Back On The Road Again - Monday

‘You off to the back quack?’ Asks assistant manager T, as I walk towards the office door without a briefcase, or clipboard. I made the mistake of telling him I was trying, one more time, to see if another in a procession of charlatans offering a “free” first consultation, could ease the pain.

I’ve had more pins stuck in me than a self-harming Goth. Seen chiropractors, osteopaths, sports injury therapists and a host of other alternative healers in between. If I have to listen to any more whale music while a vegan with scented lube violates me, I might just completely flip - and I don’t mean roll over while someone approaches me with a hose and stirrup pump. I drew the line at colonic irrigation. I get enough shit in this job as it is.

‘This the jokers offering a visit at no cost?’ Queries fat mortgage man M. See, it’s round the office faster than flu.

‘It is.’ I tell him curtly.

‘You know nothing is free don’t you.’ State M rhetorically.

‘Apart from our no obligation valuations.’ Chips in negotiator S, with a winning smile. I wonder, fleetingly, what she could do with some jasmine-smelling petroleum jelly.

I do know nothing is for free. Everything has a price - even if it’s those bastards in London Road who went with the opposition agent at £50,000 more than I recommended. They shouldn’t start packing any time soon.

‘I know.’ I tell M, looking at the office clock and calculating how long I’ll need to hobble to the Body Treatment shop. I don’t want to sit there too long before my appointment. Once you’ve heard one Minky singing an aquatic lullaby you’ve pretty much heard them all, and the sad selection of tree-hugging magazines in the waiting room are greener than a curly kale smoothie and just as sick-making.

The format doesn’t change, but still they hook in the gullible and desperate - I like to think I’m firmly in the latter category, but who really knows? An initial consultation, that wastes two-thirds of your freebie, listing ailments, aches, pains, medical history, then the inevitable disclaimer that obviates all responsibility should the wheat-free practitioner insert something into a cavity, that won’t come out again.

Then like a high-class prostitute heavy on the tease and light with the hands on, they just get you half-naked and settled, full of expectation against past experience, and it’s time to stop. Needless to say they’ll need you to come again. Next time at full price. And of course it will take several sessions before they can fully ease your pain. Sucker.

‘How long did you last with the last lot?’ Asks M, with a wobbly-chinned chuckle.

‘About three hundred pounds worth.’ I tell him ruefully.

‘Why did you stop?’ Asks S gently.

‘Because he was getting shafted with none of the best bits.’ Speculates T, with a laugh.

T has a point. You seemingly get a vertebrae-clicking law of diminishing returns with alternative back cures. After a while it’s the same plodding procedure with the hands-on healer urging you to relax when your body, forewarned after the first sudden downward pressure, tenses like a virgin on their wedding night. Then it’s all soreness and regrets.

‘It wasn’t only that.’ I tell my audience. ‘They just seem to run out of ideas. A lot of them seem like one trick ponies.’

‘They do animals there too?’ Asks trainee F, wide-eyed and idiotic.

Someone is being taken for a ride.

‘Was that the bloke that kept asking you about the property market?’ Asks T, grinning.

I nod. The last thing you need when down to your boxer shorts and vulnerable, is having to tell some angsty failed veterinary candidate he’ll never be able to afford to buy his own home, as a self-employed muscle manipulator with a massive student loan. Painful.

‘Perhaps it will help this time.’ Suggests S as I check the clock and start to leave.

Almost certainly not. But in life, as in sales, you have to persevere.

I’ll be back for more.

---------

Beat It - Wednesday

I’m in the main office, covering for snatched lunches and outside appointments. I like to show I can still do the front line chores. It’s the reason I get chased by dogs on leaflet drops and still make a mess of the tea and coffee orders when I show I’m a milk, no sugar, man of the people.

‘Tossers looking in the window.’ Hisses loose lettings’ lush B. She’s my only companion and a less than alluring - rescue the human race - procreation choice, should the world end like that guy standing outside the newsagents has been predicting for the last six months. Just my luck, help save the planet and be stuck with a nasty STI, a drunk pregnant woman and no antibiotics….

‘They look fairly normal.’ I whisper back, trying to banish the unwelcome thought of raising more than a smile, in B’s direction.

‘Time-wasters.’ predicts B, as the late middle-aged couple move hesitantly towards the office door.

‘Buying or renting?’ I ask softly.

‘Well the buy-to-let lot have dried up since the chancellor screwed around with stamp duty,’ answers B. ‘ So I’m thinking you’re the lucky one.’

