gang - Wednesday

‘Anything happening?’ I ask the assembled office, as I come back from an abortive valuation where the owners seemed to think their house was in a different location, to its actual address.

‘World is going to hell in a handcart.’ Says fat finance man M gruffly. Looks like he’s had more commission clawbacks from mis-sold policies, this month.

‘Bomber the surveyor came for the keys to number fourteen.’ Says assistant manager T, with a grimace, before adding. ‘We might as well put the for sale board back up.’

I glance towards lose lettings lush B’s desk.

‘What?’ She challenges aggressively.

‘Anything happening?’ I repeat.

‘Well I’ve got ungrateful landlords, three tenants in arrears, a complaint about loud parties and suspected drug dealing and every other deadbeat that comes in wants to know if we’ll rent to people on housing benefits.’

I turn to F, the idiot savant trainee. He frowns distractedly.

‘What was the question again boss?’

Some days I shake my head more often than one of those solar-powered nodding dogs. I look at negotiator S, for some solace. Not for the first time. 

‘I’ve chased the exchange of contracts on the Halls’ sale.’ She says glumly. ‘But two of the lawyers aren't talking to each other except by letter, there’s a local search that might take another five weeks and the couple at the top of the chain have been told they’ve undersold by an agent who knocked their door. They are thinking about taking the house off the market and putting the price up.’

If anybody tells you selling homes is money for old rope, tell them to spend a month in my office. I’ve had more disappointments in the last twenty years than the Aston Villa supporters’ club. Every reason for sales falling through that could possibly exist, has crossed my desk or polluted my phone. And the next tosser who puts in an offer, assuring me his word is his bond, is probably going to get punched. Because as sure as the sun rises in the east, he’ll be pulling out of the sale before any money changes hands.

‘Why does the sales’ process have to be so long-winded?’ Asks trainee F, after I’ve been given a calming cup of tea and my rant has petered out like an old man’s piss-stream.

‘That’s actually a good question’ Says S, with a disarming smile. God, if she ever goes on maternity leave I might just take the stairs to the top of that ex-local authority block of flats. The lift obviously won’t be working, but at least I can be sure the door to the roof will be unlocked.

‘They need to speed the process up.’ Suggests M pompously. A bit rich considering the outstanding mortgage offers we are waiting on for at least two buyers we put in front of him. 

‘They tried that with Home Information Packs though.’ Counters S, referring to the late and not very lamented attempt by the clueless last Labour Government. Despite widespread industry warnings of the unsuitability, one of the numerous housing ministers, who changed more often that F’s underpants, decided to railroad through a clunky piece of legislation that failed miserably. The incoming Conservative Government junked the process and proved to be equally as inept.

‘The problem with property is the people.’ I say obliquely. I get some quizzical looks, but I’m used to that. I tell people the real value of their homes every day, and the majority want to be lied to.

‘What do you mean?’ Questions F, frowning again. His face is going to look like Rip Van Winkle’s by the time he’s thirty.

‘He means the business would be great if it wasn’t for the public.’ Says M, with a jowly shrug.

‘That doesn’t make sense.’ Replies F, face creasing even deeper.

‘It’s not meant to.’ I say flatly.

‘He’s just being ironic.’ Soothes S towards F; with that dazzling smile.

‘I hate f***ing people.’ Spits B.

‘Not what I’ve heard.’ Mutters T, dangerously.

‘What was that?’ Snaps B.

I caution for calm and plead for another cuppa.

So, nothing happening then.

Just the usual.

---------

Fashion Move To The Left - Monday

‘What in the name of God was she wearing, pyjamas?’ I ask incredulously, as a chavvy looking woman exits the office after visiting loose lettings lush B’s desk. The lady was sporting those baggy, floral patterned trousers that seem in vogue, despite only being suitable for supermodels with flawless figures.

‘Someone should call the fashion police.’ Says assistant manager T chuckling. I start to join him, then realise both B and S, my sweet-natured negotiator, are scowling at me in disapproval. Oh no, have I crossed another boundary that wasn’t there when I first started in the industry? Political correctness is more confusing than local government reorganisation, when they changed all the county borders.

‘They are quite fashionable.’ Says S, frostily, her stern look challenging me to disagree.

‘And commenting on people’s dress sense is sexist, anyway.’ Adds B in sisterly support.

I don’t think it is. I happily slag-off blokes who come in with slack tracksuit bottoms meant for exercising in, when they clearly have done nothing more strenuous than waddle to the fridge for the last six months.

