Alive Still Kicking - Friday

‘Don’t get old will you.’ States the grey-haired man rhetorically as I sigh internally. If I’ve heard that statement once, from an elderly owner, I’ve heard it a thousand times. But you have to humour potential vendors if you want their business - particularly if you’d like to sign-up a sole agency before the complications of probate and bickering beneficiaries. 

‘I just don’t know where the time has gone.’ Ruminates the old fella, as I glance at the overgrown garden and think; well you didn't spend it cutting the shrubbery back.

‘I sometimes forget how ancient I’ve become.’ Continues the man, eyes focused in the middle-distance. Yes, yes. Here we go.

‘And then I look in the mirror and hardly recognise the old fool looking back at me,’

That I can relate to, granddad. 

Ageing and the housing needs of the baby boomers who are suddenly becoming unsteady on their feet, is a massive demographic ticking-time bomb. I don’t think over-priced, shrunken-square footage, sheltered homes are the answer. Particularly with onerous leases, unfair clauses for re-sales and spiralling service charges just when the owners are running out of funds. 

‘The family keep telling me I can’t cope with this place.’ Continues the man waving his hand towards the overgrown garden. ‘But I've had the best times of my life here. I don’t want to go and live in a box that smells of cabbage, where old women play whist all afternoon with daytime television on at volumes even I can hear.’

I’m warming to this sparky pensioner, something I try to avoid. Liking your client is dangerous. Particularly if you are tempted to tell them to stay put and get a home help in three times a week - until you fall over on the nightly piss run, too often. I’ll always do my utmost to get a good result for a vendor, it’s a matter of professional pride, but becoming fond of them is a luxury I can’t afford.

‘I told you Patricia is in one of those ghastly care homes, didn’t I?’ Says the old man. ‘Only I’m becoming forgetful.’

He did and I don’t blame him for trying to forget it. His wife is apparently totally unaware when he visits, being kept alive for no real hope or reason, and it’s costing this poor old man £1500 a week.

‘Two years she’s been in there, young man, God alone knows what its cost me.’

£1444,000. And it’s the reason the family think he needs to downsize. If he’d been profligate and not bought his own house and had savings of less than about £23,000 the local taxpayer would be funding his wife’s care. Its a funny old world.

I pitch a price and my fee and he becomes sharper than before.

‘My son says I can get it done for just an up-front fee with one of those inter-web things.’ He means an on-line agent - or call-centre, as professional agents name them.

I start to counter this argument, with cautionary tales of impersonal, non-local service, dearth of industry knowledge and a lack of motivation to see the deal through, if you’ve been paid irrespective of result.

‘Oh you don’t need to tell me that.’ Says the man decisively. ‘ I’ve been around long enough to know you get what you pay for.’

Care homes, excluded, I think fleetingly.

‘I don’t want some kid in shorts dealing with my property.’

That’s the stuff, sir..

‘I want someone a bit long in the tooth - like yourself.’

Not so flattering….

‘What do you think about those sanitised boxes, with the pull cords and a communal lounge?’ Asks the man as my pen hovers, in his trembly hands, over the sole agency agreement. I hate them with a passion, they rip-off vulnerable old folk and are often worth less than the dead parents paid for them, when the grieving family come to sell.

I feel a bit sick as I leave. I’ve indulged in more fudge and had an unwelcome glimpse into my future.

Still, a sole agency and a For Sale board can’t be bad.

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Down And Out - Wednesday

‘Whoaaa!’ Bellows assistant manager T, disturbing my study of the stock list. ‘We’ve got another faller.’

I look up from the record of every home we have on our books, some of which are coming up for their birthday, and see all eyes are staring through the office window. Putting the printout aside and  doing likewise with the thought of having to ring some of the more recalcitrant owners for price reductions, I move to the focus of attention.

‘It’s a bleeder too.’ Announces T staring out towards the pavement where I can now see an elderly woman sprawled in an undignified face-plant-to-paving-stone position. A couple of passers by have stopped in a sort of slow motion shock, although plenty of others are hurrying on by, pretending to be pre-occupied by phones and urgent transport connections.

‘We should go out.’ Says negotiator S, concern in her voice.

We should, I think rapidly, only the last few have bled on the carpet and sat for upwards of thirty minutes sobbing, or telling us their extended life stories, before the ambulance finally arrived.

‘Leave it.’ Says fat finance man M dismissively. ‘It will only be a load of grief.’

