Not Many Lives Left - Tuesday

‘And here she comes.’ Announces assistant manage T with the sort of weary resignation I’ve been dreaming about for years now.

Negotiator S bobs her head up from behind the flatscreen and smiles in recognition when she sees the approaching woman. All offices have them, the regular time-wasters - as opposed to the casual ones who bowl into your working life like a whirlwind, promise to buy or sell then blow you off.

‘Bloody nutcase.’ Proclaims M the morbidly obese financial advisor. He tried to flog her some life cover, a re-mortgage and even, in desperation, some pet insurance last time she was in. But this type is a window shopper for life.

‘Who’s this?’ Asks trainee F, wide-eyed and innocent, only without the charm of a fresh-smelling baby you can hand back before their Snugglers become soiled.

‘One of our habitual lookers.’ I tell F, contemplating whether I should let him talk to the woman as part of his ongoing training. The trouble is he’s so naïve he’ll end up making viewing appointments that the woman will happily go on for something to do and doubtless book my fourth valuation visit to her home. One she convinces herself and every new agent in town she’ll be moving from in the near future, when in reality the only way she’ll be leaving is feet first on an undertaker’s gurney.

‘She’s called that cat lady.’ Enlightens T, as F stares at the approaching target vapidly. I can see the animal hairs on her grubby fleece from across the high street and already my nose and eyes are twitching just from the memory of my last, abortive visit, to her flea-infested home. Five cats and counting plus that all pervading pong of animals which pet-owners are in persistent denial over.

‘Why’s that?’ Asks F, comprehensively confirming his unsuitability for any role involving common sense. The private school his mother and various stepfathers coughed for - just to keep him away from home - somehow coached and cajoled him to some spurious mid-range, heavy on the coursework qualifications, but the school of life has yet to see him sign the register.

‘She has cats you numpty.’ Informs lettings lush B from across the office.

‘Yeh and we all know about women with cats.’ Says T chuckling.

B glares back at him. ‘One is acceptable, two at a push.’ She says challengingly, adding the old chestnut. ‘They’re more reliable than men.’

‘Let’s not start that one.’ I plead, as I track the approaching woman, hoping against hope she’ll misjudge the road crossing and give me about a one in fifteen chance of getting the probate business.

‘The loser women who can’t hold on to a man get cats instead.’ T tells F unhelpfully. I can sense the, along gender lines, friction building.

‘You’re just saying that for a reaction.’ Says S looking nervously at B as her hackles rise.

‘You can’t say that sort of thing.’ Spits B angrily, before turning to me and asking. ‘Can he?’

Probably not out loud.

Trouble is I pretty much agree with T on this one. My experience of neurotic man-loathing women tends to lead to the same, staring-eyed, let them sleep on the bed, cat-loving conclusion. These females – and it is almost exclusively females who own cats – seem to turn to feline companionship after a fruitless love life. Ultimately, cohabiting with several sets of hairballs, rather than one errant set of hairy balls. It still stinks, particularly with the elderly ones who the neighbours eventually smell decomposing. Someone has to go in to clean up the mess and see what is left of the owner the ungrateful pets haven’t eaten. It takes forever before I get the new carpets, the keys and a for sale board.

‘Hello Miss Bryan how are you?’ Greets S, saving me the bother.

‘You now my name?’ Queries Miss Bryan.

‘You were in last year.’ Says S gently.

‘Was I?’

Perhaps I should have let F see her after all.

‘We don’t have any little bungalows.’ Informs S kindly. ‘And most flats don’t allow pets in the lease.’

‘How did you know I have pets?’

And they still say we don’t earn our money.

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Hotel Babylon - Friday

‘Evening.’ Says the tubby man in too-short trousers and a badly creased shirt, as we meet awkwardly at the hotel lift. He smells of desperation and cheap aftershave. I’m thinking travelling salesman, with a territory spanning several counties. He’ll be wanting someone to talk to. I grunt a reply back, one designed not to encourage further discussion. No chance.

‘You with the convention?’ Continues the man with a waft of garlic breath that can’t help shift too may shower curtain rings, or whatever pointless product he’s vending from the back of his saggy-seated Vauxhall. Suddenly I’m Steve Martin in Trains Planes and Automobiles and I’m wondering if John Candy has been reincarnated as a poorly dressed Brummie. It’s no longer funny.

I tell him no, as we step into the creaky-cabled lift and I regret not taking the stairs. It would be just my luck to get stuck in the car waiting for a service engineer for a couple of hours while this man sapped what little will to live I have left out of me, dull story, by trapped storey.

Needless to say this sort of man hasn’t survived being blanked by his interlocutor. He’s clearly studied the welcome board at reception.

‘Must be with the estate agents then.’ He guesses correctly and I tense for the vitriol, but he surprises me by saying. ‘I’ve always fancied being in that industry.’ I’m supposed to ask what he does at this juncture, and his piggy eyes look at me expectantly. He’s disappointed. The lift starts to descend, slowly.

‘What sort of qualifications do you need?’ Presses the man as my stomach lurches in tandem with the movement. The manufacturer of the cramped car seems to be long since defunct and I’m guessing parts aren’t readily available. The man is looking at me expectantly and I’m tempted to list a line of A* grades and a degree in something worthwhile, but who am I kidding. I tell him and he whistles, either that or a frayed cable has snagged somewhere.

‘Nothing at all?’ He quizzes, head on one side, as we finally make the ground floor and the doors open to a buzz of conversation from the bar.

‘Just the gift of the gab.’ I reply, as I try to leave graciously.

‘So I’m kind of over-qualified.’ He pronounces with a throaty chuckle, before asking. ‘Do you fancy a drink so we could continue our chat?’

‘What you smiling at?’ Asks my short of stature rival manager H as I approach the bar alone.

‘Just confirmed another stereotype about the industry.’ I tell the poison dwarf, as I join him and half a dozen other agents hogging the bar.

‘It’s us against the world.’ Says H ordering himself another beer and failing to get me one. You can see why his office makes so much money. I finally catch the harassed Eastern European barman and get my order across just as the woman back from maternity leave slopes into the room. She looks like she’s about to cry again, so I cough for a white wine spritzer and wonder if I could register as a charity and save some tax.

‘I’m really missing my little girl.’ Sniffs the mother morosely as H starts telling a risqué story about a furnished property and one of his conquests. I want to interject with a quip about a stepladder but my companion is now telling me about missed first mumblings and feeding times. I just hope her breasts don’t start lactating.

‘And I can’t eat the cooked breakfast in the morning.’ Continues the woman who before she gave birth was a thrusting, glass-ceiling smasher with high heels and an attitude. She’s now a deranged hormonal mess with issues over babies and bacon.

‘This is all so pointless.’ She continues as I begin to wish I hadn’t blanked the fat shower curtain man. ‘They’re just covering corporate arses with courses like this.’

She’s right, I think, knowing with some comfort the bean counter boss wants her out of the company now she’s no longer anything other than reproductive.

I buy another round and we discuss Continued Professional Development and a replacement acronym.

Completely Pointless Drivel.

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