Oddball Out - Thursday

‘The creeper came in while you were out.’ Says negotiator S, as I return to the office. I seem to miss all the fun while on appointments, but I’d hate to be shackled to the desk nine hours a day like some call centre drone - or on-line estate agent, as they want to be called.

‘Which oddball are you referring to?’ I ask S, dumping my briefcase and scanning the message book for problems.

‘He has a point.’ Says assistant manager T. ‘There are plenty to choose from.’ And as he speaks trainee F returns from the gents’ toilets with that vacant possession look on his face again. ‘See what I mean.’ Continues T, with a nod towards the idiot savant.

‘What?’ Questions F, head on one side.

‘They think you’re a creeper.’ Says lettings’ lush B, unhelpfully.

‘I didn’t say that.’ Announces S, hurriedly. ‘I meant that weirdo from the flats off the high street.’

‘The creepy one?’ Questions F, to groans of despair.

Every agent gets them. The freaks and weirdos with a fascination for bricks and mortar, fuelled by endless daytime television programmes for property porn addicts with no real job to go to. The regulars soon become known to even the newest recruit, as they come in with disturbing frequency, proclaiming to be looking to buy, sell or rent. The only certainty, is they never actually do. It doesn’t stop them coming in though.

‘What did he want this time?’ I ask S.

‘One of us tied to his bed wearing his late mother’s dress, probably.’ Says T unpleasantly.

‘Don’t say that.’ Cries S. ‘He gives me nightmares as it is.’

‘I’m just saying.’ Defends T petulantly. ‘I bet there’s nothing good going on behind his door of an evening.’

We get to see some curious things, having access to the public’s homes with just a key and an inquisitive nature. It’s why I’m loathe to let F do too many viewings after the missing underwear controversy. I’m fairly sure it wasn’t him and the woman just misplaced some of her laundry, but you can’t be too careful.

‘Do you remember that repossession with a drawer full of girly mags for amputee fetishists?’ Asks T, with a smirk.

‘Oh, for goodness sake.’ Snaps S. ‘You made that up.’

Please don’t say it, I think. Looking at T firmly, but fat mortgage man M, beats him to it.

‘Don’t worry, he can’t prove it. Hasn’t got a leg to stand on…..’

Reprimand for inappropriate behaviour in the office issued and a quick check on the Human Resources handbook to ensure I don’t need to fill out some sort of incident report, and we’re back to the creeper.

‘He said you can value his flat again if you want to.’ Continues S, with a grimace. I’ve visited at least three times over the years and there’s no way he’ll move without the help of an undertaker. The stale-smelling home has curtains perpetually drawn and his late mother’s clothes hanging in the wardrobe.

‘I don’t want to.’ I announce.

‘Maybe he could rent it out?’ Suggest T, looking at B.

‘F**k off.’ Snaps B. ‘There’s no way I’m going in there without an escort.’

‘Nobody goes there, except me.’ I instruct sternly.

People don’t exactly put estate agents at the top of their most popular profession list, but I still remember a female negotiator who was kidnapped two decades ago, from a firm I worked for. And the infamous case of Suzy Lamplaugh the agent who disappeared without trace in 1986 after an appointment with a Mr Kipper, who didn’t exist.

‘We follow company protocol to the letter.’ I remind everyone citing the failsafe checks for outside appointments, particularly for our female staff.

‘If you do visit him you can borrow my pepper spray.’ Offers B.

‘And her handcuffs.’ Says T with a chortle.

‘The creeper probably has his own.’ Suggests S, with a visible shiver.

I decline the offer of a visit, with brush-off phone call. The creeper seems disappointed.

I just hope he hasn’t spent out on a body bag and wet wipes.

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Tea And No Sympathy - Thursday

The phone rings and I look straight to the main office - my door is always open. Negotiator S is already on a call and nobody else is in sight.

I lunge for my handset. Three rings is the optimum, any less and you appear desperate, any more and people start to think they’re ringing an on-line agent - or call centre as we like to name them.

I trill out the corporate greeting, it’s cheesy but at least it’s consistent and gives an air of efficiency. My professional veneer soon strips away though, as I hear idiot savant trainee F’s, nasally whine.

‘Oh, I didn’t expect to hear you.’ Begins F hesitantly.

The choices for arsenic-laced sarcasm are endless but I remember he’s on a string of viewings and might be with a buyer.

‘How can I help?’ I ask pleasantly. That obviously throws the fool.

‘Err, you’re not going to like this.’ Replies F, as my goodwill vanishes faster than biscuits at a Weight Watchers’ end of term party.

‘What is it?’ I say curtly, realising he’s not with punters, or one of our vendors.

‘I’m a bit lost.’

I realised that months ago, but like a hopelessly over-committed gambling addict I need to keep playing. I’ve invested so much so far and training up new staff is….well… a bit of a lottery.

‘Where are you.’ I demand. I know where he should be, he’s got the keys and two sets of property particulars. I checked before he left the office.

‘That’s just it.’ Says F. ‘I don’t know. My sat nav has dropped out.’

Now can call me old fashioned - plenty do - but I never trust some random ex-military piece of hardware orbiting the earth. My old school A to Z of the office area is as well-fingered as a porn mag at a boarding school. Of course, like London taxi drivers made redundant by Uber and the circulating circuity 36,000km above me, I have the knowledge in my head. I know my patch more intimately than a one-eyed pirate. F is due to walk the plank.

‘Wow that sounded angry.’ Says S once I’ve ended my barked directions to the house, where a cash buyer with a deadline might still be waiting for  a jerk in a badly-fitted jacket.

‘He’s lost.’ I tell S curtly. Teeth grinding again. The dentist will be rubbing her latex-gloved hands with glee. I’m pretty sure I’ve paid for a small Polish village to be rebuilt over the last few years.

‘How can he be lost?’ Asks S. She’s trying to remain neutral and doesn’t want to bury her colleague, but I’ve already dug a metaphorical hole that will be challenging Melbourne soon.

‘His sat nav isn’t working.’ I say, as what feels like a lump of amalgam crunches to the back of my throat. Terrific.

‘Hasn’t he got…’ Begins S.

‘A map?’ I interject caustically. ‘ No, it appears those are for old fools with a fear of the future.’

‘I’m fearing for his future.’ Says S, with a disarming smile.

God, she’s good. I’m going to hate it when she gets pregnant.

‘The point of difference between us and some numpties behind a website and a multitiered switchboard in Mumbai, is we should know our area intimately.’ I rant towards S. She just keeps smiling coyly and I can feel myself faltering.

‘If we haven’t got a personal service, with local knowledge and experience we have nothing.’ I tell her, running out of anger as she just smiles back knowingly. If I could bear to lose her, they should drop her into the latest world conflict zone, she’d soon have them all bonding and drinking green tea.

‘Rant over?’ She finally asks gently.

‘For now.’ I answer as gruffly as I can manage. I can feel myself smiling and it’s not a good look with the state of my teeth.

‘Cuppa?’

Yes, she’s good.

‘You’re not going to bollock him when he gets back, are you?’ Asks S, as I sip on the brew.

I try and raise a scowl.

‘Because I know you’re a softy at heart.’ She says grinning.

I’m lost.

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Away - using a map - for two weeks. Any Stateside realtors who spot a Brit looking in their window, say hello. It might be me.