Social Housing - Thursday

'I'm not sure how much longer I've got.' Says loose lettings lush B, looking at me mournfully.

I nearly side-swipe a badly parked, not-so-Smart car, as I look askance at her. God is it the big C, I think grimly, as I slow the company car and ponder what platitude I can give to a washed-up sexually desperate drunk, with something terminal?

‘Have they given you a time-span?’ I finally ask weakly, thinking I’m not equipped to deal with this, despite the human resources-led courses I’ve been on teaching empathy and awareness of others, particularly vulnerable women.

‘Who?’ Asks B frowning.

‘Err, the doctors.’ I say falteringly, as a mad mother shoves her baby in a pushchair out in to the road as a way of getting a crossing. I wave the woman and child across and start to realise I’ve made another faux-pas. 

‘Why would I talk to a doctor about it?’ Says B. ‘Unless it’s to ask for more anti-depressants.’

‘When you said not much longer….’ I falter.

‘F**k no.’ Laughs B. ‘I’m not dying.’ She pauses. ‘Well maybe a little inside. I meant this bloody job. How much longer can I cope with lying scumbags and low-lifes who trash properties and get aggressive with me then expect to be re-housed by the council once they’ve wrecked one of my landlords’ homes and been evicted with eight months rent arrears?’

‘That’s a relief I thought it was something serious.’ I tell B.

‘It is serious.’ She snaps.

‘True, but we all come to hate the public in the end, it’s the few decent and honest ones we deal with that make it worth while.’ 

‘When do I get to meet them?’ She asks, voice wobbling.

‘Socially or professionally?’ 

‘Piss off.’

B has a point. You don’t often see people at their best when it comes to property transactions. Greed anger, frustration - to name but three in a toxic cocktail of emotions - come together to make the whole process fraught and confrontational.  The fact that I’m accompanying B to re-enter a trashed flat one of her clients has just gained back from two junkies, with two young children who are rumoured to now be in care, probably isn’t helping her mood.

‘Seriously though,’ continues B, leaning across, her over-short skirt riding up discomfortingly ‘I’m thinking of jacking it all in.’

The one night stands, the drinking too heavily, the quiet desperation of an internal clock ticking, whether it’s for a baby or a better job?

‘We all have days like that?’ I tell her blandly, starting to get uncomfortable with her proximity and emotional state. After much re-education from head office, the male/female relationship at work has become so potentially dangerous that I’m scared to say anything any longer for fear of offence, real or imagined. I’m just waiting for the trans-gender awareness course to drop, then I’ll have the full set.

‘Shit.’ I say recoiling back as the door opens to a pile of junk-mail, final demands and an aroma of something rotting. ‘Watch out for needles.’

‘See what I mean.’ Says B, awkwardly close behind me. She’d been too frightened to come to the flat alone and now I’m wishing I’d brought a chaperone too. If someone is going to get physically abused it’s going to be me, whether or not the tenants have broken back in and are about to try and f**k me up.

‘Its the fridge.’ I say gagging slightly as we look at the trashed kitchen, what looks like dried blood on the walls, half-eaten takeaway trays covering the surfaces and bags of broken bin-liners strewn around the cloyingly-sticky floor. ‘It’s always the fridge.’

‘How can these animals live like this?’ Asks B, suppressing a sob. ‘This is going to cost thousands to clean up, not to mention the lost rent my landlord has suffered. And we’ll be paying to keep these deadbeats in a bed and breakfast.’

‘Power is off.’ I say unnecessarily, as we edge toward the fridge and the all-pervading stench. If it’s blow-flies again I’m going to gag.

Thank god for the extra strong mints in my glove box.

Right To Rent - Thursday

‘She’s prickly today.’ I whisper to S, my negotiator, as I see B the loose lettings lush arguing with a young couple, at her desk. The pair are giving as good as they get, albeit in a sort of guttural slang English, peppered with language richer than they appear to be.

‘She’s been moody all day.’ Confides S, nodding towards B, as the heavily tattooed and heavily pregnant female she’s arguing with - an earlier production model in a pushchair alongside - starts to spout a line about unfair treatment. I grind my teeth. You don’t need accusations of that kind, no matter how false. The paperwork wipes out rain forests…

‘They can’t, like discriminate us, ‘coz we’s on the social.’ Spits the woman, as her neanderthal partner grunts in agreement. He has multiple piercings and a big ring through his nose that I’m thinking might come in handy if I need to lead him, forcibly, from the office. His tattoos are less inky than his girlfriend’s, but do extend up his neck in a fetching manner, that he might think fashionable, but pretty much precludes him from working in any public-facing position.

‘What a pair of retards.’ Offers fat mortgage man M, in a wheezy stage whisper as he waddles past us, en-route to the kitchen.

‘You can’t say that.’ Replies S, bristling, turning to me and adding. ‘Can he?’

