Pint-Sized Problems - Thursday

‘What are you drinking?’ Asks H, my vertically-challenged, rival manager.

We’re in the pub that sits between our two office areas’ boundaries and I’m already regretting the meeting. Hearing him crow about how well his office is doing, isn’t going to lift my mood and if he wants a therapist to unload on, I’d rather he pay for the privilege. Still, he has enquired about my alcohol requirements….

‘I’d like a pint of best.’ I tell him, wondering if I have actually misjudged the little squirt.

‘Great.’ He says, heading towards a table. ‘ I’ll have the same.’

Nope. Haven’t misjudged him at all.

‘How far off your target are you? Asks H, quaffing a surprisingly big slurp of beer for such a short-arse. He knows. We see the electronic stats every week.

‘It’s recoverable.’ I say, weakly, parroting the same line I give my, equally odious, bean-counter boss every time he asks the same question.

‘We’re at the mercy of the market, those clueless arseholes in government and the bank rate.’ Says H sweepingly.

Plus, if you have the best office location in the group, a town with full employment and hardly any crappy leasehold flats with greedy freeholders rinsing the elderly lessees it helps, I want to say.

‘And now they’ll be giving all the wastrel junkies and single mothers longer tenancy agreements and fixed rents, if the left-wing loonies get more power.’ Continues H. ‘An investor landlord will become an endangered species at this rate.’

H won’t feature on any Labour party candidate long-list, in a hurry.

‘And how do you reckon you’ll do by year end?’ I ask reluctantly, after H has blown himself out ranting about those less-fortunate than himself - except in the height department.

‘Cream it, as usual.’ Says H, with a smug grin. He was just itching to tell me what I already knew. Bastard.

‘You can’t keep talent down, no matter how may ill-advised politicians meddle with the market.’ Says H, warming to his theme and getting towards the end of his pint. I begin to hear just white noise and start wondering if he’ll put his short hand into those deep pockets and actually buy me a drink, before we head our respective ways.

H is so self-satisfied and sure of himself; born of years selling in a boom town, with high demand, a shortage of properties and decent competition, coupled with easy lending. I sometimes wish I could be shallow enough to exude such unshakable myopic believe in my own ability - but then show me a person lacking self-doubt and I’ll show you a psychopath, or a simpleton.

‘You need to get your lot on individual targets, rack up the pressure on them to sell.’ Suggests H, draining his pint and looking covetously towards the bar. If he’s left his wallet in the office again, I’ll swing for the parsimonious pigmy.

‘It’s divisive.’ I say, referring to the fact that my staff pool their commission. ‘And if you ask me, the vendors get a poorer service if nobody wants to take ownership of anything other than their own deals.’

‘Figures don’t lie.’ Responds H.

It’s your lucky location, I want to shout. But unless you have access to a jump racecourse and a good knackers’ yard, flogging dead horses isn’t a sustainable plan.

‘Maybe you’ve just been doing this too long.’ Suggests H, after he’s lectured me on the benefits of treating your staff like disposable ledger entries and discarding anyone who falters, with the ruthless efficiency of fellow midget dictators. Napoleon comes to mind.

H has a point. One I’ve pondered long into many a sleepless night. But like those old footballers, before they scrapped the maximum wage and money flooded into the top-flight game, I can’t afford to retire and I’m guessing opening a sports store, or managing a pub while running to fat, isn’t going to work.

‘Won’t stop.’ Announces H abruptly. ‘Can’t drink and drive any more.’

I’d settle for a soft drink and some words of encouragement.

‘I’ll get them next time.’ Says H, as he leaves.

He won’t.

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Lambs And Slaughter - Thursday

‘Lambs to the slaughter.’ Says assistant manager T, as the first batch of bright-eyed, naive punters start to arrive.

A gaggle of fresh-faces have been peering nervously through the office window, waiting for the appointed start time of our First Time Buyers’ Evening. In truth they could come in anytime, we’re really quite welcoming - obviously we soon stopped the free coffee machine after the deadbeats and vagrants started turned up for a warming drink, on us. Bad enough they sleep in the office doorway, without providing gratis hot beverages. Don’t want to encourage them - unless the come in to a big legacy from an ancient aunt.

