Beat It - Wednesday

I’m in the main office, covering for snatched lunches and outside appointments. I like to show I can still do the front line chores. It’s the reason I get chased by dogs on leaflet drops and still make a mess of the tea and coffee orders when I show I’m a milk, no sugar, man of the people.

‘Tossers looking in the window.’ Hisses loose lettings’ lush B. She’s my only companion and a less than alluring - rescue the human race - procreation choice, should the world end like that guy standing outside the newsagents has been predicting for the last six months. Just my luck, help save the planet and be stuck with a nasty STI, a drunk pregnant woman and no antibiotics….

‘They look fairly normal.’ I whisper back, trying to banish the unwelcome thought of raising more than a smile, in B’s direction.

‘Time-wasters.’ predicts B, as the late middle-aged couple move hesitantly towards the office door.

‘Buying or renting?’ I ask softly.

‘Well the buy-to-let lot have dried up since the chancellor screwed around with stamp duty,’ answers B. ‘ So I’m thinking you’re the lucky one.’

True to form, B ducks behind her monitor and I am left with no choice but to stand and welcome the couple. I insist we greet people in the old school fashion. I hope it’s a point of difference to all the other new kids on the block, in polo shirts and chinos. We don’t do free coffee dispensing, but I do see everyone to the door. Not least to make sure they are safely off the premises.

‘How may I help you?’ I begin, as I show the pair to S’s vacant desk. The seat is vaguely warm as I sit down. Probably just the unaccustomed sunshine streaming through the window. Probably.

I wait as the wife responds to my question. She’s clearly the decision maker, first qualifying item obtained, now I just need to establish their needs and motivation. The basic contact information, names, addresses, email and phone details could be taken by a performing parrot. I want to know how these people can generate income for me. Do they have a home to sell? Can they proceed promptly? Would they like fat mortgage man M, to sell them some inappropriate insurance product? One that will doubtless be a future miss-selling scandal, but for the moment will satisfy head office’s increasingly demanding sales targets.

I takes a few minutes to get the dreary but necessary data. The pair probably think I’m putting them on our mailing list - something of a misnomer now most people communicate electronically - but I’ll decide whether we’ll be wasting any more time on them. You need quality control in this business, or like a prostitute with an absent-minded pimp, you’d spend all your time servicing f***ers who never pay you.

And then the woman utters a familiar, but still intensely irritating, line.

‘We’ve been looking for the last five years.’ She says earnestly, as the husband nods wearily. I catch B’s smirk across the office, as she theatrically mimes: time-wasters.

‘There’s never anything as nice as our house.’ Continues the wife, as I detect a frown of transient disagreement from the long-suffering husband. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

Of course I’ve had plenty of properties that would suit this picky pair, over the last half decade. But with the supply and demand imbalance still out of kilter, why would I make the transaction any harder than it is, by involving unmotivated messers? If I’m going to do sado-masochism I’ll do it in my own time, with appropriate sheets and privacy. There’s no safe word with these types. They'll just keep hurting you time after time.

‘Oh no, we won’t put our house on the market until we’ve found something.’ Replies the wife, to my half-hearted attempt to get a valuation for a sister office half way across the county, where this pair live - and will doubtless die.

‘Told you they were time-wasters.’ Crows B after I’ve seen the couple out.

Feel my pain.

-----------

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.

----------

Love Me Do - Wednesday

‘I think you are going to like this one.’ I enthuse, as I pause by the front door of a penthouse flat I was delighted to be instructed to sell, only two weeks ago.

The husband looks at me with a half-concealed sneer. He clearly doesn’t like estate agents. He’s not alone. But then I half-sneered when I saw him pull up in his high-end German car, reeking of privilege and self-satisfaction. I’m just hoping I hid my contempt slightly better than he has.

‘Is this still available?’ Asks the man as his wife visually winces at his abruptness. ‘Only we’ve been mucked about by you lot enough, already.’

Now I’m really starting to dislike him. I try not to stereotype but it’s a weakness in all of us and the property industry doesn’t exactly get good press. I’m hoping to change minds - but not his. I still remember who pays the bill.

