Mistletoe And Wine - Thursday

‘Is it me or is the music a bit loud?’ I holler at T, my assistant manager. We’re crammed against the free bar, where every spurious staff member, including weekend workers and new home site reps, are desperately multi-ordering drinks before the float runs out. It’s as shaming as the Brexit shambles.

‘You're just getting old.’ Shouts T, with a grin. ‘Let me buy you one and bring it over.’ He adds. That would be a first, I think fleetingly, until I realise he won’t be paying and by the time I offer to return the favour, I will.

I’ve done too many staff Christmas parties. The music was different when I started, more guitars and none of this drum and bass bollocks, but the end result is the same. Over-wrought women in posh frocks and over-testosteroned men in unaccustomed dinner suits, spoiling for a fight or a f**k.

‘Seen that cracker from head office.’ Shouts a disembodied voice. I have, but so has every other red-blooded male in the room. I’m not about to admit letching from afar and wondering what incredible cantilevered bra-manufacturing process is keeping those breasts from spilling free - especially to someone I can’t see.

A hand tugs on my sleeve. ‘Here you twat, I’m here.’ I look down to see the smirking face of H, my vertically-challenged rival manager. ‘I wouldn’t mind dancing with that piece later.’ he says unpleasantly.

‘You’d probably only come up to her….’ I begin, before realising the odious little short-arse, is smirking even more.

‘These don’t change do they?’ I say to mighty-thighed mortgage man M, whenI get back to the little enclave my office has set up, away from the DJ, who looks like the hasn’t started shaving yet.

‘The totty is different,’ shouts M garnering disapproving glances from negotiator S - looking classy in a black dress - and loose lettings lush B - looking tarty in a similar, shorter, number.

‘I used to enjoy these.’ I say to M, as T arrives with our drinks on a precariously-balanced tray, idiot trainee F behind him carrying an identical set. Yep, the cash will run out before my round. Like a typical Friday after work then, only with more sex and violence.

‘Just get pissed and dance with the prettiest trainee you can find.’ Advises M, downing two-thirds of a pint in one. M hasn’t been paying attention on all those appropriate behaviour in the workplace seminars, held by the mirthless women in Human Resources. I’m already wishing I was at home.

‘There you go boss.’ Says F, plonking a gin and tonic in front of me. I can’d do too many pints any more, irritable bowel to match irritable bloke. ‘I’ve got you a double, just so you know for later.’ Adds F, helpfully.

I sip the drink cautiously, the taxi is booked for midnight, I’ve avoided the hotel deal on rooms at a discounted rate for partygoers. I count myself lucky that on past occasions I only woke up with a cold kebab on the pillow in the morning - it could have been so much worse.

‘I reckon it could kick-off later.’ Suggests T, leaning so close I can smell his aftershave. He must apply it with a sponge, it’s so pungent. He’s pointing to the other side of a room where two rival offices young negotiators are braying loudly at each other. They’ll be goading each other with inflated stories of sales’ figures and target-smashing. It’ll be glasses smashing by the end of the evening, if previous nights are any pointer. You can see why people don’t like estate agents.

‘You enjoying yourself?’ Asks a familiar voice and I look up to see negotiator S next to me. I am now, I want to tell her, but some things are better left unsaid.

‘Smile.’ Shouts B amid a bright flash. She’s just snapped us with her mobile phone.

‘That better not be on Insta-pop later.’ I say uncertainly.

Apparently I’m an old dinosaur who doesn’t know how to party - or do social media.

If only they knew.

Happy Christmas.

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Drying Ink - Friday

‘So you’re sure we can’t wear short-sleeve shirts?’ Presses assistant manager T, as the uncharacteristically warm weather continues. 

‘You can wear them.’ I tell him ‘ You’ll just look like some plonker who belongs in a fast food outlet.’

‘But they can wear short-sleeve blouses.’ Whines T, gesturing towards the women.

‘Yes,’ agrees trainee F. ‘Doesn’t it seem a bit…’

Please don’t say it.

‘….sexist.’

He said it.

I have a file full of memos - yes, I still print them off - detailing crimes, real, or thought, that the women in Human Resources have flagged-up, most ending in “ism”. Now there’s an industry that is actually growing. They don’t actually produce anything useful, but if you were a careers advisor you’d surely be telling young girls to get some HR qualifications.