‘Welcome, come on in.’ Encourages negotiator S, ushering in several couples, some even heterosexual ones. Very old school.

I’ve placed S on the door as she’s the most photogenic and with her décolletage she appeals to all but the gay men. Trainee F is on standby in the kitchen, to cater for that market. We welcome all persuasions, casts and creeds, as long as they can leverage a big mortgage, or have inherited cash.

‘Going well.’ Comments T, as the office fills with eager, want-to-be buyers. We’ve brought in a couple of local, user-friendly solicitors, to give a quick legal consultation. If they get the conveyancing business, they can put some probate work our way if we get a nice cold winter.

T is right. The office hasn’t been this busy, since we sold off some ex-MOD houses at knock-down prices. Pretty sure the Government undersold those, but as with the Help-To-Buy scheme, propping up unsustainable new homes’ prices, big business will always run rings around career politicians who’ve never had a proper job.

‘Keep them coming.’ Slavers obese mortgage man M, as he takes a quick waddle to the kitchen. He’s had a stream of bushy-tailed youngsters, funnelled to his desk for free financial advice, but of course nothing comes for free. I still abide by the old-fashioned Caveat Emptor motto, but luckily not many schools round here teach Latin. Just hope he hasn’t started mis-selling again, those commission claw-backs are a bastard…

‘Some of this lot aren’t exactly in the first flash of youth.’ Comments lettings lush B, as she sulks at the back of the office. She’d rather people stay locked in to renting, but it’s dead money and you can’t easily remove generations of yearning to own your own home - although ten incompetent UK Housing ministers in a decade, tried.

‘Some of this lot must be forty, plus.’ Continues B, with obvious distain. It’s partly the market, and sky-high prices driven by lack of construction and a burgeoning population. And partly over-indulgent parents, who feed, cloth and iron for giant-sized children, well into their fourth decade. Change the locks or move to a one bed flat, folks. If your daughter is fat and frigid and your son bald and still playing an Xbox, it’s time to be cruel to be kind.

I’ve had great success with first time buyers’ evening over the years. Back in the early nineties it was a terrific vehicle for gaining fresh stock, ahead of the event, then flogging endowment policies and dodgy payment protection schemes, along with the homes. I was never comfortable with the insurance and finance side of the deal, too many conflicts of interests. But needs must, and I had a big mortgage too - not an endowment one, mind….

‘That went pretty well,’ Says T as the last couple leave and we say goodbye to the tame lawyers, with a reminder that they owe us some reciprocal business, once the icy pavements arrive.

‘More than well,’ gushes M. ‘I’ve signed-up over ten couples, with a another dozen to follow up. Got to love a naive first timer.’ He really has no redeeming characteristics.

‘How about a last-time buyer event next?’ Says T with a grin. ‘Shift some of those vacant retirement flats with the piss-stained carpets.’  

‘You’re horrible.’ Says S, with a pout.

‘We could do a bog-off double-deal tie-in with the local undertaker.’ Continues T, laughing.

Burn one, get one free.

Darkness On The Edge Of Town - Tuesday

‘See that field on the edge of town is in the news again.’ Says assistant manager T.

‘The one they’ve been trying to build on for years?’ Asks negotiator S, with a shake of her pretty head.

‘Yep. They just haven’t bribed the planners enough yet.’ Replies T, dryly.

T is joking, I think, but there are plenty of rumours of local government employees with unexpectedly large villas in Spain, on a meagre taxpayer-funded salary. If a few scruffy acres that can, at best, bring a sparse income from grazing spoilt-girls’ ponies, can turn into a goldmine at a stroke of a planner’s pen, it’s no wonder money is believed to change hands for the privilege.

If your acre of farmland is worth about £15,000 without planning permission and up to £1m with it, it’s not hard to see why any Willie Wonka will consider corruption and bribes, if it means they could get the golden ticket. 

‘The local NIMBYs will be up in arms.’ Predicts T. ‘They’ll be arranging meetings in the Scout hut, with an average age of sixty-five.’

‘Yes, it’s always the old people who complain about new housing.’ Says educationally-challenged trainee F. ‘They’ve done alright, but they don’t want my generation to live anywhere.’