‘Yes, it’s available.’ I answer, as I open the door and hit the light switch for the hall. It’s the worst part of the flat and I need to make it seem bright and airy. ‘Although,’ I add. ‘I expect it to sell quickly.’

‘You would say that wouldn’t you?’ Snipes the man as he steps inside with his wife. I don’t mind, I won’t be selling to him. But then you rarely sell too the male - unless it’s a a gay couple.

I really took a liking to the owners of this top floor home -  a penthouse is always a bit of a stretch as a term, but when you are marketing it helps. They trusted and valued my opinion, left the keys with me as they are often out of town and didn’t quibble madly on the commission. In fact the wife said quite graciously, when given my suggested asking price: ‘Get us within £25,000 of that and we’ll be delighted.’ I love a challenge.

Bedrooms visited, I can already feel good vibes from the wife of the viewing pair. He’s more reserved, trying to remain aloof and disinterested for when the negotiations start, but she’s starting to visibly salivate. And I know they are in a good position, I’ve checked their status and they can proceed immediately, cash in the bank. I decide to try a trial close.

‘What would you do with the master bedroom?’ I ask her, seemingly innocently.

‘Oh nothing, I love the colour scheme as it is.’ She gushes back. Gotcha. Now it’s just down to how much, I think, the old excitement flooding back. It’s easy to forget how much of a buzz you can get from selling homes, with the day-to-day grind from suspect surveyors, lazy lawyers and barely competent banks. But it’s the best feeling ever - well almost….

I’ve left the two prime rooms until last. It’s a technique I prefer, build the interest then give them the reveal. A stunning recently re-fitted top-end kitchen and a panoramic view from the living room, with a full width glass-balustraded balcony. All facing the right way to catch the sunshine. 

‘Oh my God. I love it.’ Cries the woman. I’m guessing she doesn’t get much more excited than this and judging by her sour-faced husband I can understand why. Still, he won’t be making the decision - just writing the cheque.

I’ve done my homework and I have the local knowledge and experience that no just-opened outfit, or some remote on-line call centre with more naive investors than homes to sell, can offer. The flat has a share in the freehold of the block, the management is in house and service charges are sensible. It’s the best you’ll get while leasehold - the second class tenure - still holds sway.

‘What will they take off the price?’ Presses the man when I know I have them. £25,000, but you’re not getting it,bucko.

‘You’ve got us the full price?’ Exclaims the owner when I report in. ‘We’d have taken less.’

‘That’s what you are paying me for.’ I reply, a little smugly. We’re not all the same.

‘We’ll tell all our friends.’ The husband says, as he hangs up, audibly smiling.

Yes. Don’t keep it a secret.

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New Kid In Town - Friday

‘Do you want to go to lunch with a lawyer?’ Asks negotiator S, as I emerge from my office after a lengthy call with the bean counter boss. After the conversation I’ve just had, I’d rather not swap inanities with anyone. I’m yearning for a darkened room and some soothing music - none of your whale calls though. I draw the line at hippies, vegans and those ghastly solar roof panels….

‘Who is he?’ I ask presumptively.

S looks at me admonishingly and I sense I’ve said something politically incorrect again. Lately I seem prone to doing that without trying. I realise the error even as she corrects me.

‘It’s a she actually.’ Says S haughtily  .

‘Of course. My bad.’ I reply, trying to be on point and just sounding like a desperate Dad keen to keep up with the kids. My dancing at weddings comes to mind. But not in a good way.

‘What made you presume it would be a man?’ Presses S, as I groan inwardly again and hope it wasn’t audible this time. I still haven’t lived down the last mangers’ meeting and my involuntary, rather loud moan which spontaneously emanated when the sales figures went up on the screen and H, my vertically challenged rival manger, was on top again.

‘Because all the women solicitors are off on maternity leave.’ Suggests assistant manager T, unhelpfully.

‘It’s their right.’ Snaps lose lettings lush B, from her little rental enclave.

‘Yeh and we have to take up all the slack when the mums disappear off.’ Replies T feistily.

‘You are such a caveman.’ Sneers B.

‘Thank you very much.’ Replies T with a grin.

