Media Mogul - Tuesday

‘Usual crap?’ Asks H my vertically-challenged rival manager, as we meet in the hotel car park. For a moment I think he’s referring to my ageing company car - replacements delayed as part of the bean counter boss’s budget cuts - but he’s thinking about the forthcoming managers’ meeting. 

‘Nothing much is new.’ I tell H, blipping my remote and getting a lifeless soft-touch click in return. The battery has gone and I haven’t got round to facing the copies in triplicate grief, arranging a replacement will entail. Ignominiously I have to walk back to my car and secure the doors manually. H doesn’t help matters by clicking his Ultimate Driving Machine fob from several paces away. Higher office turnover, higher band and on the car list. It’s the only think lofty about the little twerp.

‘I reckon these are a waste of time.’ Pontificates H as we walk towards the entrance door, one of those intimidating revolving ones. I clutch my briefcase handle tighter still. The wedged document receptacle in a spinning lobby door incident, still hasn’t entirely faded from my memory. Expensive counselling might erase the trauma but I like to spend my time on vendors’ couches.

‘That’s what my staff think about my morning meetings.’ I tell H as we have that embarrassing will you, won’t you moment when the door spins our way. I end up in the same personal space as him and have to do the dolly-steps shuffle, keeping just ahead of the door panel snapping at my achilles tendon without entering the short arse…

‘I don’t bother with morning meetings most days.’ Says H, riling me unnecessarily. He already has the best catchment area and a lower rent than my office. If you asked me I could do better than him if we swapped places - but nobody asks me.

‘You need to plan and prepare, need to communicate to your team what you expect.’ I say, rising to the bait despite myself. H grins, nods to the Romanian girl on reception and says. ‘We’re too busy fielding offers to do all the crap you do.’ I should have shoved him into the door mechanism when I had the chance and claimed an industrial accident. I’ve thought of it enough, believe me.

‘Here we go.’ Whispers H as the bean counter arrives in the meeting room a few minutes late. If the roles were reversed I’d reprimand the figure-fiddler for tardy timekeeping. Sadly, it seems accountants, not the meek, are inheriting the earth - or at least what’s left of it once depreciation and dilapidation figures have been offset against built in obsolescence.

Ninety minutes in, the fatty bacon sandwiches churning in my stomach like a cheap tumble dryer, the bean counter gets to item nine on the agenda. I look again, intrigued, as he toggles his laptop and the heading Social Media rises from the bottom of the overhead projector.

‘Do we really need to be doing this?’ Asks the bean counter, as I think if only he knew.

‘Corporate blogs and dull product placement Tweets are worse than no presence at all.’ Suggests the woman just back from her second maternity leave. The bean counter didn’t like her being away twice in three years and word is he won’t recruit another female at management level if they haven’t passed the menopause yet. I’m hoping I can sit in the public gallery at the tribunal - heavily disguised of course.

‘I couldn’t think of what to say.’ Offers another manager. That’s because you have the charisma of a carrot, I think sourly.

‘And you’d have to vet anything you wanted to publish.’ Adds a third voice. ‘The slightest contentious point and some tool would want to sue us.’

That’s why I do it anonymously I think, trying not to grin.

‘Agreed,’ responds the bean counter. ‘But I still think we need to have a profile.’ He pauses before adding. ‘Would anyone like to volunteer to pilot it?’

‘I’m too busy.’ Says H woundingly. He managed to sit beside me, despite my best efforts. Just trying to make himself look big if you ask me.

Meanwhile - I’m keeping a low profile. 

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Mr Lecter At Six - Thursday

‘Glad you are back.’ Says negotiator S as I bustle through the office door. A small blush of pride starts to rise in my cheeks, until she adds. ‘I had a creeper in while everyone was out.’

Now the property market attracts all sorts of weirdos and oddballs - some of them don’t even masquerade as estate agents. We have an open door policy, you have to in sales; but it means the dregs of society, the loners, the saddos, the perpetual lookers and the perverted gawpers will sooner or later flush through the office like a blocked overflow.

‘Could you narrow it down a bit.’ I ask S, dropping my briefcase on the floor and scanning the message book for heartbreak and hassle.

‘He just unnerved me.’ Answers S with a little upper-body shudder, which a less caring manager might find unsettlingly attractive.

‘How do you mean?’ I probe, wandering if I can swing a cup of coffee from her before I go out again if I show the right blend of sympathy and empathy.

‘He seems more interested in looking at me than the properties on offer.’ Continues S. It’s why she’s in the window seat of course, but I’m not allowed to say that. Like a pair of turbo-charged Dyson vacuums, those humourless women in Human Resources have sucked all the joy from the job.

‘I’m sorry you had to endure that.’ I say soothingly, eyeing the kitchen and feeling drier than a Bedouin’s ball-bag. She ought to be used to it by now, nags the inner-voice. With those tits school sport’s day must have been a bruising nightmare.