‘It just wasn’t very becoming.’ I say weakly.

‘That’s sexist too.’ Continues B. I look to T for help, but he’s suddenly become very interested in his computer screen.

‘What’s sexist?’ Asks trainee F, appearing from the direction of the gents’ toilets after fifteen minutes. I make a mental note to leave if for a while, even though my bladder is firing off full-up signals.

‘He’s making comments about female customers’ clothing.’ Enlightens S, nodding towards me coldly.

‘Another shocker with a fat arse and those flowery leisure pants?’ Asks  F, perceptively, but not entirely helpfully.

‘And now you are doing it!’ Snaps S. ‘How are we going to change attitudes with neanderthals like you?’

That’s F out of the argument. He’ll be Googling neanderthals, with creative spelling choices, for the next twenty minutes.

‘I just don’t get the style, that’s all.’ I continue wearily. ‘They are not flattering and make people look like they are still in their bed-wear.’

‘It’s not for you to judge.’ Snaps B.

Just as well she doesn’t read the blog - that’s how I keep going.

‘Women can make choices without the patriarchy dictating to them how they dress.’ She continues.

I’m guessing she won’t be holidaying in Saudi Arabia this year.

I haven’t seen such a ghastly clothing style, since those terrible culottes things, that were worn in the eighties. But I feel I’m going to need to apologise again, just to ensure there’s no paperwork required by Human Resources and a re-education course to attend.

‘What are they called anyway?’ I ask, after making the necessary atonement.

‘Comfy bottoms.’ Says T with a giggle. I shut him down with a fierce frown.

‘They have lots of names.’ Answers S, ignoring T.

 Yep, and I’ve got a few.

‘But some outlets sell them as Lounge Drapes.’

Haberdashery shops and curtain makers I presume.

‘I don’t think you can call men sexist.’ Posits F, as I cringe. Really? You going down that cul-de-sac fella?

‘Why?’ Demands B angrily, ‘You are all inherently prejudiced.’

‘Well,’ continues F doggedly. ‘You can wear short skirts and sleeveless tops in a heatwave and we have to sweat our nuts off in suits and ties.’

I could point out at this juncture, that if you have actually perspired away your bollocks you might be able to wear a summer frock, but best not to open a trans-gender debate. We’ve only just enough room for two toilets as it is.

‘We’ve been oppressed for hundreds’ of years.’ Argues B, as I wish I’d never made the thoughtless comment and the phone would ring.

‘Well at least you are comfy when the air conditioning fails again.’ Chips in T, as I sense an unwanted sex war brewing. The fact is, women are more than equal in property and some of the most successful agents I’ve met have been female.

‘I read on-line that some firms allow men to come to work in cut-offs, if they are smart.’ Says F, to laughter all round.

I give him short shrift.

--------

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Tinderbox - Thursday

‘Here comes the postman with the hots for you.’ Teases assistant manager T, as he peers up a rain-swept high street.

B our loose lettings lush, looks up hopefully, but of course T is referring to S, my nubile negotiator and pretty much the best thing in our window.

‘He’s just friendly.’ Counters S with a hint of a rising blush.

‘He’d like to be.’ Chuckles T, as he tracks the mailman’s progress.

‘Thought he’d be more your bag.’ Contributes fat mortgage man M, nodding towards B. I’m not sure if he meant the weak pun, financial services staff have a charisma removal as soon as they sit their exams.

‘She prefers them younger.’ Says T, to a scowl from B, a look not enhanced when he adds: ‘That way she can help them with their homework.’

That’s the problem when it goes quiet in the office. Idle hands, latent keyboards and silent phones leads to unnecessary frivolity. It’s why I always have a planned leaflet drop up my sleeve. You can’t have people enjoying themselves at work…

‘What happened to the postman’s bike?’ Asks trainee F innocently and momentarily I glance across at B. Fortunately she’s filing her nails again. I’ve told her, but if she wants to inhale powdered cuticle, that will probably surface in some study as a pre-cancerous trigger at some stage, that’s her look out.

‘Health and safety.’ Replies T with a shake of his head. ‘Some dyke in the post office human resources department probably didn’t like anyone getting their leg over.’

‘That’s sexist.’ Snaps S. ‘And a lazy generalisation of personnel people.’

She’s feisty this morning. Definitely some cobbled together claims of buyers waiting handouts, for nearby letterboxes, later.

‘What do you think?’ Asks S, looking at me earnestly.