‘Who is she?’ I ask S, trying to get the conversation back on track. ‘And more to the point what does she want?’ It won’t be a physical attraction, I’m hardly the male equivalent of a MILF - a DILF, possibly….?

‘She’s at that new firm of lawyers that has just opened up.’ Says S. ‘I’m guessing they want some solicitor free clients we might recommend them for.’

‘She’ll have to scratch your back first.’ Teases T. ‘And I’m guessing a cheap sandwich in the local won’t reach the itch.’

‘You see,’ challenges B looking daggers at T. ‘That’s typical of males in the workplace. They reduce everything to a sexual level and can’t take women in business seriously.’

It’s a bit rich from B. She totters around in heels inappropriate for a fixtures and fitting inspection and wears skirts so short I sometimes imagine….well, they’re too short anyway. Take it from me.

‘We could do with some switched on conveyancing’ lawyers locally,’ says S. ‘Someone who answers the phone and doesn’t hide behind delayed local searches and lenders’ conditions to excuse their tardiness.’

‘Yes, a user friendly lady lawyer would be pleasant.’ Adds T, not entirely helpfully.

The truth is, we tend to recommend lawyers to naive first time buyers- if you can find one nowadays - and to out of town buyers, looking for someone local and reliable to handle their legal paperwork. The kickback used to be a free lunch and a game of golf if you could play the ghastly game. The real payback, was in probate sales passed to you from old established firms with an ageing client base. A new bunch in town won’t have many customers dying yet. She’d better be easy on the eye.

‘So how long have you been in the business?’ Asks the legal lady when I’m sat opposite her, nursing a lime and soda and a semi. She’s insanely hot and to be honest if she does have any elderly clients she’d certainly send them off feeling happy.

I tell her reluctantly. It makes me feel old but does remind me the only interest she’ll ever have in me, will be the size of my database.

‘We’re looking to set up a few special relationships in town.’ Continues the woman, as I wonder if my eyes ever looked that clear.

‘How did it go?’ Asks T when I return to the office. ‘Did she offer you anything tasty?

Well she stiffed me - for the bill. 

But I quite enjoyed it.

---------

Numbers Up - Friday

‘How did it go?’ Asks negotiator S, as I come back into the office wearing my disappointment like a tramp’s overcoat. I thought she was better at reading body language, most women are, but then again it might be just as well she can’t tell what I’m sometimes thinking…

‘Some people just won’t listen.’ I tell S dejectedly, as I walk towards the message book with trepidation. Bad news tends to hunt in packs, and after a pair of idiots convinced the market will support £50,000 more than their bog-standard end of terraced house is worth, I’m not expecting a call from The National Lottery. 

‘I think people get the estate agent they deserve.’ Opines S pensively.

‘The greedy gits do.’ Agrees  assistant manager T,  joining the conversation as he re-enters from the direction of the gents’ toilet. Terrific, I was hoping for some contemplative time in there with the dog-eared copy of FHM, now I’ll need to leave it a while.

‘Those tossers across the road had been in before me.’ I say nodding toward the opposition agents, not  wanting to read the message book quite yet. ‘Told them their house was worth fifty grand more than it is. Ignored the fact that two identical homes in neighbouring roads have both completed at £10,000 less than my suggested asking price, in the last three months.’

‘Let them waste their time marketing it.’  Suggests T insouciantly. ‘Nobody will pay that sort of silly money.’

I hope not. But then demand is strong, supply is weak and there are an awful lot of idiots out there.

‘Even if they did,’ says S. ‘Their surveyor would down-value the sale price and everyone would be back to square one. Complete wast of time.’

Time-wasters are never in short supply - sadly, sensibly priced homes to sell usually are.

I finally glance at the message book. A couple of vendors to call back, a survey finally booked on a long-standing sale in progress - not bad - then a note to call back my bean counter boss. Sales falling through, feel like a sickening kick in the stomach. Everyday house moving problems, like a slow drip Chinese water torture. And a pedantic, figure-fiddling, frustrated accountant with about as much real-life knowledge of the property market as the last couple I’ve just visited, questioning your every move, is akin to someone grasping your gonads and slowly, incrementally, twisting.