‘He wants to view some flats later.’ Says S. ‘But I don’t think he’s that interested, or can even afford them. He wouldn’t speak to Financial Services.’ Not completely insane then.

‘I’ll send F on the viewings.’ I tell S gently. The idiotic trainee and the stalker should find some common ground.

‘There’s no way I’d be going out alone with him’ Replies S. ‘In fact I’m not even sure F would be safe.’

Now that would save a whole load more hassle with performance reviews and a potential industrial tribunal, I think fleetingly. But the truth is there have been some well-documented and tragic cases of estate agents going missing or being kidnapped. We have set procedures to deal with situations like this.

‘You’re going to do the viewings?’ Says S incredulously, as I tell her my solution.

‘I’ll take the rape alarm.’ I fire back with a chuckle, realising the comment is in bad taste even as it spills from my mouth. No chance of a coffee now.

‘Just be careful.’ Pleads S. ‘There’s something not right about that man.’

That covers a big chunk of the public in my book – which is available to download on Amazon if you’re interested….

‘If he takes you prisoner and rings for a ransom, how much have we got in petty cash?’ Asks assistant manager T, with a guffaw, later.

S shoots him a dirty look. It has happened before and it was no laughing matter. But as yet, it hasn’t happened to a slightly overweight, misanthropic man with a short fuse and a short-right hook. Bring it on pal. I’d love to punch a member of the public with impunity.

‘Good luck.’ Says S endearingly, as I gather up the keys and several sets of our particulars.

‘You might know the guy.’ T tells loose lettings lush B with a leer. ‘Have you checked you internet dating contacts?’

‘F**k off.’

I should get the office swear box, but I’m actually starting to feel a bit apprehensive.

‘His address exists and he has no credit defaults.’ Says mortgage man M, with a smile. That man has access to more databases than MI5.

‘Think he lives with his parents though.’ Continues M. ‘Try to get me an appointment if he doesn’t want to eat your liver.’

‘F**k off.’ This time it’s S with the expletive and I don’t mind at all.

‘Do you want to come in?’ Asks the owner of the ground floor flat I’ve stood outside for twenty minutes. The creeper isn’t coming.

‘Cup of coffee?’

Or a nice Chianti….

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Open All Hours - Thursday

I’m alone in the office with just imbecilic trainee F for company, as we cover the lunch shift. It’s not a lunch hour; such as you might get working in public service, or a heavily unionised environment. Here you grab some sustenance on the run, in between appointments. Spend too much time scoffing rather than selling and one of the, far too many for every town, opposition agents will be gobbling up your commission opportunities. It’s dog eat dog out there…

F takes a call from an abrupt, just short of rude, man wanting property in a road his wallet won’t stretch to. F frowns as he holsters the phone. I watch the rudimentary cogs grinding in his skull. You can almost hear the base material on base material friction.

You’ve been doing this for, like, ages.’ Announces F eventually, with not the most flattering of openings. I nod warily, as he continues. ‘So, did people always hate estate agents?’

‘Pretty much.’ I tell him, remembering my first sale as if it were yesterday and the fact that the buyer thought they’d paid too much and the seller thought we’d sold too cheaply - and not justified our commission.

‘What you have to understand,’ I tell F wondering if it’s worth the effort enlightening him when I’m trying to engineer a second written warning from a reluctant Human Resources department, who do take lunch hours but don’t like Industrial tribunals. ‘Is property is adversarial,’ I continue. ‘Each party is looking to stiff the other. Add in idiotic surveyors, incompetent solicitors, nervous lenders and a chain longer than on the Titanic’s anchor and you can see why people hate the process.’

‘Yes but why hate us?’ Asks F naively.

‘Because we’re the conduit.’ I tell him, instantly regretting it.

F’s face screws up painfully. Finally he asks.

‘Isn’t that some sort of internet scam?’

Still no entry exam for estate agency.

‘Anything happening?’ Asks fat mortgage man M as he waddles back into the office, face buried in something greasy from Greggs the bakers. He doesn’t need an hour to consume more calories than I eat in a day. I tell him the stark truth.

‘No leads for me then?’ Complains M, spitting flakes on to the carpet, that – unless I do it again - won’t be vacuumed for another 48 hours, after the bean counter’s cleaning cut backs.

‘You could chase up some of your back catalogue of non-written business.’ I suggest sourly. M looks at me with distain. He wants fresh meat – and two veg all wrapped in pastry, if he can get it. He certainly doesn’t see keen on foraging for scraps.

‘Bunch of piss-heads coming up the road.’ Says M nodding his chubby face towards the window and doubtless hoping to change the focus away from his non-performance. M only pulls his weight when he gets on the scales.

‘I don’t know how people can afford to get drunk during the day.’ I pontificate, knowing the answer is probably, ironically, in lettings’ lush B’s copy of the Daily Mail on her desk.

