Display At All Times - Tuesday

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

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

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

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

‘No, not that.’ Says F gamely.

‘Tell us then.’ Suggests negotiator S gently.

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

The communal groan sounds like an amplified death rattle.

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

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

‘Yes and no.’ I answer enigmatically.

‘What does that mean?’ Quizzes F.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Like another repossession?’ Asks F unhelpfully.

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

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

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

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

‘Huh?’ Asks F.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hesitate but some opportunities are too good to miss.

‘I only use it in an emergency.’

Ahem.

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Over To You Danno - Tuesday

‘Oh great.’ Grumbles assistant manager T, here comes that bonehead with the books.’

I look through the window to see the object of his scorn, a man in late middle age with an admittedly naked bonce. His head is glistening with sweat as he attempts to traverse the traffic while balancing a large box in his arms. Behind him his ancient Ford is parked on the double yellow lines, hazard lights winking an invitation to the nearest traffic warden. They won’t be far away as it’s not raining.

The man has the look of defeat in his eyes before he starts, the sort of demeanour you see in British footballers every World cup. Many people think estate agency is a loathsome lot, what with opprobrium of public and commentators alike, but try selling leftover books to apathetic office workers who have moved on to iPads and Kindles. It would be easier to flog quill and ink sets.

‘I don’t know why he bothers.’ Continues T as the man takes a half step forward, then retreats to the far pavement as a lumbering lorry thunders past and the light fittings and floor joists rattle again. Full repairing and insuring lease with upwards only rent reviews. God bless you group legal…

‘Oh he’s quite nice really.’ Counters S my big-hearted, large-breasted negotiator. She always manages to be uplifting, I think warmly, as I wonder idly if she has a penchant for the more mature man? She rather ruins the daydream, as the bookseller leaves the sanctuary of the kerbside, by adding: ‘He reminds me of my granddad.’

‘I haven’t got time to read books. ‘Says T scornfully. He doesn’t buy a paper either, but he’s always pinching mine at lunchtime. My timing has never been great, something my wife will doubtless endorse. Too late to be a partner cashing in when all the financial institutions overpaid for estate agency chains, and an aspiring writer just getting the hang of it when the industry collapses due to free content and illegal downloads. Just as well I didn’t buy that guitar.

‘He can’t make enough money to live off doing that job.’ Posits T as the man approaches and I see his hangdog look miraculously replaced by a cheery demeanour straight out of a 1980s sales seminar. He’s faking it like everyone else.

‘Just be nice.’ Says S to T with a steely stare. ‘He can leave the box and you’ll probably be out when he comes to collect any orders anyway.’

‘There won’t be any orders.’ Counters T accurately. ‘Who wants end of run cookery and reference books when you can get all that stuff on-line?’

T is right, nobody with a router wants a set of encyclopaedias in a Wiki-world. But then, who would employ the world-weary man in any modern, digital industry? I see the sad CVs most weeks. One’s where they’ve taken out the schooling dates to try and fool the recruiters and even shortened the career history to show just the last ten years. But you know, you just know. The Government need people to work until their late sixties and few worthwhile employers want to recruit anyone over thirty-five. I can’t afford for it to be me trying to shift literary units. Except in an e-book format of course….

‘Morning everyone.’ Announces the man with teeth-grindingly cheeriness. I saw his face moments earlier. It was a bottle-top twist away from a whole pot of paracetamol.

T turns his back on the man callously. B in lettings picks up a line that wasn’t ringing, leaving S to feign interest in the motley selection of hardback books with garish photos and unknown authors on the cover. I walk over to join her.

‘Got some good titles this month.’ Says the man with admirable enthusiasm. I’m almost convinced. Then in the background I see the traffic warden approaching his ancient Mondeo.

‘I’ve never heard him swear before.’ Says S in surprise, as the man bounds through the traffic to plead his case. I’m willing to bet he spits a few expletives out in the privacy of his, now ticketed car. I’ve started to issue it, sir. The appeals procedure is on the reverse.

Booked. 

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