‘What did he want?’ I ask rhetorically.

‘He didn’t say.’ Answers S, with a shrug and an endearing half-smile.

‘Board penetration not high enough?’ Suggests T with a shake of his head.

‘Financial services ratios too low.’ Offers fat mortgage man M divisively.

‘Lettings department doing more business than sales?’ Contributes B, from her one-woman dating desk, unhelpfully.

‘Perhaps he just wants to see how you are?’ Pipes up trainee F, to riotous laughter all round. ‘What?’ He says, crestfallen. 

My God, he’s got a lot to learn.

‘How is he?’ I ask the bean counter’s secretary. You need to cultivate the gatekeeper and although I would’t shag her, I’ve done my best to stroke her ego for the last few years.

‘Bit of a grumpy mood.’ Answers the frumpy middle-aged woman, who if I didn’t still believe I was twenty-five inside, I’d concede is younger than me.

‘Any idea what it is this time?’ I say flatly.

‘Well he’s been hunched over his laptop all morning.’ Replies the woman.

Porn or the P and L accounts then. Either way it’s going to be hard.

‘Your available stock figures are worryingly low.’ Reveals the bean counter after the cursory, insincere, pleasantries. No shit Sherlock. I hadn’t noticed every time I go to the filing cabinet for property details, then return empty-handed like some malnourished Oliver, to apologise to hopeful buyers about the dearth of homes to offer. Hadn’t twigged we were slowly starving. Hadn’t realised the opposition were deliberately mis-leading sellers to win the initial instruction.

‘Increase your suggested asking price by another 10% each time.’ Says the bean counter. ‘I want market share.’

I have market despair. 

---------

Flying High - Thursday

A scruffily dressed man in his twenties peers in the office window. I’m sat at assistant manger T’s desk, as he’s out lunchtime shopping. He’ll come back with something else unnecessary on his credit card, no doubt.

‘Lettings customer?’ I whisper conspiratorially, to negotiator S. She looks up discretely and clocks the guy, who is shielding his eyes and looking in, grinning slightly insanely.

‘Bit judgemental isn’t it.’ Says S, looking towards lettings’s lush B’s vacant desk.B’s been out for over an hour, supposedly helping a landlord with a tricky check-out. Not sure who is checking who out, with B you never know.

‘More about his age than dress sense.’ I hiss, as the man starts chuckling to himself. Terrific, all I need is another nutter coming in. I often wonder if they bus them in for a day out from the padded cells.

‘Is he laughing at us, or himself?’ Whispers S.

‘Probably the asking prices.’ I reply, as the man moves away from the window and towards the door.

I sometimes wish there was a remote controlled deadlock I could activate, to stop the drunks and deadbeats coming in. I only just managed to get the keys in the barrel and the door secured, that time an angry evicted tenant turned up intent on breaking heads or furniture. Twenty minutes for the police to arrive - you’d have thought they didn’t like estate agents…

‘He’s coming in.’ Says S between a forced smile. ‘You want him, or me?’

I’d rather she spoke to the man if I’m honest, but then if it turns awkward I’m going have to go across anyway.

‘Me.’ I tell her and she visibly relaxes. Quite pleasingly, as it happens.

‘You lot trying to hurt the locals again?’ Cries the man, by way of a greeting. Wonderful. If I wanted an argument I could post something provocative on Twitter. I don’t need some grinning gonad with no job, and no prospect of any commission for me.

‘I’m sorry.’ I say neutrally.

‘I bet you are,’ continues the idiot. ‘You must love it every time prices go up.’

He couldn’t be more wrong.

‘No chance for local people to get on the housing ladder with your prices. We just have to buzz off!’

My back isn’t what it was and this bell-end has a couple of decades on me. I’m not sure I can throw him out on the street without embarrassing myself and with the time the constabulary take to arrive, I could be at the emergency dentist by then. And yet, I’m not sure this guy is a complete lunatic, nor can I smell any alcohol.

I rise and an awkward Mexican stand-off begins. I can see S has her hand poised over the fast-dial button but a pizza would get here before any help does. I need to deal with this myself. The man looks at me, then at S before turning back to me.