True to form, B ducks behind her monitor and I am left with no choice but to stand and welcome the couple. I insist we greet people in the old school fashion. I hope it’s a point of difference to all the other new kids on the block, in polo shirts and chinos. We don’t do free coffee dispensing, but I do see everyone to the door. Not least to make sure they are safely off the premises.

‘How may I help you?’ I begin, as I show the pair to S’s vacant desk. The seat is vaguely warm as I sit down. Probably just the unaccustomed sunshine streaming through the window. Probably.

I wait as the wife responds to my question. She’s clearly the decision maker, first qualifying item obtained, now I just need to establish their needs and motivation. The basic contact information, names, addresses, email and phone details could be taken by a performing parrot. I want to know how these people can generate income for me. Do they have a home to sell? Can they proceed promptly? Would they like fat mortgage man M, to sell them some inappropriate insurance product? One that will doubtless be a future miss-selling scandal, but for the moment will satisfy head office’s increasingly demanding sales targets.

I takes a few minutes to get the dreary but necessary data. The pair probably think I’m putting them on our mailing list - something of a misnomer now most people communicate electronically - but I’ll decide whether we’ll be wasting any more time on them. You need quality control in this business, or like a prostitute with an absent-minded pimp, you’d spend all your time servicing f***ers who never pay you.

And then the woman utters a familiar, but still intensely irritating, line.

‘We’ve been looking for the last five years.’ She says earnestly, as the husband nods wearily. I catch B’s smirk across the office, as she theatrically mimes: time-wasters.

‘There’s never anything as nice as our house.’ Continues the wife, as I detect a frown of transient disagreement from the long-suffering husband. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

Of course I’ve had plenty of properties that would suit this picky pair, over the last half decade. But with the supply and demand imbalance still out of kilter, why would I make the transaction any harder than it is, by involving unmotivated messers? If I’m going to do sado-masochism I’ll do it in my own time, with appropriate sheets and privacy. There’s no safe word with these types. They'll just keep hurting you time after time.

‘Oh no, we won’t put our house on the market until we’ve found something.’ Replies the wife, to my half-hearted attempt to get a valuation for a sister office half way across the county, where this pair live - and will doubtless die.

‘Told you they were time-wasters.’ Crows B after I’ve seen the couple out.

Feel my pain.

-----------

Follow Me Men - Tuesday

‘Right,’ I say clapping hands together dramatically. ‘We need contracts to exchange this week. So let’s chase those solicitors.’ The last time I saw so many disenchanted faces was at Wembley Stadium and the less said about that night the better.

‘Most of them won’t even take your calls.’ Pronounces assistant manager T imperiously, to nods of confirmation. It’s not the sort of second-in-command support I’m looking for. T is a man born too late. I could envisage him sipping red wine about twenty miles behind the front line while the distant sound of guns struggle against the sound of the Belgian prostitute pleasuring him. I, of course, am knee deep in the mucky stuff with my head above the parapet.

‘If we can just get two or three exchanges before the end of the month we’ll have a fighting chance of meeting the quarterly target.’ I plead, imagining the inevitable phone call I’ll receive from the bean counter boss if the office under performs. He’s another one likely to be sucking on a bottle of Bordeaux, while a piece rate European worker fiddles with his…balance sheet.

‘I can never get a solicitor to speak to me.’ Says dozy trainee F to suppressed giggles.

‘We need to nurture these relationships,’ I pontificate, to looks of distain. ‘Granted it’s a love hate thing.’

‘Yes they love to hate us,’ replies T. ‘And we hate having to love them.’

‘Or at least pretending to.’ Adds negotiator S.

I can see I need to lead by example again. No man’s land beckons dangerously.

‘Lawyers can give us lucrative probate business.’ I tell the team.

‘We give them more solicitor-free buyers usually.’ Responds S

‘And the only outfits with probate departments are the old fogey firms with a load of ageing dinosaurs still practicing. You try dialling a Diplodocus.’ Says T to an irritating round of laughter.

I thought the same way when I started it this business, but some of the lolloping, vegetarians my team are referring to, used to play me at five-a-side football in simpler times. I like to think I’ve evolved. These guys don’t respond to emails, shy away from e-commerce and take a fortnight to turn round a letter. Extinction beckons – as it does for me if I don’t get some income invoiced.

‘So,’ begins F with his now standard hesitance.’ The firms with probate departments….’

‘Have lots of elderly clients.’ Interjects T

‘They’re just the least responsive to deal with.’ Says S.

S is right, but if we get a cold winter and plenty of icy pavements I want to be taking their calls, or more likely opening their letter, charged at £50 a pop to the deceased estate.

