Happy Daze - Tuesday

I'm early and the car park is fairly empty. They’ve tried to drive commuters in cars out of town with an expensive park and ride scheme, funded by local taxpayers, but guess what? If people have cars, they want to drive them.

I tried the park and ride once, but apart from being too far out of town I then had to wait fifteen minutes for a bus that didn’t take me to where I wanted to be. It’s not as if you can have a couple of pints after work either, because the bus times are sparser still and you still have to drive home.

Back aching, brief case heavy, I pass the pay and display machine and see the price has gone up again and then see a planning notice. I always read planning notices, there’s a possible lead for future sales with every one. This one isn’t too helpful though, the local authority are giving notice of intentions to close the car park and sell it off, so some pension fund can build student flats. Not even sensibly-priced homes for first time buyers, just a dash for cash with no joined-up thinking. No wonder town centre retail is dying.

‘Hold-up there mate.’ Calls a familiar voice as I head for the park. It’s not a phrase I want to hear. At my age and dealing with annoying people every day, the last thing I need is new friends - or as in this case an old acquaintance thinking he is one. It’s the banker with the dodgy hips.

‘Thought you didn’t hear me for a moment.’ Wheezes the money-lender, as he catches me up with a lop-sided hobble. I pretended not to.

‘Long time no see.’ He says with a yellowy-toothed grin. I know he’s about my vintage and I don’t need any further demoralising reminders of the ageing process. The shaving mirror has that covered.

‘How’s tricks?’ I reply, thinking most of your deceptions have been rumbled Shylock, since the PPI miss-selling fiasco. Not to mention discredited accident sickness and redundancy policies that didn’t pay out - unless you tripped over a Smallpox sufferer and lost your job in the civil service….

‘Crap.’ Says the banker flatly. Terrific. If I wanted manic depressive I could have stayed in my car.

‘Not shifting many mortgages then?’ I ask, wishing the walk across the park away, even if it means opening the office post and finding a solicitor’s letter telling me a buyer has pulled-out and not had the balls to tell me.

‘It’s all about sales and add-on policies.’ Bemoans the banker, with a familiar diatribe. ‘It’s not the same bank I joined from school.’

Too right it isn’t bucko. You’ve shut half your outlets and I can’t find a single teller position open, when I try to pay cheques in at lunch time. Solicitors still send them and will be one of the last professions to embrace on-line banking.

‘And did I tell you my new boss is only just out of university?’ Says the man, puffy face turning florid. He did.

‘And she’s a woman.’ He adds, unnecessarily. The she prefix gave that away.

‘Better get used to that.’ I tell him. 

‘She’ll be pregnant and on maternity before long.’ Says the banker, with a look of distain. So, not his love child then.

‘All they want to do is cut costs, sell over-priced product and flog expensive accounts with monthly charges.’ Continues the banker. He’s struggling to keep up with me and doesn’t seem to have noticed I’ve picked up the pace by fifty percent.

‘I thought you were going to take redundancy and finish early?’ I say, as we swerve an early-morning beggar, with a can of super-strength lager in his hand.

‘Have a nice day anyway, gents.’ Says the rough-looking man, slurred voice heavy with sarcasm. You’ll probably have a better one I think, at least you’ll be pissed by lunchtime.

‘I reckon the whole economy could go belly-up, with all this financial uncertainty and this Brexit shambles.’ Concludes the banker, before adding. ‘Have a good day.’

It’s unlikely.

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Appetite For Destruction - Thursday

I enter the budget hotel car park just as my rival manager H sweeps in with his two bands higher, company car. The vertically-challenged throwback seems to stick to me like a turd on a heel. I’m sure he does it just for another opportunity to taunt me about his superior sales figures. He still can’t reach the bar to pick up his pint though….

‘How’s it going?’ Asks H, as we trudge toward the revolving door without enthusiasm. He isn’t actually interested. Like creepy dark-eyed carrion feeding off others misfortune - he just wants to crow.

I tell him how business is, with the usual poetic licence beloved of sales people the world over. He’s not listening. 

‘Four in the bag already this week,’ he trumpets as we shuffle through the spinning entrance. ‘And multiple offers on two others.’ I’m tempted to jump out of the glass-prison and give it a mighty shove, just to see him spinning inside, little legs pumping like a mini Usain Bolt until he falls and is flattened by the mechanism. But of course I don’t. Imagine the paperwork.