‘It’s a joke.’ He says, hands held wide.

‘The prices are dictated by the market.’ I tell him robotically.

‘No.’ Says the man raising his eyebrows as if I’m the shabbily dressed wastrel with no job and housing prospects. ‘In your window…’

‘In my window what?’ I snap.

‘There’s a wasp.’

‘That was awkward,’ I say to S after the man has left. ‘I thought he wanted a fight.’

‘Why did he bother to come in?’ Asks S bemused.

‘Some people just think they’re funny.’ I tell her, as I remember the number of times I’ve wanted to go into a baker’s shop and ask how much for the wasps buzzing around the pastries?

‘Could you get it for me?’ Asks S, as I locate the errant flying menace. Fittingly it has landed on an over-priced apartment with a short lease. Someone is going to get stung.

‘How stupid are these creatures?’ I ask exasperated, as the wasp refuses to be guided out the door by a copy of the local free paper. The angry insect just keeps banging it’s dozy head against the glass.

I know how it feels.

----------

Top And Bottom - Thursday

‘What’s capped and collared?’ Asks trainee F earnestly, as I lurk at the back of the office and scan the appointments’ diary.

For a moment I think he’s been accessing those dodgy bondage websites on company time again, until I realise the filters are supposed to block any providers with adult content. There’s a work round, as there always is, but best not to publicise it.

‘It’s a type of lending product.’ I tell him breezily, hoping fat finance fiddler M isn’t earwigging again. A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. He’s passed tick-box exams - so a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing…

‘What type of product?’ Presses F, rather annoyingly. And now I realise negotiator S has stopped tapping at her keyboard and is listening, along with assistant manager T. B, our loose lettings lady is fortunately still on the phone, arguing earnestly with some third party. It could be her latest boyfriend, it could be an angry landlord - it could be both.

‘I don’t think they are prevalent today.’ I say, playing for time and running an internal Siri search in my ageing hard drive.

’What’s prevalent mean?’ Says F quizzically.

‘Common.’ Answers T dismissively.

‘Like a Chav?’ Asks F.

Still no minimum entry qualification to become an estate agent.

‘Isn’t it when the lender guarantees the interest rate won’t go above a certain level?’ Says S. My hard drive whirrs in appreciation of her - not for the first time.

‘Yes that’s it,’ I say triumphantly. ‘That’s the cap bit.’

‘And the collar?’ Says F.

‘That’s for old dogs.’ Interjects T, nodding almost imperceptibly towards B, where she is spitting staccato insults down the phone like a premium rate provider at the specialist end of the spectrum.

‘The collar means the rate won’t drop below a certain level, even if the base rate falls.’

‘Why would you want that?’ States F.

‘Well you wouldn’t.’ I tell him tartly, wishing I’d stayed in my office and accessed the hidden private browsing function the IT kid, with acne, showed me.

‘It’s more for the lender’s benefit.’ Says T.

‘Seems everything is for the lender’s benefit.’ Replies F. 

He’s slowly getting the hang of it - a few more repossession appointments and he’ll be there.

‘I’m glad I’m only a licensed introducer.’ Says B, breezily. ‘Not sure I’d want to try and flog loans and dodgy insurance products.’

‘Drive you mad trying to keep up with all the rules and regulations.’ Says T in agreement.

‘They have laptops and helplines.’ I say dismissively, looking towards M’s office. His head is down and his jaws are moving rhythmically, he’s either eating or that little IT squirt lied about only giving the filter by-pass code to me.

‘When you started you didn’t have to sell mortgages and insurance did you?’ Asks F.

He’s right. Estate agency was a much more gentile pursuit, with banks, building societies and insurance companies all knowing their place in the property move hierarchy. Once the bean counters moved in to protect their collective positions and to tap into estate agents’ client bases, the job took a turn for the worse. Plus, we had to open on Saturday afternoons….

‘You need to remember who pays your wages.’ Says M in a booming voice. He’s somehow slid out of his office quietly - quite an achievement without castors and heavy lifting gear - and has been listening to the conversation.

