Boys And Girls - Friday

‘Have you seen this ridiculous article?’ Asks assistant manager T, as I walk across the office fretting nobody is on the phone.

As I can’t see his computer screen, it’s not an easy question to answer. Hopefully he’s not on another frivolous social networking site, they seem to suck more time from a working day than porn portals used to - before they were blocked by our main server.

‘Here look.’ Encourages T, spinning his screen and showing me an article, surprisingly, with a property based theme.

‘What is it?’ Asks B from her lettings’ desk.

‘You’ll love this.’ Predicts T with a smirk, as I skip read the vacuous, poorly-researched article. ‘It seems lettings agents are inherently sexist.’

That’s all I need. Some things are just taboo in the new world of office politics, and now the porn has been made inaccessible it’s anything remotely, sexist, racist or disability related. I just hope T isn’t about to say anything contentious.

‘That’s f***ing bollocks.’ Snaps B angrily.

Terrific, I’d forgotten inappropriate language. The swear box is already getting hard to lift.

‘Why do you say that?’ Asks negotiator S, as she joins the nascent discussion, that might be heading towards an argument, shortly.

‘Because most lettings’ agents are women anyway.’ Answers B.

‘Women can be sexist too.’ Responds T, looking at me for some sort of support that isn’t going to be forthcoming. Since Lady Di died, I’ve not been interested in minefields.

‘That’s a typical male response.’ Argues S, her eyes alive with fire. God, she’s attractive when roused.

‘And that’s a typical female retort.’ Bats back T, as I sense I’m losing what little control I had.

‘Men get called out for decades of sexist behaviour and they start whining that it’s not fair.’ Snarls S. ‘You try getting wolf-whistled at, every time you go on a building site wearing a hard hat.’

It wasn’t me. I was talking to the site foreman, who also had a hard hat on.

‘What does the article say?’ Asks B, in a move I hope will defuse the situation. So I quickly finish reading the scant piece. Before I can deliver a verdict, T says to B.

‘Anyway, you are guilty of being pretty sexist yourself. You are always lusting after young male tenants and commenting on their butts when they leave the office.’

‘That’s different.’ Replies B.

I’m not sure it is.

‘This writer…’ I begin.

‘A woman.’ Interjects, T.

‘Yes, this writer, reckons she doesn’t get the same treatment as men when she tries to rent places.’

‘Probably doesn’t.’ Announces S, icily.

‘Says,’ I continue. ‘That she is patronised when she asks technical questions about boilers and maintenance but then doesn’t get the same discounts on the rent that men negotiate, when she comes to sign a tenancy.’

‘That’s got nothing do do with having tits.’ Spouts T, as I die a little inside again. ‘More like they are just big tits, and too stupid to get a deal.’

‘What do you think?’ Demands S, looking at me piercingly. I feel naked again. Not even a hard anything, to protect me.

‘Yeh, what do you think?’ Adds B.

I think women are usually the decision makers when it comes to choosing a home. I think women, if they stay long enough in the profession, are often the best estate agents. I think, women have more empathy and patience, as a rule. Something the tortuous property transaction process demands in spades. I also know, that women dominate the lettings industry, at least outside of London, as traditionally the lettings side of the business was seen as a junior partner to the sales operation. That’s been turned on its head in recent years. Probably why I seem to feel dizzy most of the time.

‘I think we are in an equal opportunities industry.’ I hear myself saying pompously, to groans of derision - both male and female. ‘It’s purely down to ability, who succeeds in this job.’

‘Yeh, but there’s a lot of pricks.’ Says B, unhelpfully.

‘Yes, and we’re often just treated as pleasant to look at adornments.’ Adds S.

Shit, I hope she hasn’t finally realised why I insist she sits at the desk nearest the window.

----------

Glad Tidings We Bring - Monday

I pull up outside an identikit  ‘executive’ detached house on the sort of soulless estate you’ll find anywhere in Britain, the only difference being prices each area can sustain. You have to laugh, because the architects who design these developments invariably live in a Grade Two listen ex-vicarage somewhere semi-rural, with at least half an acre of garden.

I notice the house I’m visiting is the only one without Christmas lights twinkling in the window, or draped across the bargeboards like LED stalactites. At least I won’t be tripping over a tacky Santa Please Stop Here sign when I walk up the meagre front garden. The bloke I’m seeing is in the middle of a matrimonial dispute, the wife and kids have gone and he’s left with four bedrooms and a mortgage he can’t sustain.

I ring the bell, already feeling gloomy. Separations are poisonous at the best of time and I’m not about to make this guy’s Christmas by telling him he won’t have enough equity left to buy an airing cupboard, once everyone else has had their cut. When families split up at Christmas you never forget it – even after nearly forty years…

Three more rings and I’m about to give up and push a business card through the door, then a light comes on in the hall and I hear ponderous footsteps. At least he’s still alive, that poor girl who found a dead vendor on a viewing a few years back never got over it, plus the beneficiaries instructed another firm to sell the flat. A dead loss.

‘Sorry the place is a bit of a mess.’ Says the man as I follow him into the kitchen, surfaces strewn with the remains of several nights’ takeaway meals. He’s sporting an embryonic beard and dressed in jeans and a stained t-shirt. After half a lifetime of shaving everyday I long to sport designer stubble, but by the time I’ve paid off my own mortgage I’ll be producing the sort of beard only acceptable in a Father Christmas grotto.