I don’t think he’s looking at me, as I still have a mortgage a third-world country would struggle to service. And if I have to once again remind my younger staff I once paid 15% on my home loan, there’ll be more groaning than an overloaded lift at a weight watchers convention.

F’s comment is an over-simplification - but then UK housing is nothing, if not complicated. It’s why successive ministers and governments have failed to get to grips with the crisis of too many people and not enough homes. The ridiculous cost of land - once it has that elusive planning permission - doesn’t help, as it makes up about a third of the cost of the final new build price. I’ve often thought if permission was conditional on a lower land price and final unit price, that some progress could be made, but like the Right To Buy (at a big discount) scheme, it would end up being abused.

‘Do you think they’ll get planning permission this time?’ Asks S, earnestly.

‘The wind is in their favour.’ I tell her.

‘Do they have to check for that, like a flood report?’ Asks F.

I know. I know.

‘They’ll be over-priced once they finally build them.’ Predicts T, sourly. ‘ Not sure me and my girlfriend will ever get to own something.’ Not if you keep taking out expensive phone contracts and wind every holiday on to your credit card, I think angrily. They imagine I was born with a detached house. The only silver spoon I ever owned was a cheap christening set that turned out to be pewter, when I tried to pawn it.

‘Prices need to get back to reality.’ Suggests B, from her lettings’ desk, before adding with a grin. ‘Although all the time they’re silly money, it keeps the punters coming to me for second-class rental properties.’

You can see why the public love us.

‘The problem is,’ I pontificate. ‘No government has had the balls or the vision to put in place a long-term planning strategy.’

‘That’s because they are long gone on a cushy pension, once the shit hits the fan.’ Says T.

‘The last lot to sort out inner-city housing issues was The Luftwaffe.’ I say with a smirk.

‘Was that an architect firm?’ Asks F, seemingly genuinely.

Until I shave, I often forget how old I am.

‘We could do with a major property crash.’ Says T. ‘Get prices down by a half and everyone would be ok.’

He’s forgetting I’ve lived through several price meltdowns and it comes with a lot of pain. Repossessions, negative equity and estate agents closing faster than the shutters at a bank, come lunchtime.

‘Will they build it?’ Asks S, later when we cross at the kettle. I’m starting to steam, she’s just hot.

‘Eventually.’ I concede.

‘Will I be able to afford one?’

Probably not.

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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.

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Help To Cry - Tuesday

‘Seen this guys?’ Questions fat finance fiddler M, as he sways into the centre of the office, waving his laptop.

There’s a long, indifferent silence. If it’s the McDonald’s website again and a Happy Meal offer for morbidly obese chubsters who blame genes, not intake, I’m not interested.

‘What is it?’ Asks negotiator S, eventually. She’s far too nice for this industry.

M spins his laptop, an action that causes the hint of an exhausted wheeze, and shows us a banner headline followed by the sort of facts and figures, interspersed by indecipherable graphs, that still make me shiver nearly forty years after my last math’s lesson.

‘Over 23,000 mortgage products to choose from currently.’ M replies, with a podgy grin. ‘That’s why you lot need to keep wheeling the confused and desperate in to me.’

‘Didn’t think you could tuck them up with endowment mortgages any more.’ Says assistant manager T, sarcastically.

M scowls at T. ‘That was along time ago,’ he says defensively. ‘And anyway products are much more sophisticated nowadays.’

‘People still don’t understand them though.’ Ventures trainee F. He’s right, but not the best advocate as he still hasn’t grasped how to work the franking machine, without clearing our complete credit balance on one mis-stamped envelope to Spain. If only I could post him somewhere….

‘What you mean,’ argues T. ‘Is there are more ways to confuse vulnerable borrowers and flog them insurance policies they don’t need, that won’t pay out if they are actually terminally ill.’

‘That’s a very jaundiced view.’ Snaps back M. ‘And you might not want that repeated at the next sales managers’ meeting. Particularly with your level of introductions.’

There’s an uncomfortable silence, one I feel I need to fill. But then I’m more aligned with T, than M. I hate flogging mortgage and insurance products, I’m here to sell my clients’ homes at the best possible price. But sometimes you have to swallow your pride, particularly as individual targets leave you more exposed than a flasher on a breezy beach.