‘You callous sod.’ Says S with remarkable restraint. ‘Just because she’s too old for a mortgage.’

‘And it might be a bit late to flog a critical illness policy.’ Muses T. ‘Existing conditions are excluded aren’t they?’

‘Hilarious.’ Responds M sourly, before waddling towards the kitchen.

‘Shall I call the ambulance?’ Asks S urgently. Two of the passers by are now bending down to see to the dazed old lady, and another slightly shadier character has picked up her handbag. I watch him, even as I make the mental calculations as to how much grief bringing the bruised pensioner inside will cause, on a busy day.

‘That bloke in the hoody looks like he’s about to do a runner with her bag.’ Says T nodding towards the man I’ve already spotted.

Terrific, now it could be the police as well as the ambulance service I’ll be reporting to. But one decision is taken out of my hands, as the potential bag-snatcher confounds expectations and places the bag alongside the stricken pensioner before walking off. Book and covers, again.

‘Well?’ Urges S, a little peevishly. 

I know what I’m going to do, I’m just angry the council don’t respond to requests to mend broken paving slabs but still sting us for obscenely high business rates, then never collect the commercial waste on time.

‘Why is their skin so paper thin?’ Asks trainee F as I walk towards the door. The old woman is bleeding, like a burst crimson water main, from a nasty head wound. Groggily, she begins to sit up with the help of the two bystanders who had time and the inclination to stop.

‘Get some paper towels.’ I tell F irritably. ‘ They just get fragile after a long life.’ I say as I grab the door handle and wonder how many more years dealing with home moves before, I too, start leaking claret with every fresh hit?

‘I don’t want any fuss.’ Croaks the ancient lady once she’s sat at reception and the two good Samaritans have vanished faster than a summer mist.

S is ministering to her gently, boldly mopping up blood without the gossamer thin protection of any latex gloves. Human Resources dictated the First Aid Kit couldn’t have aspirin or paracetamol in it some time ago, so protection against HIV positive Grannies, or Ebola leaking holiday makers, isn’t available in the echoing red container.

‘Ask her if she’s thinking of selling her house for a sheltered flat now she can’t cope?’ Hisses M as he sways past me, while I wait for the daughter’s phone to be picked up. Before I can scowl at M, the answer phone kicks in. Reluctantly I leave a message that I hope doesn’t sound too disconcerting.

Finally, after learning about the five grandchildren who can’t visit too often as they are very busy, I hear the distant wail of an emergency services’ siren.

No fractures just bruising - same with the old woman.

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Dying For The Business - Wednesday

'She can’t cope on her own any longer.’ Says the middle-aged daughter conspiratorially. Her gummy-toothed mother is sitting no more than three foot from me me, in a moth-eaten armchair. I can smell the stale urine and body odour - I really should have spent longer in the shower this morning.

‘Of course she thinks nothing is wrong,’ continues the daughter as her mother rocks back and forth gently and daytime television continues to blast out at an ear-bleeding decibel level. ‘Imagines she is still a housewife and Dad is still alive.’ I’ve seen the upstairs bedrooms, definitely no sign of the old boy, other than the dip in the ancient bed where he lay for five decades.

‘You’re not talking about me are you? Bellows the mouldering mother over, appropriately enough, some property based drivel on homes being auctioned to amateurs whose pension fund isn’t performing.

‘No mum.’ Screams the daughter, before adding slightly less deafeningly. ‘She’s a stubborn old goat, we need to get her into a home.’

She’s in one, I think, unsettling reminders of my own parents’ later days whirring before me like the bad dream they became. I wonder if the other siblings will be bickering about what happens and who does what, in this house?

‘I mean look at the kitchen.’ Grumbles the daughter, as we enter the cluttered space and I curse myself for accepting a cup of tea. I want to spend as long as possible here to grab the business before some other cowboy does, but the thought of drinking from one of the numerous tannin-stained mugs lined up on the filthy drainer, turns my stomach.

‘Oh Mum you’ve been hoarding again.’ Chides the daughter to deaf ears, as she opens an over-stuffed cupboard and I spot boxes and boxes of cakes and slices, all the same type, all no doubt past their sell-by date. ‘She thinks she’s shopping for a whole family still,’ says the daughter ruefully. ‘Dad died ten years ago and my younger sister left in the eighties.’ Time flies when you’re having fun.