‘Who started this absurd breakfast meeting nonsense?’ Asks H angrily, as I nod at a new eastern european lady behind the reception desk and spot the mis-spelt welcome board detailing which soul-less meeting room we are in today.

‘I think it came over from America in the eighties.’ I tell him flatly.

‘Like Aids then.’ Responds H, nastily.

Political correctness and empathy seem to have passed H by, despite the awareness courses the lesbian in Human Resources likes to run.

We enter the appointed room and an unpleasant waft of congealed fat assaults my nostrils. With dismay, I see this time the breakfast offerings are actually in the same room. Three trestle tables are spread along one wall, covered in disposable paper cloths, and supporting those vast copper containers with lids on. A bunsen burner-type arrangement sits under each vessel, gently stewing the contents that have doubtless been wallowing in their own fat for at least forty minutes. My stomach rumbles audibly. I’m going to regret this.

‘Who’s the new totty?’ Asks H in a louder than necessary stage whisper. He’s indicating an earnest-looking young woman in a trouser suit. She’s almost pretty, in a bookish, boyish way.

‘A new financial consultant.’ I tell him softly. I’ve met the girl once and warmed to her about as much as the solidifying scrambled eggs.

‘She won’t last.’ Predicts H, sitting beside me. Shit on a shoe-style.

‘You can’t say that.’ I hiss. Seeing our bean-counter boss is looking at me challengingly - and that’s before he puts my office figures on the overhead.

‘Just saying.’ Counters H. ‘If she isn’t in tears before the end of the year, she’ll be pregnant.’

If she sits in your office too long, she will be. I think with a shiver.

H doesn’t employ women of child-bearing age except on reception, or in secretarial roles. He’s the sort of throwback that would suit the eighties, except a mullet and shoulder pads would probably tip him over.

I’ve argued long in to the night with H at countless hotel bars, over his misogynistic views, but he remains unmoved and undersized. 

‘Sooner or later they all skive off on maternity leave and end up impacting on the office sales’ figure.’ He argues. ‘Then you can’t employ a proper replacement and they want to keep the cocking company car for the school run.’

I’m hoping Darwin will get him in the end.

‘Bet she doesn’t eat meat either.’ Continues H, as he shadows me to the food station. ‘F•••ing vegans. You don’t get any in African villages, I’m telling you.’

Grudgingly, I have to concede H has a point. The fads and foibles we have to cater for in the workplace have reached epidemic proportions. I’m guessing if you haven’t eaten anything for days but a stale yam, and your mother has trudged five miles to a well, you won’t be demanding Perrier and a Linda McCartney ready meal. Give me the muddy water and something with a heartbeat to eat, bitch!

Just not the sweaty bacon. 

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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.

---------

Pimms O'Clock - Friday

‘We going to the pub tonight, boss?’ Asks trainee F. It’s as enthusiastic as he’s been all day, but then free drinks keep their allure a little longer than posting: we have buyers urgently looking in your area, leaflets through doors, endlessly.

‘Probably.’ I tell him, deliberately opaque. F frowns and looks at negotiator S - most people do - and she gives him a reassuring nod, as do her breasts. So we’ll be going then.

‘Any news on the survey for number twenty-four?’ I ask assistant manager T, in an attempt to try and make some progress before I have to start buying beers. T looks at me with barely disguised distain. ‘Nobody except estate agents will still be at work at this time of day.’ He says, tilting his head towards the clock. I look at the numerals in surprise, that’s what you get for studying the office P&L accounts doggedly, when you failed O-Level maths. 

‘Time flies when you’re having fun.’ Says loose lettings lush B, sourly. She’s been battling with an angry landlord and two nightmare tenants who are due to be evicted, all afternoon. I can see why she’ll need a drink by closing time. It’s the several more gin and tonics and casual sex with a stranger she probably could do without. Probably.

‘Those wasters are threatening to go to the local papers, when they’re kicked out.’ Continues B, referring to the soon to be evicted pair. ‘God knows why the taxpayer has to fund their drugs and nicotine habit. I hope they get the shittiest bed and breakfast in town.’

‘It’s the kids I feel sorry for.’ Says S compassionately.

‘He should put something on the end of it.’ Snaps B, like a female Jeremy Kyle. The voice of experience, I think, trying not to grin. She’s avoided unwanted, or otherwise, pregnancy so far. Just as well, because I’m not sure I could ever fake another smile and enthusiastic response, if I’m told I’ll need to run an office with another staff member on maternity leave…

‘If you save and spend sensibly you just end up funding pissheads’ lifestyles.’ Grumble obese finance man M, as he waddles across the office.