‘We are a team.’ I say, unconvincingly, as loose lettings’ lush B, totters through the door on inappropriate heels. She ignores us all and heads for the kitchen, where I hear a kettle filled with enough water for one.

‘It’s not the product range that causes young people a problem.’ Says S, with raised eyebrows in the direction of B and her solo beverage. ‘It’s the fact that people will never be able to save up enough for the deposit, if they are paying rent at the same time.’

‘Exactly.’ Agrees T. ‘And that government Help to Buy scheme was a shambles. You save, they are supposed to add to your pot and it turns out you can’t use the funds for the 10% deposit. It’s a joke’

T is spot on. The hastily launched proposals, like most Government plans for UK housing in the last two decades, were clumsy and without detail. But as ever, by the time the schemes were called in to question, the clowns who launched them were long gone and lunching in the city on a lucrative consultancy deal, with a featherbedded pension. Come the revolution….

‘All you need to worry about is getting them in front of me.’ Says M, with a queasy smile. ‘I can do the rest.’

‘Yeh, but I’m nor sure I’d want any friend of mine taking on a thirty-five year mortgage.’ Counters T.

‘Or my granny being coerced into an equity release plan on her house.’ Adds S.

‘Yes, but I’d like my own flat with an en-suite and a gym in the basement.’ Says F, with a glassy-eyed stare.

‘That’s more like the attitude we need.’ Concludes M triumphantly.

‘They not need any financial advice?’ Quizzes M, later.

I’ve just seen new clients to the door. They’ve verified my draft particulars, signed up on a sole agency, entrusted me with the sale of their home and I really want them to do well. I don’t want them hurriedly stitched up, they can go to A & E on a Saturday night for that.

‘Got their own financial advisor.’ I tell M, fingers crossed under the desk.

A man needs some integrity.

-------

Complaint Box - Thursday

‘We’ve got a complaint.’ Announces assistant manger T before I’ve even closed the office door. I often wonder what the assistant bit is supposed to signify, if he isn’t going to help me.

‘Is it justified?’ I ask, shrugging off my jacket and resisting the urge to head for the sanctuary of my office and shut the door. To be honest the blinds don’t completely meet and they’ve never let me forget that time they spotted I’d nodded off over a slimline sandwich and a cup-of-soup.

‘Are they usually?’ Fires back T with a shrug.

He has a point. People are a lot quicker to complain than they used to be and most of the time, if we’ve done our job properly, it’s a frustration with the buying and selling process rather that a wilful attempt to mislead - or worse.

‘It’s the unsuccessful bidders on Orchard Road.’ Says T wearily. ‘They think they should have got it rather than the other buyers.’

‘They should have offered more then.’ Says negotiator S, joining the conversation. She has been dealing with the successful purchasers and whilst we strive not to show bias or favour, invariably one buyer will be in a better position that another, whether if be financial position, strength of any associated sale and chain they are involved in, or a combination thereof. 

‘They think we’ve discriminated against them.’ Says T flatly.

‘Not in a racial way?’ I say urgently. It’s illegal to favour one buyer over another on race, sexual orientation, disability and….well there must be others…. It’s a shame you don’t have to be qualified to become an estate agent.

‘Nah.’ Replies T dismissively. ‘Unless you count being an obnoxious Yorkshireman as a racial thing.’

It could be. I really don’t need to fall foul of any new legislation I’ve yet to interpret. The sort of well-intentioned, ill thought out law making that brought us the unloved, now defunct, Property Mis-Description Act. A ludicrously lengthy and clunky piece of lawmaking you only knew you’d fallen foul of once the Trading Standards’ pen pusher and the local magistrate, had prosecuted you.

I’m all for tightening up the property industry. I’d gladly see the back of some of the rogue agents who flout rules, cut corners and slash their commission rates below us. But everything has a cost and the powers that be still refuse to enact a minimum entry standard or licensing, for those that sell or let your home.

‘I assume you’ve explained to them it wasn’t our decision as to which buyer to go with, it was the vendors.’ I say to T semi-rhetorically.