‘Fancy a beer?’ Asks the soon to be ex-owner. He has several spent cans alongside the smeared tin foil containers and by the look of his red eyes is either half-pissed or has been crying. I decline. I never drink at work, I’m driven to drink but not until the closed sign is in the window.

A quick tour of the echoing house, kids’ rooms stripped of stuffed toys and Play Stations, we’re back on the stools, sat at the grubby worktop. Too dark to look at the garden and not much need, the plots here are parsimonious. I can see the house behind through the fast-growing Leylandi and I know which way we’re facing from experience.

‘You married?’ Asks the man as I prepare to hit him with the price. It’s better than it might have been twelve months ago, but it still isn’t what he’ll want to hear. I answer in the affirmative.

‘Too bad.’ He continues. ‘I was going to warn you off.’ Then with a wry smile he tells me the old adage about a woman being like a hurricane. They spin you round, f**k you up and when they leave, take half your house with them. I’ve heard it before, of course, but if you want someone’s business you’ll laugh at their jokes, coo at their children, pat their dogs and even…. actually in this case I don’t need to screw his wife, someone else is already doing that.

‘You having a laugh?’ Challenges the man, almost spitting out his lager, when I tell him what he’d need to ask for a reasonably quick sale. And again I curse a certain tabloid newspaper that runs House Price Rise stories almost daily. You don’t get much variety as a journalist with that outfit.

‘Well I’m just going to have to stay put.’ Concludes the man with a hint of satisfaction as we part. I want to keep him sweet – although he doesn’t know I’m back here tomorrow to meet his wife.

After all it’s the season of goodwill to all men – and women if they’re the decision maker.

---

Have a peaceful Christmas and thanks for reading.

S.A.

View To A Kill - Wednesday

My mobile rings as I battle the traffic to get back to the office. Needless to say I haven’t remembered to stuff the ugly bluetooth earpiece device in the side of my head – I’m still not convinced it doesn’t irradiate the few brain cells that haven’t been permanently damaged by this job.

‘Really?’ I ask the empty car, as I see the office number flashing insistently. There was a time in the late eighties when I thought it was the height of cool to have a brick-like cellular phone clamped to the centre consol of my Ford Orion Ghia, now I detest the 24/7 availability mobile communications provide. I check the traffic and scan for any police cars. Can I risk a sneaky conversation, or should I try and double park to take the call?

‘Yes?’ I say curtly as I make sure I’m not about to plough into a woman with pushchair on a pedestrian crossing. Estate agents already get enough bad publicity.

‘Where are you boss?’ Asks trainee F via a crackling connection. In the car you cretin crosses my mind but sarcasm doesn’t travel well over the airwaves, plus I’m not sure if cretin is an allowable term of endearment for staff any longer. There must be a memo somewhere.

‘Can you do a quick add-on viewing at Mrs Brown’s house?’ Asks F after I’ve given him my location – still moving slowly but in full control of the car officer. My mind whirs in time with the nagging sound from under the bonnet, possibly a water pump I’ve been told. But the prospect of sitting in the grubby main dealer’s service area drinking molten-plastic-laced instant coffee and reading back copies of the local property paper while some oik in overalls takes an hour to tell me the part isn’t in stock, just makes me want to weep.

I can’t for the life of me remember who Mrs Brown is. I know every property but the names elude me after all this time. I ask for the address and another dilemma presents itself. We need a viewing rather urgently on Mrs Brown’s home. Nobody has looked in over a month of marketing. One of the main gripes about agents once they have the home to sell is lack of contact. I urge staff to call clients once a week – the rather racily titled, but actually none too pleasurable, vendor contact – only after four weeks of excuses and no punters the calls become uncomfortable. There’s only so many times you can promise another advert and say the market will pick up once the kids are back at school.

‘Give me the details.’ I tell F reluctantly, stopping alongside a delivery van hazard lights flashing, back door flung wide open. I jot down the viewers name and the appointed time and check F has ensured Mrs Brown will be there. We don’t have a key and it wouldn’t be the first time the imbecile has sent another staff member to a home we don’t have access to. Viewers can get pretty pissy if all they can see is a widescreen view of the hall via the letterbox alongside an assurance that it’s very nice inside too.

‘Glad to finally have someone coming to look.’ Announces Mrs Brown a little frostily, once I’ve arrived ten minutes early and gone inside to complete this week’s vendor contact – without the touchy-feely bit obviously. She’s overweight and over fifty and even estate agents have some standards.

We bat some rather stiff small talk back and forth as I notice she’s vacuumed the carpets and sprayed something fresh smelling round the lounge in the time it took her to rush home from work.

The best time to sell a home is when it’s new to the market. A month of marketing means price, position and those ghastly pot plants out front are putting people off. In Mrs Brown’s mind though it’s doubtless my fault.

‘They’re not coming are they?’ She finally asks twenty minutes after the arranged time and five minutes after I’ve run out of excuses.

Once again my profession drops below journalist on the most hated list. It was good while it lasted.

----

An estate agent and a columnist - not a popular mix but take a free peek at the book anyway.

http://amzn.to/ttGZ4j