Tinderbox - Thursday

‘Here comes the postman with the hots for you.’ Teases assistant manager T, as he peers up a rain-swept high street.

B our loose lettings lush, looks up hopefully, but of course T is referring to S, my nubile negotiator and pretty much the best thing in our window.

‘He’s just friendly.’ Counters S with a hint of a rising blush.

‘He’d like to be.’ Chuckles T, as he tracks the mailman’s progress.

‘Thought he’d be more your bag.’ Contributes fat mortgage man M, nodding towards B. I’m not sure if he meant the weak pun, financial services staff have a charisma removal as soon as they sit their exams.

‘She prefers them younger.’ Says T, to a scowl from B, a look not enhanced when he adds: ‘That way she can help them with their homework.’

That’s the problem when it goes quiet in the office. Idle hands, latent keyboards and silent phones leads to unnecessary frivolity. It’s why I always have a planned leaflet drop up my sleeve. You can’t have people enjoying themselves at work…

‘What happened to the postman’s bike?’ Asks trainee F innocently and momentarily I glance across at B. Fortunately she’s filing her nails again. I’ve told her, but if she wants to inhale powdered cuticle, that will probably surface in some study as a pre-cancerous trigger at some stage, that’s her look out.

‘Health and safety.’ Replies T with a shake of his head. ‘Some dyke in the post office human resources department probably didn’t like anyone getting their leg over.’

‘That’s sexist.’ Snaps S. ‘And a lazy generalisation of personnel people.’

She’s feisty this morning. Definitely some cobbled together claims of buyers waiting handouts, for nearby letterboxes, later.

‘What do you think?’ Asks S, looking at me earnestly.

Does she mean about the lesbians in HR, or the postman’s missing bicycle? It’s tough being in management these days. I have to keep abreast of quicksand-shifting legislation and I don’t do touchy-feely. At least not without a reprimand and another re-education course…

‘I think you shouldn’t make sweeping generalisations about people’s sexuality.’ I say rather pompously.

‘Or their mode of transport.’ Adds M with a rumbustious chortle.

‘God knows what it was like in this industry when you two started.’ Says S with a shake of her head.

I look at M and he gazes back at me.

‘You really don’t want to know.’ I eventually tell her, just as the postman arrives.

‘Morning love.’ Says the man breezily, ignoring B and making a beeline towards S’s desk.

She nods a little frostily. Not sure love is an acceptable greeting any longer, in a world where you have to be careful not to discriminate against peoples’ pet porcupines, in case they get - ahem - prickly.

‘Not much in your dangly bag today.’ Says T pointedly, as I fleetingly wonder if maybe the postie has spent time with B, after all.

‘Bit quiet at the depot.’ Replies the man, invading S’s personal space for longer than I’d like.

‘Did you need a signature or something?’ I demand.

‘No, just shooting the breeze,’ Replies the letter-lugger, with a yellowy-toothed smile.

‘That was a bit abrupt.’ Chides S after the postman has gone, looking rather crestfallen. God, you can’t win.

‘Those guys’ days are numbered anyway.’ Says M, with a hint of a belch. ‘It’ll be all email, and instant messaging before long.’

‘Or parcels in the DX.’ Adds T, referring to the private document exchange service beloved of solicitors and estate agents.

‘Change doesn’t come as fast as you think.’ I tell my team, glancing at the stack of A4 leaflets waiting to be hand delivered later.

‘That’s true,’ agrees T. ‘Or everybody would use those ridiculous on-line agents.’ 

The communal laugh-in rumbles around the office for longer than it should. But then if people think selling a home is just placing an digital listing, they will probably get the agent they deserve.

My phone pings with incoming messages. If it’s offspring they’ll want something costly, wife ditto, but it’s the bean counter boss bothering me with new technology.

I swipe left.

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One Lump Or Two - Wednesday

‘Got those keys you were waiting for.’ Says negotiator S even before I’ve sat down. The last two appointments have been a colossal waste of time but you need to kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince, so I keep puckering up.

I ask her if it’s the lender I think it is and the less than salubrious part of town I’m expecting? She answers in the affirmative. My sigh must hit some sort of nerve, as she smiles sweetly and says.

‘Do you want a cup of tea before you go back out?’

She’ll make someone a very happy man one day, I just hope it’s not the low-life she’s currently with - or that she’s still working for me when she falls pregnant. Employment laws are great on paper but in practice - well let’s just say it’s the reason H, my vertically-challenged rival manager, doesn’t recruit women of childbearing age any longer.