‘You just don’t look the part.’ I say wearily. ‘People will mistake you for a McDonald’s employee, or a Hawaiian on holiday.’

‘You’re just exaggerating boss.’ Says F.

Well that’s what I do, particularly when giving people a price on their home. Honesty gets you nowhere, particularly with all the shitesters out there.

‘It does seem a bit unfair on the boys.’ Says negotiator S, leaning forward and nearly spilling out of her over-cantilevered top.

‘She has a point.’ Suggests T.

Two quite prominent ones as it happens.

‘People just expect you to look the part.’ I say, dragging myself back on topic.

‘Not sure they do any more.’ Counters T. ‘Only the old ones.’

‘They’re the ones with the money and the property.’ I remind him . ‘That’s why you shouldn’t have a beard, or tattoos and should polish your shoes daily.’

‘God, not that old chestnut.’ Yawns T. ‘Nobody cares.’

They do.

Now I know I’m getting long in the tooth - it’s why that painful extraction took so long at the dentist recently - but some truisms remain in sales. People judge you quickly when you arrive at their home to pitch for the business. And if you are at a disadvantage straight away, because of your grubby shoes, dodgy tie, or badly-inked tattoos, you’re on a hiding to nothing.

‘Yeh, but you’ve got an obsession with tattoos.’ Says T, as the conversation meanders on.

‘He is right.’ Contributes loose lettings lush B, from her desk. ‘Nearly everyone has one nowadays.’

Yes, and in her case it makes her look even more like a desperate middle-aged slapper, trying too hard.

‘But you’re saddled with them for life.’ I say, to a communal groan. ‘Why not just get a temporary one? Then when you grow up you won’t look like some itinerant fairground worker.’

‘Some of them are works of art, actually.’ Snipes B.

Not the miss-spelt ones, or the cretinous on the face graffiti - and don't even start me on why some knucklehead needs left and right, or love and hate, actually on their knuckles.

I know times change. My mother used to warn me of dire consequences if I ate food in the street. Informing me I’d end up looking like a lorry driver, if I masticated in public. The same fate was predicted if I didn’t pay attention at school. As it happens driving an articulated rig looks a reasonable career choice now. Freedom of the open road, in charge of your own destiny and plenty of room for tax-free cash if you can squeeze a few economic migrants behind the pumpkin pallets. 

‘The point I’m making.’ I labour.

‘Is you’re old-fashioned and prejudiced.’ Interjects T, with a sly wink towards S.

Am I? God, I might have to check the HR file to see if I need to file a self-disclosure report.

‘Just don’t wear a short-sleeve shirt,’ I snap, as morbidly obese mortgage man M waddles in.

‘Or people will tell you they want to go large.’

There’s an awkward silence.

‘What?’ demands M, clutching - disappointingly - a Burger King bag.

‘Fascists and fashion crimes.’ Says T, obliquely.

M shrugs and wobbles away.

‘Look, I could cut off a mullet, ditch the suit with the turn-up trousers and shave a mistaken moustache. But you’re stuck with a this way up arrow on your arse forever.’ I conclude.

And I thought hissing was confined to the pantomime.

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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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Hot In The City - Tuesday

‘Thank God you are here.’ Cries trainee F as I stumble into the office, sweat pouring down my back. It’s one of a handful of days in Britain where the jet stream has finally lodged somewhere north of Aberdeen and sunshine has appeared.

I’ve just walked through the park where a motley collection of students, winos and civil servants on flexi-time, are lounging around consuming, drugs, cheap cider and ice creams. It hasn’t improved my mood, after an abortive valuation with a couple who seemed to think their ex-local authority semi, bought at a massive discount, could now be sold for north of £500,000. I didn’t see any solid gold bathroom fittings…

‘What is it?’ I demand of F, thinking some disaster has befallen one or more of our sales in the protracted pipeline. He spreads his hands wide, as if I’m the idiot with a squandered education and the IQ of something asexual, raised in a test tube.

As ever, I look to S my pretty negotiator for guidance, just as an unpleasant trickle of sweat runs straight down my spine and in to my underpants. God I hate wearing a suit and tie at the best of times, but when the sun finally peeps from behind the blanket of grey, it is even more unpleasant.