I can feel the meeting drifting so I look at the empty diary and make a decision.

‘Everybody in my office, I’ll make a speakerphone call and show you how it’s done.’ The words are still bouncing off the filing cabinets and I’m already regretting them. You are supposed to learn by experience.

The ringing tone echoes round my office as my team lean in expectantly. It chimes for long enough to really annoy someone in sales, but I persevere. It’s one of the firms I’ve been referring to and the file has been outstanding nearly three months. Finally someone picks up and I press a finger to my lips dramatically.

I recognise the voice and feel my confidence swell.

‘Hello Carol.’ I announce in a familiar but professional manner and I give her my name.

‘Who?’ She replies frostily, to the sort of silent hilarity not seen since the last Laurel and Hardy film with no soundtrack, played to a packed cinema of Flappers.

I press on daunted, telling her the client and case I’m chasing.

‘That’s all progressing fine.’ Says Carol dismissively, as eyebrows raise and a few murmurings stir. This tells me nothing. I ask to speak to the partner in question.

‘I’ll see if he’s in.’ I give the thumbs up to all as Carol adds. ‘Who shall I say it is again?’

After a minute, I already know the answer - but there’s no gap in the barbed wire.

He said he was out.

---

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Just Another Day - Monday

‘Before you begin I’m not selling on the cheap.’ Announces the frosty woman who opens the door of a mock Georgian semi-detached house on a late seventies development, that has seen better days. It’s not the best of starts and the opposition estate agent’s board wedged down the side alley gives a big clue as to her – not unique – lack of love for the industry. But sometimes it’s better to be second or third in, when reality has finally started to dawn.

I hand her my card and we do the introductions. She’s standoffish and I sense the hostility even before the yappy dog tries to bite my ankles.

‘He’s just being friendly.’ Announces the woman as the little hairball paws and nips at my suit trouser leg and I have to make a superhuman effort not to kick the bitch half way up the hall.

‘So tell me how the marketing has been going?’ I open once we’ve done a quick tour of the house; flowery décor, kitchen showing its age - like the owner – and sanitary ware in need of updating. We’re now in the lounge/diner and I note the wood flooring is lifting and there’s an ominous looking gap between skirting and parquet. The area is a good one still, but the development has been known to suffer subsidence, as the footings weren’t deep enough originally. I suspect there’s some movement although I’m guessing it won’t be acknowledged, on the walls or on the price.

‘I’ve tried three agents over the last eighteen months.’ Says the woman sourly. ‘All useless.’ I know who they are, as I’ve done my homework and she’s two-thirds right, but then she’s also been trying to get a good thirty grand more than the house is worth. And that’s before a surveyor spots the crooked doors and floors and asks for a structural engineer’s report. I’m not sure I even want this house on my books. Some homes and some owners are more trouble than they’re worth.

‘How do you feel the other agents have been going wrong?’ I probe, looking for ammunition.

‘They didn’t advertise it properly and then they brought entirely the wrong type of people round.’ She replies, with the certainty only a myopic vendor can muster. I briefly wonder how she’d react to a newly rich lottery winner with no manners, no taste, but a desire to live in a dated semi with crooked floors and rotting window frames and happy to pay over the odds. She’d take the money.

‘What are you looking for in an agent?’ I ask, using a favourite question for disgruntled owners who have worked their way through the cheap operators and should be ready to pay a fair fee.

‘Well you’re all the same.’ She pronounces coldly as the dog growls in confirmation and bares her yellowing teeth at me. We’re not: any more than builders, painters or prostitutes.

‘Just want your fee and me to sell for a giveaway price.’ Continues the woman, as I realise why her husband left her for a younger model and a home that didn’t sag, too.

‘What you don’t seem to realise,’ continues the woman hitting her stride, as I think, I do lady, I really do. ‘Is there’s nothing out there as nice as mine for the money. I’m not giving it away.’

I glance at my pad and the suggested asking price I’ve pencilled in. One £25,000 less than she’s grumbling about now. I’ve more chance of the dog liking me than its owner warming to my proposed course of action.

‘You people just try to drive prices down to get a quick sale.’ Rails the lady as her dog senses the antipathy and begins a soft menacing growl while it eyes my trouser leg again. Curiously, a disgruntled buyer unable to find anything they could afford accused me off pushing prices up to unaffordable levels, not thirty minutes ago. This isn’t a profession for insecure people seeking approval.

‘Any joy?’ Asks assistant manager T, as I slope back in the office, wiry hairs clinging doggedly to my suit, questioning of my parenthood, still ringing in my ears.

Not a lot.

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