‘It’s a team effort.’ I say in a conciliatory tone. I spend my life placating people - angry owners, buyers, lawyers and lenders, so fobbing off a fat fiscal fiddler isn’t a big challenge.

‘Just make sure your lot hit their introducers targets.’ Grumps M before waddling away. He’s doesn’t quite get the fact that an us and them mentality doesn’t make for a harmonious sales environment, but then he struggles to differentiate between an open and closed question. Big arsehole.

“Ok, thank you.’ Says F, later, as I come in half way through his telephone conversation. He replaces the receiver and frowns almost audibly.

‘What?’ I ask him.

He hesitates.

‘Go on, I won’t bite.’ I might.

‘Well, what’s a retention again?’ Asks F hesitantly.

Not just a woman’s problem.

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Charity Begins - Monday

Hurrying across the park I spot the aggressive begging group. I need a quick detour, even though I haven’t go time for the “cup of tea” they expect me to believe they’ll be buying with any cash extorted from passers by.

I’ve done the charity bike rides and the sponsored walks - even estate agents need some good publicity - but I’m starting to tire of the excessive demands for my hard-earned  income. It won’t be long before one of these be-whiskered drunks - probably the one that popular opinion has it is a woman - starts to quiz me for my bank details and expects me to sign a direct debit form.

‘Oi can see you city boy.’ Yells one of the group, gesticulating lewdly in my direction. I’m rather pleased with the boy moniker. It’s one only appended nowadays by pensioners and the chronically myopic, but the universally accepted tosser motion I can do without.

‘Yeh. How about helping the homeless you capitalist bastard!’ Screams a high-pitched voice. That’ll be the woman then, unless the cold nights sleeping in our office doorway have affected the collective testosterone. 

I continue my circuitous route around the group, offering another universally recognised sign. A wide-armed, hand wobbling gesture to convey a shortage of money. It’s not that convincing, but probably wiser then the single digit riposte I nearly deployed. The nights are dark and I still need to get to the car park every evening.

‘We knows where you work.’ Hollers a third drunk throatily. And I know where you sleep, I think sourly. I’ve swept enough human detritus into the gutter over they years - and I’m not just talking  metaphorically.

‘You alright?’ Asks negotiator S with a look of concern, as I scurry through the door.

‘Yes, just being hassled by the unlicensed bandits.’ I tell her briskly.

‘The new lettings agency?’ 

No. That’s a whole other story. I enlighten her.

‘Oh it’s not their fault.’ Says S.

 It probably is.

‘They’ve just had a few bad breaks.’ She continues, as I shrug off my coat. Try having three sales fall-through on a Friday morning, I think uncharitably. Then daytime drinking is understandable.

‘They are all scumbags.’ Insists fat mortgage man M, waddling towards his office. ‘I’m damned if I’m feeding them.’ I know, but open goals are never as satisfying.

‘Look, if I thought they’d spend it on food or even the dogs they all seem to have, I’d give them some money.’ I tell S, her look of disapproval unsettling me. M’s disdainful dismissal of the rough sleepers even made me bridle. It’s not easy fluctuating between left of centre, right of centre and completely off centre.

‘You shouldn’t help them out it just makes things worse.’ States B from her lettings desk. ‘Anyway,’ continues B. ‘You may have repossessed some of their homes, so you’ve probably done enough already.’

I don’t actually repossess them. It’s the lender with the power of the courts and a pretty scary bailiff behind them, but I’m there along with the locksmith.

‘They should get a job.’ Suggests assistant manager T, joining the conversation. ‘And maybe try living off commission if they really want something to drown their sorrows over.’ S looks at me with a frown. 

What? It’s not as if I decided to flog off all the social housing at a discount, make the planning process so labyrinthian it takes years and not build enough homes for a burgeoning population.

And I haven’t personally been responsible for impregnating females and fathering the best part of the 750,000 births per year, statisticians say the UK has. In fact, the beggar offering the wanker gesture was closer to the truth.

‘Well I won’t be renting anything to those types.’ States B firmly.

‘They need somewhere to live.’ Says S passionately.

