Hungry For News - Tuesday

‘Anyone seen my paper?’ I ask testily, back from a valuation appointment with a couple who’d been completely misled on value by one of the less scrupulous agents in town. It still irks when people respond to their baser instincts - greed in this case, fuelled by a semi-plausible spiv in a suit - and overprice their homes. But then never underestimate the power of price flattery when owners want to sell their homes.

‘No.’ Answers assistant manager T. Before adding. ‘Just off to get some lunch.’ He exits the office, as I think, when I was his age and aspiring to become a branch manager, I grabbed a sandwich at my desk rather than prancing round the men’s clothes shops for nearly an hour. So T hasn’t pinched my paper. Not this time.

I read the message book and grind my teeth when I see “Bomber” our local demolition surveyor will be carrying out a full survey on a pretty terraced cottage I agreed a sale on, three weeks ago. The house has stood for over a hundred years, but by the time he’s finished dismantling it in a twenty page report, the buyers will imagine it has less structural stability than a tottering tower of Jenga bricks. Might as well put the For Sale board back up now.

‘Did you see Bomber is doing 12 Coronation Terrace?’ Asks negotiator S with a wan smile.

‘I’m surprised he comes out during daylight hours.’ I growl.

‘Because people are out to hurt him?’ Asks S naively.

‘No.’ I snap. ‘ Because he’s afraid of his own shadow. I don’t think that bastard has ever valued up a sale in his whole career.’

‘Why does he do it?’ Says S.

‘Because you can’t get sued if nobody ever buys the home you valued.’ I tell her angrily. It’s not exactly true, but I’m not in the mood to show equanimity - particularly as some sod has taken my newspaper again.

My wife would say I’ve changed over the years I’ve been selling homes. I’ve certainly changed my newspaper pick. I started out with a  low-brow tabloid I’d rather not name, then as the years took their toll and the grey hairs flourished, I went from a down-market medium to a right of centre, mildly racist - in retrospect - paper, through to my current choice. Something a bit more nuanced and balanced, or at least I think so at the moment. I just hope I don’t get to the retirement flat and Daily Telegraph stage while I’m still compos mentis.

B our loose lettings lush sashays into the office. If her skirts get any shorter you’ll be able to see what she had for lunch.

‘You seen my paper?’ I ask frostily, as she sits behind her desk and starts to apply fresh lip gloss.

Nobody bar me still buys a daily paper, like a growing number they prefer to read the news on-line for free, but someone has to pay for the content. In this case me, which is why I’d like to find the paper where I left it - on my desk.

‘Why what’s in it?’ Asks B nonchalantly, starting to file her nails now, despite my frequent requests not to saw her cuticles in public.

‘I don’t know what’s in it.’ I bark. ‘All I’ve done so far is pay for the bloody thing.’

‘Swear box.’ Says S coyly.

‘Oh for f**ks sake.’

‘Twice.’

Then the penny drops. F, my cerebrally-challenged trainee isn’t around, but the last thing he read was probably his school timetable. M, our man-mountain of a financial advisor isn’t in his office. I look uneasily towards the gents’ toilet. S follows my gaze, as B files back and forth like a hyperactive violin player.

‘I think he’s in there again.’ Suggests S gently.

‘How long?’ I ask flatly.

‘Don’t think I’ve seen him for twenty minutes, come to think of it.’ She replies with an apologetic shrug.

Terrific. I like to grab a sandwich while reading my paper, but the thought the newsprint has been absorbing the earthy aroma of an overweight finance fiddler while he empties his bowels, isn’t pleasant.

I’ve lost my appetite. 

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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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