Does she mean about the lesbians in HR, or the postman’s missing bicycle? It’s tough being in management these days. I have to keep abreast of quicksand-shifting legislation and I don’t do touchy-feely. At least not without a reprimand and another re-education course…

‘I think you shouldn’t make sweeping generalisations about people’s sexuality.’ I say rather pompously.

‘Or their mode of transport.’ Adds M with a rumbustious chortle.

‘God knows what it was like in this industry when you two started.’ Says S with a shake of her head.

I look at M and he gazes back at me.

‘You really don’t want to know.’ I eventually tell her, just as the postman arrives.

‘Morning love.’ Says the man breezily, ignoring B and making a beeline towards S’s desk.

She nods a little frostily. Not sure love is an acceptable greeting any longer, in a world where you have to be careful not to discriminate against peoples’ pet porcupines, in case they get - ahem - prickly.

‘Not much in your dangly bag today.’ Says T pointedly, as I fleetingly wonder if maybe the postie has spent time with B, after all.

‘Bit quiet at the depot.’ Replies the man, invading S’s personal space for longer than I’d like.

‘Did you need a signature or something?’ I demand.

‘No, just shooting the breeze,’ Replies the letter-lugger, with a yellowy-toothed smile.

‘That was a bit abrupt.’ Chides S after the postman has gone, looking rather crestfallen. God, you can’t win.

‘Those guys’ days are numbered anyway.’ Says M, with a hint of a belch. ‘It’ll be all email, and instant messaging before long.’

‘Or parcels in the DX.’ Adds T, referring to the private document exchange service beloved of solicitors and estate agents.

‘Change doesn’t come as fast as you think.’ I tell my team, glancing at the stack of A4 leaflets waiting to be hand delivered later.

‘That’s true,’ agrees T. ‘Or everybody would use those ridiculous on-line agents.’ 

The communal laugh-in rumbles around the office for longer than it should. But then if people think selling a home is just placing an digital listing, they will probably get the agent they deserve.

My phone pings with incoming messages. If it’s offspring they’ll want something costly, wife ditto, but it’s the bean counter boss bothering me with new technology.

I swipe left.

-------

Not For Sale - Friday

‘Can I have a word?’Asks negotiator S after tapping at my - nearly always open - door. You can have three I think, politically incorrectly. She does look good though and a lot more attractive than some of the other rubbish in the office window. Injudicious thoughts shovelled to the back of my brain, I answer in the affirmative.

S take a half-step in and pulls the door semi-closed. Not sure if my gulp is audible but it’s certainly inappropriate. I wait in anticipation, nagging voice at the back of my mind already pushing unhelpful scenarios. If she’s resigning I’ll be gutted. If she’s pregnant I’m not sure, even with two decades worth of sales experience, if I could feign any form of delight. Fortunately it’s neither.

‘There’s a dodgy looking guy in the office.’ States S, hand over her mouth as she whispers.

‘Could you narrow it down a bit.’ I tell her, craning to look into the main sales area.

‘Good point.’ Concedes S with a disarming smile. ‘He ’s asking if he can have a word with the manager.’

‘Complaining or selling something?’ I probe, still trying to spot the character in question. F the idiot trainee is stood in my line of vision, waving his hands about excitedly. He’s either just taken an offer or about to have a seizure - either comes with a lot of paperwork and arguably, both could have a favourable outcome…

‘Definitely wants something from us.’ Predicts S. ‘Far too polite otherwise.’

‘But shifty though?’ I press.

‘Oh yes,’ confirms S. ‘Made me feel bit uncomfortable.’

It happens.

‘Alright.’ Begins the scruffy haired geezer in a rhetorical opening gambit, when he’s been ushered in to my office by S. He’s dressed in stained jeans, a t-shirt barely retaining a bulging beer-gut and a bomber jacket that has seen better days. I was, until you washed up like a turd on a beach I think, as I catch an unwelcome whiff of nicotine, carrying halitosis and body-odour-laced undertones.

‘I wondered if you might put some business my way.’ Says the man with a yellow-toothed grin, as he proffers a business card. I take the offering and peruse his details as he adds. ‘For the usual consideration of course.’

Great, everybody thinks all estate agents are bent. Plenty are of course and if you don’t have any licensing standards or exams for entry - like most other countries do - it’s not surprising some dubious characters get to don a suit and con a punter. I’ve never taken a back hander - although a few people have tried to slap me - and even after all this time, when someone offers me a “brown envelope” full of used notes I still take offence. 

‘Not interested.’ I say curtly to the man’s obvious surprise.

‘We do a lot of business with…’ And the man names one of our less professional competitors. It doesn’t surprise me.