‘Not sure anyone would underwrite accident sickness and redundancy policies for any of B’s housing benefit tenants.’ Says T with a wry laugh.

‘They’d need to have a job first, before they’d qualify for redundancy protection. Fat chance of that.’ Replies M with his enduring lack of self-awareness. Even then the policy wouldn’t pay out, I think.

‘They are all scum.’ Says B angrily.

‘They’re not all.’ Counters S. ‘They’ve just had a hard time of it.’

‘How hard is it to got to the cashpoint at midnight in your pyjamas, once your free money is in, then go to the all-night off-licence.’ Says M sarcastically.

‘I think you reap what you sow.’ Pronounces F obtusely. That stops the conversation in its tracks. God alone knows what goes on in that head of his.

‘Good week?’ Asks the opposition manager, when I finally lead my team into the pub, like some cut-price messiah. I still don’t know why the majority of estate agents share the same watering hole, something to do with posturing and false bravado. I puff up my metaphorical tail-feathers and lie enthusiastically.

‘Yeh, us too.’ He replies, visibly crestfallen. It’s a game, but I still like to win.

‘How did they do?’ Asks T, once I’ve bought the drinks and we’ve circled one table like a motley tribe of Red Indians. I look across at the opposition.

’How did they do, or how did they say they’ve done?’ I answer.

‘Good point.’ Concedes T.

As I buy the second round and wonder if I should go home before my tea is in the bin again, B’s mobile phone rings insistently. She glances at the caller display and grimaces. ‘Shit, it’s the lairy landlord.’

‘Don’t answer it.’ Suggest T.

‘You have to,’ counters S. ‘It might be about the tenants getting kicked out.’

‘Tell him they can sleep in our office doorway.’ Says M with a rumbustious chortle.

Just one more drink then.

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Love Lies Bleeding - Friday

‘These sales figure are just not acceptable.’ Grumbles the bean counter boss, as he clicks his laptop tracker pad angrily. The stark figures flash up on the collapsible screen and there is nowhere to hide. Under the cheap laminate hotel table isn’t an option and there is no under-stairs cupboard immediately to hand. Not any more.

One-by-one, the pernickety figure-fiddler, reads out the sales, lettings and financial services performances, office by office, as if we can’t see for ourselves - those not too vain to don glasses.

H my short-arsed rival manager sits beside me and grins. His office is top of the pile, about the only time he can claim to be higher than anyone else – unless the circus is in town. But even his lucrative patch isn’t generating the sort of figures it once was. His ex-wife won’t be blowing such a big bonus come year-end...

It comes to my office and after all this time I’m almost beyond squirming – almost. Tell him to go f***k himself urges that mischievous inner-voice that really should stay tethered to a blog or anonymous Twitter feed. As if he could do any better continues the gobby Gremlin, as I try to focus on the bean counter’s rhetoric about shaking trees and rattling something, other than begging bowls.

I offer up some platitudes about renewed effort, a tele-sales push and re-visiting failed valuations with more vigour than I can truly muster for idiots who want too much money and aren’t prepared to pay a fair fee. The spotlight moves on and I sit back, heart pumping, trickle of cold sweat running uncomfortably down my back. One day I really will just stand up and tell him to stick his budget projections where the sun doesn’t shine. I’ll march from the hotel room, head held high, muted applause from my colleagues urging me to the car park – where I’ll find my company car and a glove box full of failed endowment statements and my latest mortgage deficit – one day…

‘Anyone in this room can be replaced.’ Snarls the bean counter unpleasantly, as I wonder if people behave like this in the public sector? Those that are not on long-term, fully funded, sick pay.

He’s bullying the girl from the office at the bottom of the list now. I’d like to jump to her defence. A younger, more chivalrous me, a man who had yet to compromise his principles with credit cards, life cover and more debt than a banana republic, would be standing up for her, pointing out the office had a crap location, too many competitors and a poor housing mix – but then she’s just come back from maternity leave, so at least she’s had a break from this childish nonsense…

‘We can’t buck the market conditions.’ Suggests the girl weakly. It looks as is one of he breasts is leaking through her blouse, unless it’s a milky teardrop.

‘You need to up your penetration.’ Says H from alongside me. He can be such a big prick for a small man.