‘They just won’t listen.’ Answers T. ‘Wanted to buy it on the cheap, then grizzle when they’ve missed it and now have a dog in the manger attitude by trying to scupper the sale we’ve agreed.’

People - and legislators - still forget we are employed by the sellers to get the best possible price for their property. They pay the bill. Of course, that basic tenet has been undermined over they years by conflicts of interest, particularly if you are arranging the buyers’ finance, or getting a kickback from their conveyancer for an introduction. It’s a murky business.

‘Have they offered any more money?’ I ask T, a migraine building.

‘Not yet.’ Says T with a groan. He knows we must present all offers in writing to the vendors and it can get very messy if a further bidding war develops. Inevitably someone is going to be unhappy.

‘I don’t think they will.’ Says S. ‘They can’t afford it, so it would just be a spoiler bid.’ Part of an agent’s duty of care is to present all offers to our clients, but also to vet the potential purchaser, not just financially but also for money laundering risks and legal status to reside in this country - since the government abdicated responsibility for those tasks…

The next step, if I can’t resolve the complaint amicably, will be the property Ombudsman. The compulsory dispute resolution scheme all selling agents belong to. In reality, most of the problem is down to supply and demand.

Which might, on reflection, be why there’s more than one Ombudsman to choose from….

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Deaf And Dumb - Tuesday

‘What’s that going to be worth?’ Asks trainee F, after I’ve booked a valuation on a dated block of flats, slap bang alongside a busy road. It’s a good question, one assistant manager T answers for me.

‘A figure the owners won’t want to accept.’ He predicts, with a sneer.

T has a point. All property will sell, no matter how poor the condition, or location. It’s just down to the price. I’m pretty sure the elderly owners of the second floor flat, with no lift, are going to be in denial about the fact their home has an en-suite dual carriageway.

‘I wouldn’t live there.’ Says T Pointedly. ‘You couldn’t hear yourself think if you had the windows open, not to mention the diesel fumes. Ah, the great diesel con. We were all persuaded to buy an oil-burner, then the government ripped you off with excessive fuel prices and all the while you were poisoning school children and pensioners.

‘I would.’ Says F. ‘I’d live there. You could walk into town. And it’s close to the pubs and bus routes.’

‘It’s close to bus routes all right.’ Says T. ‘The whole top deck of the number 11 can see you squatting on the toilet, as it goes past your bathroom window.’

‘Yes but for the right price.’ Persist F.

‘They won’t listen.’ Argues T. ‘That sort won’t accept traffic noise is an issue.’

He has a point. But then when the elderly couple bought their flat the elevated section of road probably wasn’t there. Doubtless they will be half deaf, with those matching hearing aides that whistle wildly, like electric guitars too close to an over-cranked amplifier, if they put their heads close together.

‘What are they hoping to do?’ Asks negotiator S. It’s a great question, one I want asked before any valuation. Motivation is a powerful factor in driving a move and in instilling realism. If you can’t manage the stairs any longer, or want to escape an abusive relationship, it’s surprising how much more amenable to financial reality some people become.

‘Why do the communal areas always smell of boiled cabbage?’ Asks F later. I’ve managed to park the company car in the limited space available, ignoring the dire warning of cowboy clampers patrolling the site. I’m relying on my trusty Doctor On Call badge - nobody likes a deceased GP but it was hanging around the dead doc’s house and the beneficiaries just wanted everything cleared…

‘It’s just bad ventilation.’ I tell F, as I eye the steep and gloomy concrete stairs and realise it will be a hard sell on any viewings. That’s if I can shout loud enough over the constant traffic noise still intruding, despite the fact I firmly shut both the inner and outer, heavy communal doors.

Every home has it’s own unique smell. Most pet owners will be doggedly unaware of it. But it’s there, just think of the aroma when you come back from holiday and open your front door - assuming you can get past the junk mail. Blocks of flats have an unpleasant amalgam of every homeowner’s cooking, living and animal smells. This one is no different. I just hope nobody has a pet sheep. I still have flashbacks to that particular visit - thankfully it wasn’t wearing a dress but the owner was overfond of a Dorset Horn.