‘We’ll do any house clearance, you know, goods and chattels if someone’s popped their clogs and the family aren’t nearby.’ Continues the man odiously. Do I look like an unprincipled bastard?  I think angrily, and the unhelpful inner voice gives me an answer I don’t need but the charlatan in front of me, clearly subscribes to.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been offered bribes by developers and speculators to favour them with the chance to buy at a reduced price and with no competitors but now the f***ing rag and bone man thinks he can buy me. Trouble is, plenty of agents take the money rather than offence. No wonder the press and the public vilify the profession.

‘He left in a hurry.’ Says S when I follow the man to the door, just to make sure he’s off the premises.

‘Not quick enough.’ I reply watching as the man sidles across the road to the office of the competitor he named. No doubt they’ll be laughing at me in there, shortly.

‘What did he want?’ Queries S.

‘To buy me.’

‘God don’t you hate that?’ Says S.

Gulp. Yes…

--------

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Take Away Service - Wednesday

‘Argh, for pity's sake what’s that stink?’ Asks trainee F as I manage to force the heavily boarded entrance open, shoving against a tidal wave of junk mail acting as a paperweight doorstop.

‘You get used to it.’ I fib, trying not to gag as I peer into the murky depths of the hall.

‘It smells like something has died?’ Says F, clutching at his nose with that faded linen handkerchief his mother taught him to use. Not pleasant. Equally unpleasant is this repossession we’re entering, one that has had squatters living inside during several months of extended legal battles. They’re gone - at least I hope they are or the cloying aroma might just be a decomposing smackhead - but the messy part is still to be done.

‘I’ll turn a light on.’ Suggests F fumbling at a grubby switch plate underneath an electricity junction box that looks as though it’s been tampered with, judging by the trailing wiring.

‘Good luck with that.’ I tell him, reaching for my heavy duty torch and waiting for the lifeless click. It comes and after a long pause, so does F’s response.

‘The power’s not on.’

I should be given charity status for keeping him off the streets.

Repossessions (foreclosures to my cousins in the USA) are never fun, they wax and wane with the market conditions, but they are a constant no matter what prices are doing. People always fall into financial difficulties when they borrow heavily over a 25 year plus period. Divorce, redundancy, illness are all drivers in supplying estate agents with a steady flow of instructions to sell. Every cloud has a silver lining…

With a satisfyingly weighty clunk my Maglite torch sends a bright lighthouse-like beam down the cluttered hallway. Half filled bin bags slump like decapitated Guy Fawkes dummies across the threadbare carpet and a collection of nearly empty beer and spirits bottles, lie scattered along the length of my field of vision.

‘Shit.’ Exclaims F Incredulously.

‘Stepped in some?’ I ask, shining the torch at his feet.

‘God no.’ Replies F, peering down quizzically. ‘At least I hope not.’

‘Early days yet.’ I tell him, moving cautiously towards the first internal door.

If the power is off, it’s a fair bet the water is too. I’m minded to send F into the bathroom first.

‘How do people live like this?’ Asks F as I spin the beam back and forth across the cluttered lounge. The bay window is heavily boarded with just one struggling beam of daylight attempting to send a shard of watery sunshine into the room, via a knot hole in the cheap shuttering.

‘Some blame the government, some pin it on illegal immigrants, some on greedy bankers.’ I tell him. ‘It depends which newspaper you read.’

‘All of them here.’ Responds F sweeping his hand across a pile of backdated newsprint on the sagging sofa.

‘More bedding than intellectual stimulus.’ I tell him, glancing warily at the stain-covered carpet. Any sign of spent needles again and we’re both out of here. They don’t pay me enough to perform another high-stakes game of hopscotch through a dance floor made from syringes. 

‘I’ve never seen anything like this.’ Pronounces F as we make our way into the kitchen, where natural light is filtering through a broken fanlight above the padlocked back door. I have.

The work surfaces are cluttered with the detritus of a hundred oily takeaways. Foil trays, pizza boxes, chips cultivating interesting bacterial growth bedeck the area. The remnants of the only cooking performed are perched alongside the fridge. A bent spoon and more foil paper along with dozens of blackened corpse-like spent matches next to a three-quarter burnt candle. Incongruously it looks like one of those church types - but we’re a long way from God here.

‘I wonder what’s in here?’ Speculates F stretching out a bony hand.

‘Don’t!’ I scream in anguish . ‘Never open the fridge.’

Too late.