Best not to tell her what I was thinking - pretty much a mantra to stick to all the time with S, as it happens.

‘They do seem a little agitated.’ I say to S soothingly. B is now spouting some line about her landlords not wanting tenants who don’t have their own income and employment, to cover the rent. It’s not an unreasonable request, and one I’d want to make if I could ever afford a second property as an alternative to my pitiful pension.

‘It’s f***ing guaranteed.’ Shouts the female, swooping to pick up the soiled dummy her child has spat on the floor. The chubby girl is too old to be sucking on the comforter but as her mother - and possibly her father - are still locked on to the State’s virtual tit, it seems ironically appropriate. 

Actually, when the state paid rent direct to landlords it was a fairly safe vehicle for buy-to-let landlords, but once the benefits were diverted to the tenants first, the problems started. The off-licence and the drug dealer, sometimes got the cash before the landlord. It’s a cliche, but most cliches are rooted in unfortunate fact.

‘You shouldn’t pre-judge people.’ Says S softly, as the argument continues across the office. My money is on B, if the two feisty bitches start to fight. I reckon I can take the pig-nosed bloke if it kicks off, he’s wearing enough ironmongery for me to get painful purchase.

‘We try not to.’ I reply in a conciliatory fashion. And I don’t; I’ve sold enough homes to scruffy-looking individuals who turned out to be loaded, just with poor fashion sense, to know that. But the endless stream of deadbeats, who seem to know more about their rights than contraception, are starting to test, even my loosely liberal, ideals.

‘They just need somewhere to live.’ Continues S. ‘It’s not their fault housing costs in this country are a joke.’ I nod in agreement. She is right, and successive UK Housing ministers who last about as longs as an epileptic virgin on his wedding night, haven’t helped the problem. But this angry couple must have spent six month’s worth of rent on their absurd inkings, they don’t come cheap. And the over-sized baby in the pricey pushchair has managed designer boots and pierced ears, before she has jettisoned the dummy and been potty-trained.

‘I tell you what, I’ll swing for some of these people one day.’ Growls B, after the punchy pair have left, and the office door still rattles in its frame

‘Couldn’t you have found them somewhere?’ Asks S.

‘Would you want scum like that in your flat?’ Snaps back B.

‘I haven’t got one.’ Says S, haughtily.

‘Hypothetically.’ 

Probably not.

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Alphabet Soup - Wednesday

‘More f***ing regulations to discourage my landlords.’ Exclaims loose lettings lush B vehemently. 

‘What this time?’ Asks assistant manager T, wth barely disguised boredom.

You should know, I think spikily, but I pause just in case…

‘They are ruling tenants can insist property is brought to a higher energy rating if it’s an F or G band.’ Answers B moodily.

‘What’s that again?’ Enquires trainee F, as I shake my head in disbelief. I’ve explained the European regulation - that insists all homes have an Energy Performance Certificate issued, telling prospective buyers or tenants how energy efficient their new home is likely to be - more than once.

‘It’s a load of bollocks. No one cares.’ Says T.

‘Exactly.’ Agrees B. ‘As if they haven’t tried to discourage landlords enough by levying extra stamp duty levy when they buy multiple homes.’

‘It’s meant to stop first time buyers becoming locked out of the market.’ Says negotiator S sharply.

I don’t need an ideological argument in the office again, particularly as my loyalties are torn and I swing more wildly than a weather vane in a hurricane. The latest piece of Government meddling in the property market is probably meant to help, but invariably the law of unintended consequences comes, with ill-thought through legislation.

‘What about my landlords?’ Argues B. ‘Half of them are only in the buy-to-let market because some leftie chancellor stole their pension pot, then pissed off to work as a consultant in the city.’

’Not that one.’ I correct her.

‘You know what I mean.’ Counters B, with a snarl. I do actually.

‘When was the last time anyone actually gave a toss about a home’s energy rating?’ Asks T, in my direction. Well of course they don’t. People buy homes with their heart, not their head - fortunately. It means an experienced campaigner can push physiological buttons no drone in an on-line call-centre outfit, ever could.

‘That lady last weekend was interested in energy efficiency.’ Says S, a little weakly.

‘She was a weirdo and a complete time-waster.’ Counters T.

‘Tree-huggers can’t afford homes anyway, so I don’t see why you are bothering.’ Contributes fat mortgage man M, not exactly helpfully.

‘You’re a big arse.’ Responds S.

Not grammatically correct, but as is often the case, I’m with her.

‘The point,’ continues T. ‘Is it’s just a load more paperwork that nobody needs. If you fall in love with a thatched cob cottage you don’t give a flying fig if it has a G energy rating. You just want beams and an Inglenook.’

‘But the certificate will tell you how inefficient the insulation is.’ Says S, a little unconvincingly.