‘God it’s noisy.’ Shouts F as we measure up the second bedroom. The elderly owners are busy making tea which they may demand back once I tell them what they’ll need to price at, to get a buyer with badly impaired hearing, yet fit enough to make the stairs. I’m wondering about a mail-shot to the deaf school?

I glance out at the constant stream of traffic buzzing by. Despite some ancient looking secondary glazing, with the sort of insect collection that would keep David Attenborough engaged for hours lodged between the panes, I can feel my ears starting to vibrate and I’m pretty sure a filling is on the move too.

‘How much?” Shouts the husband indignantly, when I tell him my suggested asking price.

He wouldn’t hear of it.

-------

Summertime Blues - Wednesday

‘Going to be hot this morning.’ Murmurs my wife, as I lie awake looking at the ceiling.

I’ve been married long enough to realise this isn’t a prediction about anything other than the weather, and besides I get screwed at work most days anyway. I know what comes next. It’s a regular battle, as soon as the capricious British weather hints at anything other than wind and rain.

‘You’ll be sweltering in a suit.’ She begins artfully, with a stifled yawn. I know that, I’ve been selling homes for longer than most people’s relationships last - some of my friends are on their third marriages - and yet she still persists in trying to convince me I’d look business-like, yet stylish, dressed like an Australian Bank Manager in a heatwave.

When I was woken by the sun rising at silly-o’clock, I realised this sartorial elegance conversation was slated to run again. We don’t get many decent days in the UK, where you can plan a barbecue or a trip to the beach, but this seemed like it might be one. One I knew I had several back-to-back appointments to attend, where I’d be sweating enough on a sole agency without sweating on the potential clients’ upholstery. 

Needless to say the overdue for replacement  company car will be like an oven, with the wheezy air-conditioning about as effective as an ice cube in a furnace. Yes, I’ve tried topping it up at the local Main Dealer but the hoses leak faster than a Government cabinet meeting.

‘I’m always sweltering in a suit.’ I answer, eventually. Rolling out of bed and feeling the first stabbing back pain of the day. My rival office colleagues will doubtless continue with that later.

‘I don’t know why you persist.’ Snipes my wife, rising in one annoyingly swift, fluid movement.

With what? I think sourly. Selling homes for ungrateful owners, letting properties for rogue landlords, flogging inappropriate financial products? No, neither do I. If it wasn’t for that over-leveraged interest-only mortgage, I thought was a good idea at the time.

‘Some of the trendier estate agents wear Polo tops now.’ States my wife woundingly.

‘They look like Wimbledon ball boys.’ I snipe, plodding to the en-suite with a limp.

‘I didn’t mean you’re not trendy.’ She replies, unconvincingly. She did.

I’ve had my fair share of fashion disasters, I recall, as I scrape at the greying bristles and wonder if I can eke this razor blade out, until the end of the week? There was the brief dalliance with a moustache in the late eighties, the paisley ties still hanging limply in the cupboard and that double-breasted suit with the turn-up trousers. It’s still at the back of the wardrobe, but barring an extended bout of bulimia I won’t be a size 32 inch waist again.

‘I’ve ironed this one for you just in case.’ Announces my wife as I hobble back from my shower, wearing just boxer pants and a faint sheen of sweat. I’ve slathered myself with roll-on anti-perspirant, like wallpaper paste, but I know as soon as I don my suit jacket the armpits will start to prickle - then leak.

I stare at the short-sleeved shirt my wife is proffering, hopefully. It’s a mistake I bought a couple of years ago. Too formal for a barbecue and too lacking in sleeves for any business, other than show business.

‘I refuse to look like a waiter at a cocktail bar.’ I tell her stiffly.

‘You’d prefer to smell like a Bull Rhino by lunchtime then?’ Counters my wife, with a false smile.

‘That’s why I’ve glued my armpits with enough coagulant to stop Niagra Falls.’ I snap.

‘You’d still be more comfortable in this.’ She says, waving the shirt like a surrender flag. I won’t be capitulating.

‘It’s just an unwritten rule.’ I grump, as I sit and pick at my dusty muesli. I’m already overheating and I’m tempted to unbutton my cuffs and roll the sleeves up a bit. But I’m nothing, if not stubborn. How else would I still be pitching for business against kids younger than my sock collection?

Hot to trot.

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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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