S looks towards the ceiling and I follow her gaze towards the hulking air conditioning cassette, where I now see a steady flow of fluid, dripping into a waste paper basket on the floor.

‘Oh for f***ks sake.’ I bellow and instantly look at the swear box on top of the filing cabinets. Another massive fail to go alongside the useless ceiling unit that sits unused for 360 days of the year, then pisses bacteria-riddled water into the office on the one day you actually need cooling.

‘Hadn’t you noticed how unbearably hot it is in here?’ Asks F indignantly.

You know what? I hadn’t actually, what with sitting on a stained couch in a superheated smoke-filled lounge, trying to persuade a pair of greedy bastards that their shabby home in a pretty shitty area wasn’t in fact Buckingham Palace in disguise.

‘Has anyone called the engineers?’ Asks obese mortgage man M, waddling across the office, shirt sleeves rolled up, unpleasant dark stains under his armpits. Fashion tip: Don’t wear a dark blue shirt when the sun comes out - and don’t haul round several scores worth of unnecessary lardy poundage either.

‘Fat chance of seeing them before the first frost.’ Predicts assistant manager T.

‘Well we can’t work in these conditions.’ Contributes loose lettings lush B, unhelpfully.

‘Just leave the office door open?’ I suggest, more in hope that expectation.

‘Christ no,’ snaps T. ‘You don’t want every nutter under the sun coming inside.’

I’m tempted to point out that no office had air conditioning when I started out in estate agency. But I was mocked relentlessly when I told them we used to have to send off 35mm films for next day processing, before we could produce property particulars. They already think I’m a dinosaur, no need to hasten my extinction.

‘Is there not some rule about maximum office temperature, before you can go home?’ Asks B, rather too enthusiastically.

‘I think it’s only a minimum temperature, not a maximum one.’ Says M, mopping his brow, with an unpleasantly discoloured linen handkerchief.

‘What about that Shops and Factories Act poster in the mens’ dumper?’ Suggests T.

Yeh, I need to relocate that before the next visit from the Human Resources nazis.

‘Any luck? Asks S, gently after I’ve spend twenty fractious minutes on hold, before speaking to a moron with English as a second language, at our mandated air conditioning maintenance company. The bean counter boss sacked the local family firm we’d used for years and gave the contract to some centralised bunch of shitesters, who quoted rock bottom price for subterranean service.

‘It seems they are very busy this time of year.’ I say sarcastically.

‘Bloody thing sits there idle all year and when you actually need it to do something useful it’s a monumental waste of time.’ Spits T.

I don’t think he’s talking about F, but it’s a sticky moment.

--------

Tea And Comfort - Monday

‘You alright?’ I ask trainee F, as he walks across the office looking morose. It’s a specific enquiry, generally he’s not alright. After all, if your mother has paid for an expensive private education she has some expectation her son shouldn’t end up struggling in a much-denigrated job, that requires zero qualifications but a whole lot of common sense. Sadly several years of being abused by sixth formers behind the bike sheds, and harangued by sadistic teachers in the classroom, gave him neither.

‘Not really.’ Answers F, with that puppy dog look. As Human Resources take a dim view of stuffing superfluous staff in a bag and taking them to the canal, I decide to mentor instead.

‘Cough.’ I tell him and his eyes fill with fear again, he starts to clear his throat and I immediately regret not being half-way to the litter-strewn waterway.

‘I mean, tell me what’s the matter.’ I instruct the dullard, hastily. For a moment I think he’s going to cry. I hate it when staff do that. They need to man up, it’s a tough business. I do my silent sobbing - after a bad week - when everyone has left the office, so as not to take my disappointment home.

‘Why do people hate us so much?’ F eventually asks softly.

‘Have you got a pen and paper?’ I ask sarcastically, only to see him start towards the stationery cupboard. God, if I come round again I’m going to pay more attention at school. I stop F from embarrassing himself further and sit him down in my office with a cup of tea and the remaining biscuits I’ve hidden from M, our gluttonous mortgage man.

F has been verbally abused by a vendor after bringing them the bad news that their buyer is looking to reduce the agreed price on their home sale, following a critical survey. The buyer in turn has shouted at hapless F when he told them, as instructed, that they could go and whistle for a £10,000 price chop on the back of an out of town surveyor, with little local knowledge, scaring them in to thinking a few thermal movement cracks and a bullish sale price meant they should renege on their agreement.