‘Other than our office doorway.’ I add, wishing immediately I hadn’t.

S scowls at me and I shrug and walk towards the message book, change jangling in my suit pocket in a copper, zinc and nickel chiming admonishment. 

‘Can you help me with a pound for my bus fare home?’ Asks a scruffy girl as I cross the park later.

Well, what would you have done…?

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Vintage Collection - Friday

‘Computer is down.’ Says trainee F by way of a greeting, as I return to the office.

‘Well I’m pretty fed-up too, after the tossers I’ve just seen.’ I tell him grumpily, but he doesn’t get the weak attempt at humour. 

When I was in my estate agency infancy, so were computers. I’ve struggled to keep pace with the burgeoning technology, to the stage where I yearn for an earlier age. One where you got to know your mailing list by telephoning them, and still had the excitement of waiting for negatives to be developed, when you took a property photo. Now, computers are like some digital deity, imbued with a sense of super-intelligence much more than the sum of the parts - a bunch of soldered wires and micro-circuits with an overdeveloped sense of their own importance.

‘All the computers?’ I ask, dumping my equally old-fashioned briefcase on the floor and gesticulating round the office.

‘They’re all on the same server aren’t they?’ Replies F.

Probably.

‘I’ve rung the help desk.’ Says negotiator S gently. She knows I think that title is an enormous misnomer, at least she is after my last rant and the subsequent explanation of misnomer, minus the expletive.

‘And?’ I reply peevishly.

‘They are sending out an engineer. It’s a fault at our end.’

Of course it is. Each new bunch of bandits over the years who flog us the hardware and more deviously the tailor-made software, tend to stitch the company in to costly maintenance contracts and whenever operators find glitches in the system, or parameters not catered for in issue 1.0, there’s an exorbitant charge for updating to a new version just to fix their crap product in the first place. I could go on - for several versions.

‘What’s the matter with the intranet?’ Asks obese finance man M as he waddles out of his office, pained look on his chubby features.

‘It’s crashed.’ Replies F.

‘Our end or theirs?’ Says M.

‘Ours of course.’ I tell him sourly. He’s probably only notice because he can’t access his f***ing Facebook page. I refuse to go down that route, not least because you need to give your true name and age. You can find me on Twitter though - anonymously - @theagentsdiary….

‘Has anyone tried turning it off and back on again?’ Asks M, brow furrowed. He’s from a similar vintage to me, one that didn’t grow up with Nintendo 64s and Play Stations.

‘That only works on stand alone peripherals.’ Responds F.

I didn’t think he knew the meaning of the word, so I’m not about to challenge its accuracy. Although I’m pretty sure it is tech-speak for printers and scanners. Pretty sure.

‘In my day,’ I begin to a low collective groan. ‘We didn’t have any computers in the office.’

The phones are as quiet as the eerily blank flat-screens and we’re still waiting for the pre-pubescent engineer to arrive. He’s probably only available after school hours.

‘So how did you prepare sales details and upload photos on property portals?’ Quizzes F in bemusement.

‘We had one electronic typewriter and a secretary in  each office.’ I tell him, feeling like the ancient mariner - only with a less seaworthy boat.

‘Typewriter?’ Responds F depressingly.

‘Like a printer and a keyboard all-in-one, sweetie.’ Enlightens lettings lush B, with a lipsticky smile.

‘Old school, or what.’ States F rhetorically.

‘And,’ I continue warming to the theme. ‘We got to know the applicants personally, by ringing them on a regular basis. Not just pushing the send button on electronic mail outs.’

‘So how did you, like, keep track of them?’ Questions F.

‘An index card system, with hand-written names, numbers and requirements.’ I tell him primly.

‘Man, that’s insane.’ Says F. ‘You’d need to be on the phone all day long.’

‘You had to qualify the applicants properly.’ Contributes M, before adding. ‘And find out if they needed finance and insurance.’

‘So you could flog them PPI and endowment’s?’ Challenges S.

‘They were good products at the time.’ Mutters M unconvincingly. before waddling off.

‘This could be him.’ I say, as a kid in school uniform walks up to the window.

It wasn’t.

Still down.

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