‘I need to go home for a shower.’ Splutters F as we take in fresh air and I ring to arrange a house clearance. He’s learnt something today.

 It’s a dirty job - but someone’s got to do it.

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Reanimator - Monday

  

‘Can you do a viewing on number 21?’ Asks negotiator S as I come through the office door.

‘The dead man’s house?’ I ask, plonking my briefcase down and glancing at the message book.

‘Ugh, I wish you wouldn’t call it that.’ Chides S, pretty face frowning.

‘It’s just a fact.’ I tell her seeing with sinking heart that ‘Bomber’ the surveyor will be valuing a sale we agreed ten days ago. Might as well stick the For Sale board back up, I think glumly. Bomber’s idea of valuing is to find out the agreed price and subtract 10%, to arrive at his valuation.

‘Yes but it’s so creepy to think about what happened there.’ Continues S, as I fantasise about catching Bomber in a loft carrying out a Home Buyer’s Report and snatching away his step-ladder.

‘It’s Bomber’s office on the line boss, has anyone seen him since he surveyed London Road? Only he’s been missing for two days.’

‘Tell them I can’t discuss that over the phone, they’ll have to wait for my written report….’

‘Don’t even think about all that nonsense.’ I tell S coming back to reality. ‘It’s just bricks and mortar and anyway the dead vendors aren’t so fussy about the sale price.’

‘Beneficiaries are though.’ Retorts S. She has a point – two quite prominent ones.

‘Can’t T or F do the viewing anyway?’ I grumble, looking at the office diary and then scanning my inbox. God I yearn for a time, pre-email, when the only disappointment was daily when the postman came, or when you trudged to the Document Exchange box in the nearby lawyer’s office. I see the bean counter boss has sent me three missives in the space of an hour. There’s a man who has never stood on a damp doorstep waiting for viewers who aren’t going to show. He doesn’t even need to push a pen any more – just the Return key.

‘F has the dentist.’ Replies S as a fleeting fantasy involving a large drill and no pain relief for the idiot trainee, flashes through my mind. ‘And T has to visit his Grandmother in hospital later.’

‘I’m sure he’s been to two funerals for dead Grandmothers already.’ I gripe ungraciously.

‘He hasn’t.’ Replies S curtly.

‘What time? I ask throwing in the towel. You need to be resilient in sales but you also need to know when you’re beaten, or you’ll take a lot of unnecessary punishment.

‘Erm, it’s a late one, sorry.’ Says S with a shrug. Not much chance of the owner doing the viewing, short of an unlikely resurrection – particularly as they cremated him.

‘It’s a bit chilly in here.’ Says the woman as I try not to glance at my watch and imagine how incinerated my supper is going to be. Not as toasted as the outgoing owner, but even so…

‘I’ll shut some windows.’ I say, smiling at her and receiving a scowl from her boyfriend in return. Calm down mate, I think, I might want to shaft her but I don’t want sex with the woman.

All the windows I opened on arrival ten minutes before the viewing time, pulled in, smell still lingering in my nostrils, I turn back to the couple. He’s younger than her. Second time round for the lady, divorce proceeds to spend. She is some sort of Cougar; he’s some sort of parasite, suggests the little voice unhelpfully. Don’t judge, just get them to buy it, I answer internally – and stop talking to yourself

‘The sofa set would fit in here easily.’ Says the woman to the sponger, flagging up an Olympic-sized buying signal. The supper can wait. I sense a deal.

‘Can we afford it?’ Asks the man artfully. You mean can her ex-husband? I think.

‘Will they take an offer?’ Asks the lady, smiling at me for the first time.

The ex-owner won’t return my calls, but his bickering children seem keen to get the cash.

‘I’ve got two more viewings tomorrow.’ I answer obliquely. The smile vanishes faster than cake at a Weight Watchers’ Christmas party.

‘You would say that wouldn’t you.’ Sneers the man-boy.

‘We’ll take it.’ Says the decision maker.

Week saved - back from the dead.

-----

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Red Card - Thursday

‘Call me old fashioned…’ I begin.

‘You’re old fashioned.’ Interjects assistant manager T to barely suppressed hilarity. Not sure what happened to the respect campaign but when you realise you are starting to sound like one of those grumbling pensioners you used to think euthanasia was a solution for, self-worth can be a dwindling commodity.

‘What is it?’ Asks negotiator S kindly. I reckon she was born too late or I was born too early. Unless I’m as delusional as all those old crumblies living in over-priced sheltered apartments, thinking they’ll be leaving a worthwhile asset to their beneficiaries.