‘That’s right’, agrees the bean counter. ‘We must take market share from the weaker players. Let’s shut some of these other bastards down.’

And the local estate agents’ association wonders why nobody attends the monthly meetings.

‘How about another price reduction competition?’ I find myself suggesting, to groans from around the table. It works, it worked in the past, but it’s not palatable unless you can explain the benefits to all.

‘My vendors won’t reduce, they keep reading surveys telling them price are going up.’ Counters a manager with a town boasting near on full employment. God I wish I could ban, pointless, contradicting surveys by vested interests. Strange how owners never latch on to reports showing declining values.

‘I can sell everything I can get.’ Boasts H, as I use all my willpower not to stab him with the plastic knife I couldn’t cut the bacon gristle in my greasy sandwich with. ‘I just need more stock.’ Continues H from somewhere around my ankles. ‘There are plenty of mug punters.’

‘You alright?’ I say to the new mother in the foyer.

‘No.’

Me neither.

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Back To Life Back To Reality - Tuesday

Walking across the park nothing much has changed. The detritus of last night’s takeaway meals look broadly the same. A scattering of branded boxes, some fox-stripped chicken bones and a selection of high-strength lager cans are strewn amongst the meagre flowerbeds. A lone council employee is over the far side in his dayglow jacket, poking disconsolately at the debris with one of those long-handled pickers that give the illusion you’re at arms length from a rubbish job.

‘Spare some cash for a cuppa?’ Pleads a scarecrow-like figure slumped on one of the benches, in a vast army greatcoat glistening with dew. The unshaven man has that look of despair in his eyes, the look I tend to wear on a Friday afternoon when the weekly stats are due and I’m still trying to piece together a deal that might save me from transmitting negative figures.

‘Sorry. No change.’ I tell the unshaven man curtly. It’s not exactly true in relation to the pound coins in my pocket but I’m guessing it’s spot-on when I get back to the office. The man mutters something unflattering behind my back and I only just restrain myself from spinning and giving him the Daily Mail readers’ rant about getting a job and taking some responsibility for a being washed-up failure, but I realise it’s too close to home.

‘Hello.’ Calls a familiar voice I don’t want to hear. ‘Been somewhere hot?’ I paste on my public persona smile and turn to see the hobbling banker. He looks like shit.

‘Holiday.’ I tell him with a thin smile. I can feel my skin starting to flake and I’m guessing the tan will be gone before the credit card bill arrives and I wonder just what I bought from an unknown shop, with such a poor exchange rate.

‘Alright for some.’ Rejoins the loan peddler. ‘I can’t afford to get away.’

Neither can I mate, particularly with a mortgage from your pension-plumped bosses, I think sourly. That’s why I’m heading back to the office hoping against hope they’ve had a decent few days while I’ve been away.

‘Somewhere nice?’ Enquires the banker, pleasingly struggling to keep up with my slightly brisker now, pace. Just another flyblown island where they’ve over-borrowed and overspend on property projects I feel like saying, but I just give him the destination instead.

‘Get a good exchange rate?’ He asks as we cross the road together and I see the office fascia looming ominously. Not for the pottery pieces my wife insisted on buying which were in pieces when we opened the suitcase. I give a neutral answer. You never know when you might need a loan, or another holiday - this time a payment one.

Nobody is in the office yet, as expected. I scan the window display looking hopefully for a batch of new, realistically priced, sole agencies and maybe a couple of freshly appended sold stc stickers. It looks exactly the same. Even the dead wasp is still slowly desiccating on the windowsill on top of those glossy corporate brochures extolling our group virtues. Brochures that no potential seller reads when all they want is a high price and a cheap fee. As office manager you like to think you’re the best salesman, so paradoxically and against my financial benefit, I’m almost glad they haven’t done too well in my absence, but then again... Sighing, I stoop to unlock the door. The alarm starts to sound as I wonder if they’d miss me if that dream of becoming a writer - or more likely the lottery numbers coming up - ever came to pass? Probably not. I’ve seen colleagues exit for varied reasons: greener grass, mewling maternity and nervous breakdowns. You’re quickly replaced.

Codes punched in, I notice a light bulb out in the window display and growl in disapproval. And yes, I spotted the weeds growing outside the office hadn’t been tugged up. Firing up my terminal I find my password no longer works. About the only thing that has happened judging by the manual copy of the stats I peruse instead.

And another piece of me dies inside.

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