‘You might want to lock the door.’ Suggests M retreating to his office, leaving an aroma laced with processed onions.

It wouldn’t be the first time a bunch of drunkards came into the office to abuse an easy target. I dodged the flying chair last time, but I’m not as agile as I used to be.

Before I can decide, the group of Neanderthals are glaring through the glass making rigorous jerking gestures with cupped forefinger and thumb, while one of their number bangs on the window. The last two times I called the police we were closing for the day before the squad car arrived. I’m guessing there are more than a few constables who can’t get on the housing ladder.

The door spills open and the boldest, drunkest, low-life leers in and grunts.

‘You f***ers are the reason we can’t get no place to live.’

Not the fact you aren’t working and are spending all your benefits on cheap cider then, I ache to say - if it wasn’t for the fear of anaesthetic and more emergency surgery.

The spit will come off the carpet in a couple of days.

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Close Shave - Wednesday

I’m sitting at the head of a semi-circle of staff, arranged round the desk of assistant manager T. They look expectant. I’m trying to quell a bubbling anger that won’t help the level of stomach acid I already carry. The ulcer can only be months away.

‘Is he supposed to be back today?’ I ask tetchily. My team look back at me blankly; then equally vapidly at each other, until S my well-upholstered negotiator taps something into her smartphone and answers in the affirmative. She keeps abreast of technology, I think unhelpfully, as she leans across the desk to place her phone down. The anger is building. You get enough idiots, arseholes and wastrels once the door is unlocked without employing them. F, my trainee, is dangerously close to being late for the morning meeting again, despite having had four days off to sort out his body and alarm clock. Human Resources get twitchy and require reams of paperwork if you even shout at a staff member any longer; so decking him when he finally arrives isn’t an option. I’m left with withering sarcasm as my only weapon. The lowest form of wit apparently. But I don’t mind stooping.

‘Here he comes.’ Announces assistant manager T breezily, nodding through the window towards the far side of the street. T sports £200 designer frame glasses so I assume he sees more than me. Vanity and parsimony have kept me peering at road names and house numbers for so long now I’m used to squinting. Plus, as the years march on and the targets grow in tandem with my belly I find the long sight is improving. I just can’t read the labels on wine bottles so easily any more. Lucky I’m not fussy – except about timekeeping.

‘What the hell is he wearing?’ Asks loose lettings lush B with a chuckle. She’s a fine one to comment I think fleetingly, as some of her skirt and heel combos defy decency and gravity, but I’m already looking past the overpriced mock Georgian semi on the inside window panel to see what fashion crime F is committing this morning. He’s done unsuitable comedy ties, badly fitting trousers that expose underpants waistband, and a charity shop suit that screamed demob to anyone with parents who did National Service.

‘Hah.’ Guffaws big mortgage man M, spotting the family planning mistake as he traverses the traffic. ‘You’re not going to like that.’ And although the shirt looks a little un-ironed and the tie could do with straightening I still don’t see it - until I look at his face.

‘What the f**k is that growth?’ I ask incredulously, the expletive slipping out in contravention of another company standing order only a paper pusher who has never had a sale fall-through on a Friday afternoon, could have penned.

‘I think you’ll find it’s a goatee.’ Answers S suppressing a giggle.

‘Yep, ‘confirms T gleefully. ‘That’s a goatee alright.’

‘You’re not big on face furniture are you?’ States M rhetorically. He knows. They all know - apart from F apparently.

I’ve told them the story of a vendor who chose me years ago, over another, more experienced practitioner. At first I fretted my fee was too low, or the suggested asking price too high but she told me: ‘The other fellow had a beard, never trust a man with a beard. They are usually hiding something.’ And these things stick. Like taking your shoes of if they insist, pretending you like children and pets and shutting the gate when you leave. I’m leaving the beard, earring and ponytail for when I’m bothering site sales staff on retirement developments. Just before choosing a plot and a headstone.

‘A goatee is for ageing rockers and bald blokes.’ I rage unreasonably as F nearly saves me the paperwork and another industrial tribunal, by almost getting flattened by a bus.

‘And for goat herders.’ Adds T mischievously. I could easily imagine F comforting farm animals, having seen his browsing history, plus he’s done a few dogs but that’s in his own time. Once he enters the office he’s my creature. One I prefer without facial hair.

‘Can you tell him what to wear then?’ Questions B pointedly. It’s a minefield, one that keeps unemployable-anywhere-else women, busy in Human Resources. Many years ago, the females at a firm I worked for, had to wear a corporate skirt and blouse set while males could sport a more relaxed suit and tie combination. The girls’ blouses collected more static than Beyonce’s hairbrush and after a couple of nasty shocks on the metal filing cabinets and a threat of a sexual discrimination case the female uniforms were discarded. No, not like that.

‘Something wrong?’ Asks F on finally entering.

How long have you got?

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