I can almost hear the howls of disgust from half the population. But I’m not H, I always employ the best person for the job, irrespective of gender. In fact if she were to stay in the business, S would become a better estate agent than anyone else in the office - myself included. Sadly, I’ve lost track of the number of talented women I’ve worked with over the years whose biological clock meant an early exit from the industry. I rather envy them, apart from the pushing and screaming bit…

‘You can come with me to measure up if you like.’ I tell S as she returns with a mug of steaming tea. I make a mental note to make the next cuppa. I don’t like asking any staff member to do something I’m not prepared to do. H thinks I’m an idiot to take this view - and regrettably his sales figures tend to bear that out. I won’t change though.

‘What’s it going to be like?’ Says S warily. I have to almost physically stop myself looking at her legs. If there are fleas again, those calves and ankles are way too exposed.

‘It’s a voluntary repossession.’ I tell her, glancing at the paperwork spread before me. There’s a half ream of conditions and demands that would make sole traders think hard about taking on the onerous task for the fee involved. But we have corporate masters and group agreements to service, which is why I collect those thick rubber bands the postman drops. Secure round your trouser bottoms and it’s a long way for the little bloodsuckers to leap once they sense the warmth of a fresh human body.

‘Shite area.’ Answers assistant manager T, to S’s question. He looks a bit peeved I’ve asked her to accompany me, but she’s a lot tastier and not only to wingless jumping parasites.

‘Everyone has to live somewhere.’ Counters S feistily, before adding. ‘Of course I’d like to come.’

Got to love her left of centre politics, though she might start swinging the other way after seeing too many more spitefully trashed former homes. They do say socialism is something that can only be cured by age and financial good fortune. But for now, got to love her….

‘Why are there so many fridges and washing machines outside?’ Asks S as I weave through the narrow street we are visiting, eyes straining for the house number. I should really put my driving glasses on but they make me look like a sad, middle-aged man.

‘Since they started charging commercial vehicles at the municipal tip.’ I tell her. ‘People don’t go as often, or they dump their waste goods at the side of the nearest bit of rural road.’

‘Probably why they are all still on the pavement.’ Says S with a wry smile.

This place is far from any greenery and has yet to be gentrified. The housing stock is low grade, spec built homes, in need of love and attention. Once the skips start appearing and a delicatessen and a coffee shop opens, the area will be on the up.

‘Not sure I like it here.’ Says S as I fiddle with the door lock.

We don’t stay long.

Next time I’ll take the right keys.

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Court Order - Monday

‘I need a man to come with me.’ Announces loose lettings lush B to an awkward silence. I stifle my inappropriate reply and by an act of immense projected will - and a warning scowl - manage to ensure that nobody else taps in the open goal.

‘Difficult appointment?’ I eventually offer after running several potential answers through my head as a precautionary measure. I don’t need a sexual discrimination claim, no matter how spurious. With the amount of booby-trapped legislation swirling round employing people I really should have paid more attention at school and studied to become a lawyer. On reflection, I’m glad I didn’t say booby-trapped out loud, too.

‘I’ve got to do an eviction for a landlord at eleven o’clock.’ States B, shaking her head. ‘And there’s no way I’m going there alone.’ Momentarily a mischievous inner self wonders if the fact she’s asking for a man to come with her isn’t a tiny bit sexist, but laws often work on the pendulum principle. Correct one injustice and the over-compensation creates another one. I’ve see enough matrimonial home sales to know that.

‘Are you expecting trouble?’ Asks assistant manager T warily. He’s already manoeuvring not to go with B. Those designer glasses and his penchant for expensive suits don’t lend themselves to a filthy flat and a punch to the face.

‘Single Mum, two kids by different Dads, aggressive men friend visitors and a viscous looking dog.’ States B taking up a whole days news content for The Daily Mail.

‘She’s had notice of eviction I assume?’ I ask, knowing already I’ll have to go with B. Some things you just can’t delegate - unless you’re my spineless bean counter boss.

‘Of course.’ Replies B dismissively. ‘But she is holding on to be formally kicked out so she can get re-housed by the Council.’ There was a time when I felt sorry for everyone losing their home, but after seeing some of the deliberately wrecked properties and the way some people abuse societies' safety net, my liberal left leanings have become a bit tarnished.

‘This has to be it.’ I state rhetorically to B as I pull up in the car, at 10.45am. We are nearly opposite an unloved terraced house in the “cheaper” part of town. The windows are peeling, a gutter is at a crazy angle and an overflow pipe is pumping water on to the crowded forecourt. Most of the neighbouring homes have cars squeezed on to what was once a small front garden before boundary walls were demolished. All except the property we are visiting. It has an array of rusting white goods dumped outside and a small mountain of overspilling bin nags. I’m starting to itch already.