‘A bloody email.’ I say contemptuously.

‘You get loads of bloody emails.’ Says T.

‘Not with a sodding digital Christmas card attached.’ I tell him witheringly.

T and S walk to my computer screen and scan the wretched download, something with all the, goodwill and peace to all men content of a land mine, as far as I’m concerned.

‘I think it moves.’ Suggests S leaning in and brushing my arm with her substantial frontage.

‘Click on it.’ Suggests T as I try not to gulp audibly.

‘Do you mind if I use your mouse?’ Asks S innocently. There’s only so much unwitting innuendo I can take with my blood pressure. I nod acquiescence and try not to let the aforementioned red-stuff rush anywhere but my head.

‘Look it’s rising up.’ Exclaims S to a momentary feeling of horror until I realise the tacky Santa and sleigh montage is moving in clunky fashion, as the reindeer take flight and a Merry Christmas message flashes on the screen like some virtual virus.

‘Seriously?’ I gripe in Scrooge-like fashion.

As the scene plays out to a tinkling digitised soundtrack, I read the attached message stating sanctimoniously that the sender company are saving the environment (their franking machine bill) by not using the physical postal system. Not content with expecting me to swallow that bullshit, the text informs me that any cost benefit from not mailing the traditional way will be donated to a charity. One I’ve never heard of.

Now I’m ambivalent about corporate Christmas cards at the best of times, as the sentiment is more about reciprocal business than Christian – other religions are available – goodwill. But if you are going to make a list of recipients who might be of use to you in the coming year, at least make the effort of actually buying and sending a touch me, feel me, put me in the office window, three-dimensional piece of tinsel-tinted-tat.

‘You don’t like it then?’ Concludes S moving back to her desk.

‘It has all the sincerity of a politician claiming they only do the job to serve their constituents.’ I tell her.

‘You’re so cynical.’ Replies S with a look of disappointment I’ve seen before.

‘You start idealistic, move on to brutally informed then migrate to pessimism.’ I respond before adding and instantly regretting: ‘It’s the circle of life.’

‘That’s more of a linear progression.’ Chips T with a smug smile.

‘It comes to all of us eventually, particularly if you stay in this business.’ I tell him, disliking myself even as I spout the bile-laced response. My romanticism withered after the first few sales fell through and I realised anyone who stated: “My word is my bond”, was a pathological liar.

‘So we won’t be sending out any company Christmas cards then?’ Asks S a hint of sadness in her eyes. I feel like I’ve just told her Santa won’t be coming to fill her stocking ever again, but I just end up fighting a shameful image. One that would give the harridans in Human Resources a whole new inappropriate behaviour chapter to write, on the company standing orders.

‘He’s got a list on the computer.’ Says T knowingly. He’s right and at first I believed in it. Thought it was a nice sentiment to acknowledge those you’ve dealt with all year and to wish them well for the future. But time, a bean counter boss and a less than healthy profit and loss account has chipped away at my belief. At best I’m agnostic now.

God help me.

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Big Bang Theory - Monday

‘That’s the third for sale board that has gone missing.’ Says trainee F, look of puzzlement on his face. God why didn’t I see that when I interviewed him? He was the best of a bad bunch and if you don’t set a minimum standard for entry in to the industry I guess you keep getting in-bred public school boys not smart enough to be surveyors and solicitors - or chancers with the gift of the gab who didn’t pay attention at state school…

‘The time of year isn’t it.’ States assistant manager T. It’s not nearly enough to illuminate F. His face creases into the sort of frown I use for fractions and algebra. Some people dream of being naked in a public place, I just have nightmares about being exposed anywhere without my calculator.

‘What because the clocks have gone back?’ Questions F hesitantly. Oh for the days when you could sack someone with just a letter and a bin bag for belongings. I can’t face another session with the lesbians in Human Resources and the chairwoman of the industrial tribunal had a distinct dislike of estate agents. In fact all three on the panel did, even the token guy who supposedly had some experience of running his own business.

‘Never heard of Guy Fawkes?’ Asks lettings lush B, voice thick with sarcasm.

‘I don’t watch gardening programmes.’ Replies F in seeming sincerity. A stunned silence engulfs the office until a phone rings.

‘Fireworks night, you plonker.’ Says T as B answers her line and begins a fractious conversation with a tenant too lazy to turn the stopcock off herself, despite the woman downstairs needing an umbrella in her living room.

‘They steal the boards to put on bonfires.’ I tell F wondering, not for the first time, why I bother. If it takes months in a laboratory and half a ton of bananas to teach a chimp to push the right button, I’m not going to train F to function properly without another five years and my own greengrocers.