This is all standard fare for the UK housing market, although conveyancing rules in Scotland leave less leeway for backing out of agreed transactions. But even north of the border, the system is as flawed as cubic zirconium at a cheap jewellers. Delays and misunderstanding contribute to sales falling through, exacerbated by dilatory lawyers, incompetent local authorities, centralised lenders with little understanding of process and in this case, surveyors petrified of their own shadow and scared of being sued under their professional indemnity insurance.

‘It can be sorted.’ I tell F gently and I ask him to get hold of the buyers’ survey report, if he can. The surveyor won’t like it but as the buyers paid for it, tough luck. Patient, non-confrontational negotiation, and an understanding of the transaction means I’m confident I can keep F’s sale together. He just needs to watch and maybe, learn.

‘How did you manage that?’ Asks F in wonderment, after an afternoon of fractious phone calls, compromise and counter-compromise ends in re-negotiated sale letters being issued to both buyer and seller and their respective legal representatives. A local builder is going to reassure the buyers about the non-structural cracking and I’ve managed to get our vendors a reduction on their purchase from a seller keen not to lose their sale and start all over again, putting their move abroad back several months, at least. You won’t get that from an on-line agent, come call-centre.

‘They still don’t like us though, do they?’ Quizzes F.

‘Of course not.’ I tell him. ‘It’s a confrontational and emotive business moving house. Everybody needs a whipping boy.’

F looks at me, alarmed.

‘Not like at your school.’ I reassure him. ‘Metaphorically.’

He nods blankly, so I wave my tannin-stained mug at him. ‘Cup of tea, please?’

‘Sure boss.’ Answers F, face lighting up.

I like to spread a little happiness occasionally.

-------

Have a great Independence Day American readers.

Oddball Out - Thursday

‘The creeper came in while you were out.’ Says negotiator S, as I return to the office. I seem to miss all the fun while on appointments, but I’d hate to be shackled to the desk nine hours a day like some call centre drone - or on-line estate agent, as they want to be called.

‘Which oddball are you referring to?’ I ask S, dumping my briefcase and scanning the message book for problems.

‘He has a point.’ Says assistant manager T. ‘There are plenty to choose from.’ And as he speaks trainee F returns from the gents’ toilets with that vacant possession look on his face again. ‘See what I mean.’ Continues T, with a nod towards the idiot savant.

‘What?’ Questions F, head on one side.

‘They think you’re a creeper.’ Says lettings’ lush B, unhelpfully.

‘I didn’t say that.’ Announces S, hurriedly. ‘I meant that weirdo from the flats off the high street.’

‘The creepy one?’ Questions F, to groans of despair.

Every agent gets them. The freaks and weirdos with a fascination for bricks and mortar, fuelled by endless daytime television programmes for property porn addicts with no real job to go to. The regulars soon become known to even the newest recruit, as they come in with disturbing frequency, proclaiming to be looking to buy, sell or rent. The only certainty, is they never actually do. It doesn’t stop them coming in though.

‘What did he want this time?’ I ask S.

‘One of us tied to his bed wearing his late mother’s dress, probably.’ Says T unpleasantly.

‘Don’t say that.’ Cries S. ‘He gives me nightmares as it is.’

‘I’m just saying.’ Defends T petulantly. ‘I bet there’s nothing good going on behind his door of an evening.’

We get to see some curious things, having access to the public’s homes with just a key and an inquisitive nature. It’s why I’m loathe to let F do too many viewings after the missing underwear controversy. I’m fairly sure it wasn’t him and the woman just misplaced some of her laundry, but you can’t be too careful.

‘Do you remember that repossession with a drawer full of girly mags for amputee fetishists?’ Asks T, with a smirk.

‘Oh, for goodness sake.’ Snaps S. ‘You made that up.’

Please don’t say it, I think. Looking at T firmly, but fat mortgage man M, beats him to it.

‘Don’t worry, he can’t prove it. Hasn’t got a leg to stand on…..’

Reprimand for inappropriate behaviour in the office issued and a quick check on the Human Resources handbook to ensure I don’t need to fill out some sort of incident report, and we’re back to the creeper.