‘The garden is a jungle too.’ Complains the daughter as we look out on an overgrown plot. It’s like something from a fairy tale, only I’m pretty sure there’ll be no sleeping princess amongst the thorn bushes - possibly a decomposing pet or too, maybe even the dead Dad if they’re into those eco-burials with the wicker caskets. But no happy ending - unless you’re a developer.

‘There’s a possible building plot.’ I venture, before adding the usual caveats about time-spans, planning issues and up-front costs. I dislike most small-time developers who would love to buy this house. They all want a, cheaper than it should be exclusive deal, expecting you to be favouring them for the promise of future re-sales. I’m acting for the owner, not some slimeball who offers brown envelopes with cash backhanders – plenty of estate agents forget who the client is when sweeteners are involved. I could do with some sweeteners in the murky tea, I think, suppressing a gag.

‘We want her out of here sooner rather than later.’ Says the daughter. ‘I can’t keep coming in and the others say they are too busy and live too far away.’ Been there, done that. They’ll want their share of the proceeds soon enough though, assuming the old girl doesn’t outlive her capital.

‘Who is this?’ Demands the mother angrily, looking at me through rheumy eyes, as if for the first time.

‘The estate agent Mum.’

‘I don’t like estate agents.’

Join the club Grandma.

‘I’m not moving.’ Shouts the old woman towards me, when her daughter leaves the room. I smile and nod neutrally.

‘They’re all just after my money, ungrateful bitches.’ Continues the pensioner, making more sense that she has done so far. She’s possibly right, at least partially. I feel quite righteous only wanting 1.5%.

And then it comes. The old chestnut. She leans towards me. ‘Don’t get old will you, young man.’ Her eyesight is worse that her hearing.

She leans further and I get a waft of death and Dettol. ‘Everyone wants to screw you at my age.’

Ugh, I was thinking specialist housing, not specialist market.

 Still feeling itchy now.

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Sound Of Breaking Glass - Sunday

Not sure how long this eco-friendly surge will last as I rather despise the worthy, beardy, touchy-feely, all animals should be cherished and not eaten brigade. But I’m off to recycle again. I’m going before the sun has barely risen, as I woke in the small hours once more, fretting about contracts and month end sales figure, plus I’d like to get to the recycling point before too many people can see me.

Company car loaded, a faint smell of alcohol permeating into the cabin space, I set off in the half-light only to see that obsessive car cleaning neighbour is already out on his drive, caressing his vehicle again. He’s wearing bright yellow rubber gloves and has his jet-washer plugged in and ready to go. I’m trying to stop planet pollution and this tool is about to subject the neighbourhood to early morning noise pollution. If I ever want to sell, he’s the type of twat that solicitors will be asking about in pre-contract enquiries, so I dare not put any complaint in writing. Don’t ever leave an audit trail - unless you are fending off the trading standards people.

The man looks up as I drive past and gives a cursory nod. He knows what I do and, like many, doesn’t like it. But then he’s some sort of number-cruncher – akin to my bean-counter boss - so the feeling is mutual. I just have the grubbier car.

To my dismay, the recycling point is already busy as I pull up and brake a little too sharply. I’m rewarded with a muted rattling and at least one shattering sound from the back of the car. Terrific.

I can see an old boy looking at me, even as I start unloading my considerable cargo. I seem to attract nutters like flies to a turd. Nothing in my body language says engage with me please - I do enough of that during working hours - but he’s clearly desperate to catch my eye and begin a conversation.

‘Morning.’ Announces the pensioner cheerily, as I struggle to lift far too many sagging and slightly soggy cardboard bottle carriers.

I give him the sort of nod the compulsive car cleaner gave me earlier, but I know that won’t shake him. He watches as I begin the laborious task of posting spent beer and wine bottles into the metal containers. To a cacophony of clanking, I deposit an embarrassing number of glass vessels, a vague recollection of the time and place of consumption flickering through my mind as each crash and smash echoes accusingly back at me. He’s still looking.

‘Good party was it?’ Asks the man brightly. God, surely there’s a 24 hour help-line for these people? They shouldn’t have to hang around Tesco Express car parks. Do I tell him it wasn’t a party? Mention I’m an estate agent and I don’t have that many parties- or friends - but need to drink heavily after six days a week of wearing engagement with members of the public, people like him? Probably not.

‘I just haven’t been here for some time.’ I tell the stalker neutrally and not entirely truthfully

‘I’m off the sauce.’ Announces the man explaining why he has that slightly wired look and has started the engagement I didn’t want. He clearly hasn’t tried to move house for a while, I think, sourly. But I’m wrong.

‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ The persistent pest questions, as I return for my third trip to the car, cardboard containers replaced by those supermarket carrier bags. The ones they are reluctant to give you now and only hand out if you surreptitiously ask for them like some pervert requesting top-shelf material involving farm animals and Wellington boots.

‘Possibly.’ I say neutrally, shoving two bottles of dusty convenience store sourced merlot from a particularly bleak night when my wife was at fat club and my day had involved slim-pickings and two sales falling through, into the bin

‘It’ll come to me.’ Insists the man, as a trickle of stale red wine runs down my arm as if I’ve slashed my wrists.

‘I’m the estate agent.’ I tell him curtly.

Conversation over.

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Falling Backwards - Wednesday

‘I never really get this changing the clocks business.’ Announces trainee F with that faraway look I’d like to facilitate.

‘He never really gets any business.’ Mutters assistant manager T.

‘Never really gets me any business.’ Grumbles mortgage man M as his vast stomach does something similar.

‘Why’s that?’ Asks negotiator S sweetly, turning towards F and nearly knocking her monitor off the desk. She’s too big-hearted for this business.

‘Well, like it’s too dark to do anything after about five o’clock.’ Says F pensively. You could try ringing round the mailing list get some of the dreamers off I feel like saying, but the conversation moves on.

‘That’s the Jocks fault,’ pronounces M sourly, ‘bunch of cheapskates. Never want full cover life insurance, act like rate whores when you try to place a loan for them and now they want to leave the rest of the UK because they think there’s some oil they can cash in on.’

Everyone looks askance at M wondering where that diatribe came from. Perhaps the bloke that ran off with his wife and kids had a secret kilt collection?

‘What?’ Asks M sneeringly, as he sees the opprobrium and I try to work out if it’s racist to rib those north of an arbitrary border some cartographer and a bunch of in-bred royals drew in the heather.

‘You can’t talk about people like that.’ Complains S. ‘My cousin is from Glasgow.’

‘Do they live there still?’ Probes M.

‘Not any more.’ Concedes S reluctantly.

‘There you go.’ Concludes M with a flourish. ‘They all come here because the weather and job prospects are better yet expect us to swap our time zones around every autumn just because a handful of knock-kneed shepherds want to shag their sheep in the daylight.’

‘Isn’t that the Welsh though?’ Queries F, as I lose the will to live - wherever the sun is situated.

‘Can someone hold the chair?’ I ask wearily as I reach for the office clock and find myself wobbling again. T grabs the seat squab and I pull the ancient analogue unit from the wall.

‘Computers, mobile phones and everything update automatically.’ Says F, as I spin the hour hand back, when I’d really like to shove it forward until the weekend.

‘Health and safety know you’re doing that?’ Mocks M as he heads for the kitchen where he’s half way through a packet of Hob-Nobs. The choices are endless, but I’ve two valuations to get to and I like to be on time.

‘Tell you what duck.’ Opines the wrinkly pensioner I’m sat with later.

‘Yes?’ I venture. I can’t be here all day and she’s the type who has agents out just so she can talk to someone. The garden is too big for her but the absent family don’t want her downsizing to a retirement flat while there’s a potential building plot out back, as long as she dies without racking up too many care home bills.

‘These dark nights really get me down.’ Continues the old girl. ‘I can’t get out to do the pruning and the curtains are all drawn by half-past four.’ She looks at me sadly. Please don’t say that, I think. Not again. The alternative isn’t too peachy. But she says it anyway.

‘Don’t get old will you son? It’s no fun at all.’

‘How was the last valuation?’ Asks T as I come in from the gloom, office lights blazing onto a darkened pavement.

‘Time-waster.’ I tell him flatly. ‘Just lonely.’

‘Not moving?’

‘Only in a box.’ I tell T, as F comes back from the gents’ toilet, awkward damp patch on his trousers.

‘I’ve booked a viewing on the repossession in London Road at six o’clock.’ He announces proudly. The groans echo like a bad Halloween party.

‘What?’ Pleads F.

‘The power is off you numpty.’ Spits M, along with some oat-flecked crumbs.

‘They said they couldn’t see it any other time.’ Counters F sulkily.

‘They won’t see it this time love.’ Says S gently.

‘Would they re-arrange?’ I ask F after he’s made the call.

‘No. They got pissy and said, did we want to sell it?’ Replies F.

The torch batteries were dead.

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