‘You see them in back gardens on waste ground, even at organised displays.’ Adds T. ‘Some they’ve had since they moved because the agents forgot to collect, some they keep out of spite because they hate the agent they bought through and others they nick in the night when they’re short of firewood.’

‘Loads of people dislike us don’t they?’ States F pensively.

‘It’s because the home moving process is stressful and adversarial.’ I tell F, wondering how much of a hit the office profit and loss account will take when the new board order comes through in a few weeks time.

‘The best thing to do,’ advises T. ‘is to hate them right back. Most of them wouldn’t put us out if they saw us burning. Make the feeling mutual and it’ll help you get through the day.’

I never knew T was becoming such a protégée. And I thought he didn’t care that much.

‘You do fireworks at home?’ Asks negotiator S looking me in the eye as I strive to reciprocate. I’m hoping her bra has some sort of super-strength carbon fibre inserts because there’s a strong gravitational pull going on.

‘Not since both boys went to University.’ I tell her wistfully, feeling old all of a sudden. There was a time when I was the youngest, sharpest, best salesman in every firm I worked for. That flame has long since guttered.

‘Do you remember those jumping jacks that leapt round your ankles and those hover fireworks that came at you at head height?’ I ask big mortgage man M. He shakes his vast jowls and waddles to the kitchen. ‘Before my time mate.’ It wasn’t - and he isn’t my mate. I turn to B who has just finished arranging the landlord’s plumber.

‘Don’t look at me either.’ She growls menacingly, as a line about old bangers spins wildly in my head like an ill-attached Catherine wheel.

‘Health and safety wouldn’t allow any of those munitions now.’ I say to the ether, a man out of time.

Rest of the day a bit of a damp squib too.

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The Country Life - Sunday

‘Not sure if this is for me either.’ I tell my wife hesitantly as we try something new. After so many years of marriage you need a bit of variety but this might be a step to far.

‘Just give it a go, or you’ll never know.’ She urges, as I wish I’d stayed in bed this time.

‘I just think I’ll feel uncomfortable.’ I tell her realising even as I utter the words I’m sounding like a spunkless bore with no taste for adventure.

‘God thousands of people do this every weekend.’ She informs me tersely. ‘Just relax and you’ll enjoy it.’

A grey-haired man in a hi-vis jacket waves me forward and we swing into a field.

‘We’ll get bogged down here.’ I grumble as the wheels spin and the traction control light winks on the dashboard.

Another officious looking character with a walkie-talkie and that zealot’s control-freak look about him, bids me join a raggedy line of cars disgorging more sparsely covered craniums and cellulite-blotted legs, plus several picnic hampers.

‘We’re too young for this.’ I hiss to my wife, as a couple in matching Berghaus jackets and sensible footwear ease out of a Volvo estate - onto the estate.

‘Nonsense.’ She corrects. ‘They’re probably all about our age.’

Now I’m depressed. As we walk towards the imposing country house I realise belatedly I spend my working week looking at homes I can’t afford - so this isn’t the best choice of weekend recreation. I know it’s rude, but I can’t help staring at the other crumblies around me shuffling towards the entrance booth of the National Trust property. I’m much younger than this lurching stick-carrying, premium-outdoor-clothes-wearing bunch of fifty and sixty-somethings. I used to pogo to The Damned I think angrily, as a woman in those lightweight travel trousers with more zips than my bondage pair used to sport, smiles politely at me, something that doesn’t happen much Monday to Friday. I decide not to spit at her.

‘If we join today,’ gushes my wife looking at the leaflet once we’ve gained access to the main grounds. ‘We get our entrance fee back and a pair of little binoculars.’ The woman behind the counter had been affably saccharine-sweet, the sort of gushing faux friendliness you only find in volunteers, Bible-bashers and estate agents short of new instructions.

‘I don’t think we belong here.’ I tell my wife in a familiar refrain, still scanning the elderly crowd for someone who at least I feel looks my age and doesn’t dress like some in-bred minor royal posing for a picture in Country Life. It’s the way I feel when I value a home that is usually the preserve of the top-end agents. The types of braying weak-chinned Charlies who have double-barrelled surnames, a minor public school education yet manage an understanding of how to milk the common agricultural policy grants. Where a home must have at least a Grade Two listing, a drawing room doesn’t have toddler’s scribbling pinned to a fridge by magnets and the livestock isn’t just a yappy terrier trying to shag your leg.