‘He said you can value his flat again if you want to.’ Continues S, with a grimace. I’ve visited at least three times over the years and there’s no way he’ll move without the help of an undertaker. The stale-smelling home has curtains perpetually drawn and his late mother’s clothes hanging in the wardrobe.

‘I don’t want to.’ I announce.

‘Maybe he could rent it out?’ Suggest T, looking at B.

‘F**k off.’ Snaps B. ‘There’s no way I’m going in there without an escort.’

‘Nobody goes there, except me.’ I instruct sternly.

People don’t exactly put estate agents at the top of their most popular profession list, but I still remember a female negotiator who was kidnapped two decades ago, from a firm I worked for. And the infamous case of Suzy Lamplaugh the agent who disappeared without trace in 1986 after an appointment with a Mr Kipper, who didn’t exist.

‘We follow company protocol to the letter.’ I remind everyone citing the failsafe checks for outside appointments, particularly for our female staff.

‘If you do visit him you can borrow my pepper spray.’ Offers B.

‘And her handcuffs.’ Says T with a chortle.

‘The creeper probably has his own.’ Suggests S, with a visible shiver.

I decline the offer of a visit, with brush-off phone call. The creeper seems disappointed.

I just hope he hasn’t spent out on a body bag and wet wipes.

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Merry Christmas Everybody - Wednesday

‘I can’t hear myself think.’ Shouts a colleague I haven’t exactly pegged for a an intellectual mind. He staggers on, slopping a pint of gassy lager as he zig-zags towards the free bar. I’m back at the corporate Christmas party and the music is too loud, my dinner suit too snug. It gets tighter each year. I get less tight. The thought of how my head will be thumping in the morning outweighing the lure of limitless alcohol - another reminder I’ve been doing this too long.

‘F**k, there’s some amazing totty in here.’ Shouts assistant manager T, who has appeared at my side as if on castors. His pupils are widely dilated behind the designer glasses. I’m not sure it’s just beer doing that.

‘If you can’t get screwed tonight,’ Continues T with an unpleasant leer. ‘You haven’t got a pulse.’ He pauses and waves at all the young women in bright party frocks, then adds: ‘Or a penis.’ Before wobbling away.

I’m in the seventh circle of hell, only with a smarter dress code. Like most people, I don’t like mixing with estate agents if I can avoid it. This pulsing mass, dancing to what might be drum and bass, but could also be the digital equivalent of a needle stuck in a groove, are making me yearn for a quiet night at home with a lime and soda and some catch-up television. And to think I once tried to climb inside the PA rig at a Stranglers gig.

‘I’m going to shag something tonight.’ Slurs another voice, breaking in to my ear-buzzing melancholy. I look up to see M, my fat finance man has appeared, glass in hand. His stomach is battling to break out of a straining cummerbund and he’s waving towards the table where the Human Resources - or is it People Division now? - ladies are sitting.

I read a survey recently, stating those in accounts and personnel where the most likely to have sex at the office Christmas party. Odd, because our lot spend the other fifty-one weeks of the year trying to shaft us anyway. You’d think they’d want a rest.

I’m tempted to point out the objects of M’s ill-directed ardour are rumoured to be lesbians, but before I can, he slurs. ‘They might be dikes but that chubby one looks like she could be turned.’

I should be reporting him for this, but as he’s heading that way I think I’ll save myself an email and more grief.

‘Here goes nothing.’ Chortles M, as he departs towards a probable disciplinary and a shed load more paperwork. ‘I reckon I can get her back on the straight and narrow.’ Judging by his progress and the likely outcome, nothing is going to be straight and the only thing narrow, as his lardy arse departs, is his mind.

‘You not drinking?’ Enquires a disembodied voice, and for a moment I think I’m hallucinating, or maybe the strobe light has set off some sort of previously unreported fitting session. But I eventually realise H, my vertically-challenged rival manager, is looking up at me. Gin and tonic in each hand.

‘Pacing myself.’ I tell him.

‘Eh?’ he bellows , on tip-toes.