‘They don’t give a shit.’ Snaps T. ‘They just whack the wood burner up and incinerate a few more trees.’

‘What do you think?’ Asks S, in my direction. Terrific. Now I’m going to upset someone, whatever I say. Fortunately I spot a timely intervention, coming across the road towards the office.

‘You should ask this man.’ I say pointing towards the dull-as-ditchwater Energy Performance Certificate issuer, coming our way.

‘Oh not that twat.’ Says T dismissively. ‘I’ve had more interesting conversations with my mother’s goldfish.’

T has a point. The man could bore for England. But then that’s what you get when head office, and the bean counter boss in particular, eschew good local practitioners for corporate agreements with the lowest cost provider willing to give a secret profit kickback, on their fee. Strictly speaking it’s illegal under the Estate Agents’ Act 1979 - unless declared to the client - but then the bean counter isn’t an estate agent. And anyone can be one. No study or qualifications required. I still wonder why I bothered….

‘I’ll email my report to you within twenty-four hours.’ Says the EPC man flatly, as he leaves the office with a set of keys for an empty home we have just listed. He needs to keep to the rigid service standards agreed corporately. But the truth is, nobody cares.

I’d tell the boss, but he likes to remain insulated from the truth.

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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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Assured Shorthold - Tuesday

‘F***ing tenants!’ Screeches loose lettings lush B fiercely, as she bangs the phone handset into its cradle with plastic-shattering velocity.

I leap from my chair, rush to my door - always open - and hastily scan the office. Fortunately there are no members of the public to be seen, just a startled selection of fellow staff members.

‘What?' Challenges B angrily, seeing my face.

I don’t need another argument. I can have those with other agents touting my register, lawyers who don’t answer the phone and charge by the letter instead, surveyors frightened of their own shadow who still down value sales despite overwhelming evidence that the price is right. I could go on….

‘Expletives in the office.’ I say nodding towards the swear box, that to be fair I’m no stranger to when a sale falls through. But if captain’s of industry, politicians and ex-television presenters from the 1970s can all get away with saying one thing and doing another, I can afford some minor dual standards. 

‘What is it?’ Asks negotiator B, in a show of feminine solidarity.

‘They all seem to think it’s my fault personally that the weather is shit and their ceiling is leaking.’ Rails B. Shit is at best a 50 pence offence , so I let that one go.

‘And they expect someone to be at their door with a mop and some roofing felt before they’ve finished insulting me down the phone.’

‘That’s a bit unreasonable.’ Soothes S.

‘It is when it isn’t their bloody door anyway.’ Counters B

Bloody still count, I wonder?

‘You know which tenants are the worst?’  Snarls B.

Please don’t say anything racist or homophobic, I think nervously, then I will have to report her and the paperwork will be endless.

‘Who?’ Asks trainee F earnestly. I cringe.

‘The lazy sods on housing benefits.’ Snaps B. The prejudice rings around the office as awkwardly as her earlier F-word, pinging off the filing cabinets like a submarine echo-sounder.

‘That’s a hell of a sweeping statement.’ I manage to say admonishingly. S nods in agreement with me, as do her over-sized breasts. F just looks bemused, unless it’s the distraction S has just unleashed.

‘You don’t have to deal with the wasters.’ Answers B abruptly.

‘I though you advised your landlords not to take housing benefit tenants.’ Says S neutrally.

‘I do, but some of them don’t listen.’ Replies B with a sneer, adding. ‘And a few bleeding heart liberals who ended up accidental landlords seem to think they’re salving their conscience by letting a young mother with three children by three different fathers get free housing.’

Ouch. Prejudice no doubt. I’m just unsure which piece of legislation I need to look up, several probably…

True, when the authorities paid rent directly to landlords, or their agents, there were less cases of arrears, now the tenants get the money first it can end up being spent on drugs and alcohol - or nappies and basic foodstuffs. You pay your money and they take their choice. But equally, there but for the grace of whichever deity you subscribe to, goes you and me…

‘They’re not all on the take.’ Announces S curtly, the sisterly solidarity was pretty transient.

S is right, way back when the celebrities were taking liberties with young women, I was taking tickets for free school lunches. The walk of shame to the dinner ladies’ serving hatch still haunts me now.

‘You don’t have to deal with them in sales.’ Snaps B. She has half a point, we get a different class of waster - but they can be just as corrosive.

‘I just think you should treat everyone the same.’ Replies S doggedly.

‘They all want spoon-feeding,’ responds B. ‘Don’t seem to understand builders are busy and that I can’t stop the rain. I’m damned if I’m giving everyone a free ride.’

The silence lasts long enough to become awkward. From what we’ve heard she often does give free rides and I can see I’m not the only one thinking it. Although on reflection, it probably takes a couple of gin and tonics. Not sure which legislation that comes under….

Cheers for now.

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