‘Oh my God it’s lovely.’ Coos my wife as we walk up to the grand Palladian-style mansion some long-dead industrialist built on the back of exploiting workers somewhere in the world. Coal mines or textile mills on this island, tea or cotton plantations once you get past the Isle of Wight. I can feel the old punk anarchist ethic still bubbling under despite three decades of conformity, several house moves up the ladder and the uncomfortable memory of all the worthless endowment mortgages I helped flog.

‘Don’t say, we must have it.’ I tell my wife mockingly. Echoing the cry of a hundreds of other females I’ve watched urge their partners to overspend on a flashy kitchen and newly installed sanitary ware.

‘Wow this is how the other half live.’ Continues my wife as we enter another high-ceilinged room, walls covered with paintings and tapestries pillaged from third world countries for little more than sparkly smoke and mirror tricks and the promise of a God that still hasn’t turned up.

‘We’re not joining.’ I say firmly.

As it happens the mini-binoculars are rather good…

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All Too Typical - Monday

‘I’d rather you go in first.’ Says lettings lush B as she pauses on the doorstep of the flat with the dodgy tenants. She’s given the requisite notice to inspect but as they haven’t paid rent for three months and the chavvy woman in the flat opposite - who is still watching us - has told us they are long gone, I’m not expecting a welcome.

‘Cautiously, I move forward, heart pumping audibly in my chest. I’ve had a few punches thrown at me, and several pieces of office furniture, but usually there’s a bailiff when we’re taking possession of properties. Obviously it looks better for the company if male members of staff get assaulted, and they only pay for rape alarms for the women, but I feel pretty vulnerable.

‘God knows what you’ll find in there.’ Says the fat neighbour with a hint of glee. Her mewling baby is demanding a feed and the dead-eyed toddler is tugging at her tracksuit bottoms for attention, but she’s too busy watching the show to take any notice. No sign of either of the Dads.

‘Ugh, what’s that smell? Asks B throatily. A stench of something decaying has almost physically assaulted us as I swing the door open to reveal a dank hallway full with black plastic bin bags. A big bluebottle zigzags towards the light and not for the first time I wish I’d paid more attention at school.

‘They’re dirtbags.’ Suggests the neighbour disdainfully and for a horrible moment I think she’s referring to the plastic liners slumped ahead of me. It wouldn’t be the first time my day turned into a bag of shite. But I realise she’s referring to the late, none to lamented, tenants.

‘I’ve had to call the police, the social and environmental half a dozen time.’ Moans the woman as I think uncharitably, they’ve probably got your number too love. ‘You lot shouldn’t let scum like that rent in here.’ Continues supermum as the toddler starts to whine about missing a Peppa Pig episode. There’s a sty here you can wallow in kid.

‘Who’s going to clear up all the mess?’ Persists the woman as the baby paws at her ample breasts and my stomach churns unpleasantly. I’m just waiting for her to ask about compensation but B shoves me inside the hall and pulls the door shut. ‘Fat slapper.’ She spits ungraciously. B’s never been called fat as far as I’m aware but a pot, kettle, black line runs through my head until I see the kitchen and much darker cooking utensils.

‘Oh terrific.’ Moans B surveying the detritus. The hob has several months’ worth of spillages baked onto the enamel and the work-surfaces are covered in unwashed crockery and saucepans. By one of the gas rings I can see the remains of home made baking of some description. I’m no expert, but a tarnished spoon, some tin foil and half a dozen spent matches doesn’t look like they’ve been cooking cupcakes.

  

‘Junkies. I knew it.’ Says B gloomily. ‘Who the hell are we going to get to clear this mess up? The Polish guys have gone home and nobody local will touch this place for sensible money.’ She has a point. The flat needs stripping, disinfecting and redecorating before any new tenants can be shown round. I have a feeling group legal will be getting involved.

‘This is what you get if you give low-life’s free accommodation and drug money.’ Rails B in a Daily Mail moment.’ God, she’s got it worse than me. From bitter experience I look to the fridge. Yep. It’s been unplugged.

‘Watch where you tread, there might be needles again’ I advise B, as I decide not to open the grubby Electrolux door. The maggots will wait. I’m just here to make sure B isn’t assaulted, other than her nostrils.

‘God.’ Groans B looking into the bathroom in disgust. ‘The water must be off. The toilet bowl looks like that rainy festival when I had to have a dump in the chemical loo. There were things in there nobody should be excreting.

‘I f***ing hate humanity.’ Says B - ahead of me for the first time.

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