‘Never mind.’ I reply, only to find he’s disappeared towards the dance floor, where I spot S, my negotiator, looking achingly beautiful in a red frock. If he touches her, I might commit some sort of dwarf related homicide that would actually, briefly, make me happy…

Now, as the music jolts from unknown noise to the cheesy Christmas favourites, I feel pressure in my bladder. If I break the seal I’ll be pissing all night, but I can’t resist the pressing need. En-route to the gents’ toilet I pass the bean counter boss, sat at his table with a gaggle of his odious followers. I haven’t seen such uncontrolled fawning since Bambi took to the ice.

‘Condom machine is empty.’ Shouts some young buck I don’t recognise, as I’m greeted by the heady stench of urine and David Beckham after shave, in the toilets.

I’m too old for this shit.

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Festive felicitations to everyone, thanks for reading and may your chosen deity be with you.

S.A.

Train To Nowhere - Thursday

‘Have you seen the latest?’ Challenges assistant manager T grumpily, before I’ve even closed the office door.

The choices are limitless in this business, where setbacks and disappointments are as regular as a new David Beckham tattoo. I walk towards the message book and scan the content as T looks at me, fingers drumming annoyingly, on his desk. There’s nothing untoward amongst the list, other than a few callbacks and a survey to chase. I’m guessing it’s an internal issue.

‘Go on then.’ I prompt  T, less than enthusiastically. I notice negotiator S has stopped what she was doing and is paying attention. Trainee F is also looking at me - he probably wasn’t doing anything useful anyway.

‘More f***ing red tape.’ Snarls T. Clicking on his computer screen and spinning it towards me. I can see a long annotated memo from head office. With the schoolboy graphics and lengthy content I’m guessing it’s from Human Resources, or that limp-wristed waster in the training department. The well-worn adage: Those that can’t sell, train - could have been written for him

‘Give me a précis.’ I tell T, realising as I say it that he almost certainly hasn’t read to the end of the missive. T looks at his shoes.

‘Anybody?’ I plead.

F screws up his face and ventures. ‘When you say pray-see, err, what exactly do you mean?’

Before I hit him - something Human Resources would certainly write extensively about - S comes to my rescue. Not for the first time.

‘It’s a new on-line training programme we all have to complete.’ She say with an apologetic shrug. S knows how I feel about these cringe-making multiple choice exercises, designed for the lowest common denominator. Ostensibly to increase knowledge bases and to inform students of the latest legislation - but in practice to cover arses and to save money.

‘I don’t like exams.’ Says F glumly. I still don’t know what his mother and various stepfathers paid all that money in private education fess for.  I guess it was just to get him out of the house. You can tell a boarding school boy at twenty paces - they have more hangups than a call centre worker.

‘What are they trying to cover?’ I enquire.

‘That fat woman’s arse, in HR.’ Says T bluntly.

‘You can’t say that, it’s sexist.’ Challenges S. 

They all look at me. I can’t even remember which box I ticked on that course.

‘Well?’ Urges S.

‘It is quite lardy.’ I say tentatively. There’s an awkward moment, then S laughs.

Dodged another bullet.

‘Who writes this shite?” Says T after S has given us a run down on what we’ll have to endure, under classroom conditions. It’s basically more due-diligence to ensure when someone falls foul of Government Money Laundering rules, or Immigration Checks, the company will have a fall guy to blame. The course looks like it’s been compiled by a primary school child with a basic PowerPoint programme and just the free included graphics to choose from.

‘They’ve paid thousand of pounds for some outside consultancy to produce this dross.’ I speculate angrily. Calling in management consultants to do the job you are already paid to do, is a booming industry. It’s the biggest con-trick since we convinced millions, in the nineties, that an endowment policy would pay off their mortgage.

If it’s not the Government abdicating responsibility for criminals and illegal immigrants then expecting us to be unpaid police and tax collectors, it’s head office freeloaders paying an outside agency to do their job. I could write a book about it…

‘When they say classroom conditions….’ Begins F tentatively.

‘They mean you can’t cheat by looking at someone else's paper, or getting the boy in the next bed to your’s in the dormitory, to do the exam in return for a dip in your tuck box.’ Says T brutally.

‘I always did all my own exams.’ Snaps back F moodily.

He’s not lying, I’ve seen his CV. It’s why he’s an estate agent - the last resort for in-bred idiots educated beyond their ability. And still no proper entry qualifications. Unless you count on-line tick-box bollocks.

I don’t.

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Of course you can download the 'Agents Diary' ebooks - links on right - but they are not for complete dummies....