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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Hanging On The Telephone - Wednesday

The phones are jangling insistently as I enter the office after another fruitless appointment. Negotiator S is looking harassed, locked into what sounds like a difficult call. B the letting lush is over by the printer ignoring the residential line again. The ringing in my ears gets louder.

Coat still on, I grab a handset and punch the flashing light. Corporate greeting parroted I find out why we are so sought after.

‘You have a two bedroom flat advertised in the paper for £95,000,’ says an uncultured voice. ‘Can we view it?’

My mind goes blank. Have I finally cracked and regressed back through some sort of mental time warp to the nineties, when I still thought I had career prospects and good hair? The other lines still chime and B still fiddles with the printer paper tray. Where the hell is everyone else?

‘Can you grab one of our lines?’ I ask B fractiously, after I’ve realised what has happened and dumped the caller to a rarely used swear word in response.

‘I’m trying to get a contract sorted.’ Snaps B, shoving the offending paper tray back into the machine with an expensive grating sound. If the engineer comes out again this month he’ll need his own coffee mug.

I take one of the ringing lines as S finally finishes her call and grabs the other one, look of unflattering fatigue on her, as yet, unlined face.

‘It’s not £95,000 madam,’ I say apologetically. ‘The paper have missed a number two out.’

As I say it, M our obese mortgage man waddles back from the direction of the gents’ toilet, my newspaper under his arm. He’s clearly not missed a number two out, I think angrily, as a vision of having to eat my sandwich in a rush while scanning the headlines M’s been perusing before washing his hands, flashes in my head like strobe lighting.

‘So what are you saying?’ Quizzes the lady caller curtly. ‘Is it £95,200 then?’

Can people really be that stupid? I think, before answering the rhetorical thought in the affirmative.

‘I’m sorry it should have read £295,00 madam.’ I say, bracing myself for the vitriol. Quite inventive as it happens, but with a more commonly used expletive this time.

‘You lot are all the same,’ rants the woman, certainly no longer a lady. ‘It’s just a con to get us to call.’ She couldn’t be further from the truth, but I’ve no time to explain as another two lines have just started trilling and I like to answer within three rings. Any quicker and it sounds desperate, much longer and you appear uncaring and understaffed.

S and I simultaneously explain the misprint to another pair of dreamers just as trainee F wanders in, snout in a McDonald’s takeaway bag. I point to a third line just illuminating - which is more than he’s ever managed to be. He nods and takes another bite from his burger. I physically feel an artery constricting.

‘Where on earth is everyone?’ I grumble when the activity has finally quelled.

‘Lunch.’ Says F wiping a dollop of ketchup from his chin and only succeeding in smearing it across his face like some lipstick-smudged tart after a busy night by the wheelie-bins – or B in lettings.

‘So is this, like, a new instruction?’ Asks F when I find a copy of the free paper and angrily highlight the printer’s error.

Punching him is no longer a viable option, although God knows it’s tempting. I make a mental note to bring his lack of awareness up at our monthly one-to-one, if I remember…

‘They can’t really expect us to be selling a two bed for that money in that location.’ Says S wearily as assistant manager T walks back in carrying a brace of expensive-looking shopping bags.

‘Alright?’ He asks warily, the atmosphere frostier than a mortuary fridge.

Not really.

‘Bloody idiots.’ Pronounces T, once I’ve informed him why the phones will be uncommonly busy for the next three days.

‘The paper or the punters?’ Asks S walking towards the kitchen slowly.

‘Both.’ Answers T before adding. ‘Does anyone want to see my new shirts?’

A snip apparently.

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