‘You got rubber bands?’ Asks B, ferreting in her handbag, past the pepper spray and the rape alarm. I sigh heavily and shake my head. Schoolboy error. ‘Too bad.’ Says B leaning down and fixing a pair of those thick red rubber bands the postman sheds, around her trousers. Now I know why she didn’t wear her usual short skirt and jacket combo. I can almost sense the fleas sensing me, and the itching returns twofold.

‘Is she going to be difficult?’ Asks the bailiff when we are all at the front door bang on 11.00am. The court official has the look of a nightclub bouncer, head shaven and gym-pumped frame straining to escape his clothing. I take a half-step back. He’s the one being paid to take the hits, I think, as the muscled man bangs the door loudly then stoops and yells through the letterbox. A dog starts barking rabidly and I bump into B awkwardly, as she too positions herself behind the bailiff.

‘Wasn’t too bad.’ Says B once the woman, dog and two kids have gone straight to the Town Hall,without any resistance.

‘More than I can say for this place.’ I answer as we survey the spitefully trashed house, detritus everywhere, walls crayoned over in a juvenile hand.

‘I’ve seen worse.’ Replies B with a heavy sigh. ‘You start to hate these people after a while.’ Before I can disagree something bites my ankle sharply.

Sadly, you do.

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Heart To Heart - Thursday

‘Are we doing Valentine’s cards this year?’ I ask my wife in passing, the muesli has just moved and I’d rather not do my ablutions in the office.

‘What sort of question is that?’ Comes the terse reply.

I should know better. I tell my staff daily the phrasing of an enquiry is almost as important as the question itself, but I’ve allowed my lower intestine to override the grey matter.

‘Do you want to do them?’ I ask hurriedly, the en-suite door beckoning me as alluringly as that Victoria’s Secret catalogue fat mortgage man M has left on the windowsill in the gents’ at work. I’m beginning to regret my choice of words - and my water closet venue. The thought of fifteen minutes peace with just my thoughts, some of that soft and smooth tissue I’ve hidden in my desk drawer and a soft and smooth underwear model, is looking more enticing than an argument about overpriced soppy cards.

‘What sort of question is that?’ Carps my wife, disappointment written all over her face. It’s a look I’ve seen before and one I see on buyers and sellers faces alike, most weeks. I’m not doing well today and I’ve not even left the house.

‘If you have to ask if we’re doing cards and then compound it by saying, “do I want to do them?”, you’ve rather missed the point.’ Says my wife sourly. The point of something will definitely be emerging if I don’t make the Armitage Shanks soon. Sanctuary isn’t just for those being persecuted by fanatics, it works for harassed husbands too, as long as there’s a lock on the bathroom door.

I’m feeling relieved on more than one level by the time I’m stuck in traffic on the way to the office. I don’t need full-blown arguments before I get to work, particularly over an exploitative marketing man’s wet dream. The fact is I’ve never really got over the schoolyard trauma of Valentine’s Day. The humiliation of not receiving any cards while the good looking lad who plays for the first eleven football team bags more than the total number of girls in your class, was only surpassed by the year the whole maths lower set recognised my handwriting on the card I sent myself. Awkward.

I can feel my cheeks colouring just thinking about all the Valentine’s Days past, as I crane my neck and try to see if that bloody JCB driver is up ahead causing the tailback, again. It hasn’t been much better in the many years since leaving school, the sciatic-suffering postman repeatedly had no call for concern over his bag weights when he approached my letterbox every February 14th. And as my early morning altercation proved, a card from your partner, one headed: To my lovely wife/husband, doesn’t leave much room for mystery. 

The traffic finally clears, the holdup as bafflingly obtuse as the need to reinforce affection with a supposedly anonymous declaration of love from a stranger - signed by your spouse.

Morning meeting over, not my most rousing oration judging by the yawns-per-targets-missed ratio, I sit back and consider the grease-flecked cooling mug of tea in front of me. Then trainee F raises his hand tentatively. I’ve told him he doesn’t need to do that, but years of conditioning in a minor boarding school have stuck with him, a shame any useful knowledge hasn’t been that adhesive. I just hope he doesn’t expect me to sexually abuse him round the back of the bike sheds….

‘What is it?’ I ask, as everyone looks on.

‘Shall we have a sweepstake as to who gets the most Valentine’s Cards tomorrow.’ replies F, eyes aglow.

My verbal arrow to the heart hit the target. The rebuttal may have been a bit harsh, but negotiator S would win hands down anyway.

I did receive one mystery card a few years ago. Sadly, the long-awaited flush of pride soon evaporated when I realised it was from a pug-ugly woman I’d sold a flat to. Face like a moose and arse to match - although if she’s lost weight and had the antlers shorn….

I’ll wait and see. 

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