Hot In The City - Tuesday

‘Thank God you are here.’ Cries trainee F as I stumble into the office, sweat pouring down my back. It’s one of a handful of days in Britain where the jet stream has finally lodged somewhere north of Aberdeen and sunshine has appeared.

I’ve just walked through the park where a motley collection of students, winos and civil servants on flexi-time, are lounging around consuming, drugs, cheap cider and ice creams. It hasn’t improved my mood, after an abortive valuation with a couple who seemed to think their ex-local authority semi, bought at a massive discount, could now be sold for north of £500,000. I didn’t see any solid gold bathroom fittings…

‘What is it?’ I demand of F, thinking some disaster has befallen one or more of our sales in the protracted pipeline. He spreads his hands wide, as if I’m the idiot with a squandered education and the IQ of something asexual, raised in a test tube.

As ever, I look to S my pretty negotiator for guidance, just as an unpleasant trickle of sweat runs straight down my spine and in to my underpants. God I hate wearing a suit and tie at the best of times, but when the sun finally peeps from behind the blanket of grey, it is even more unpleasant.

S looks towards the ceiling and I follow her gaze towards the hulking air conditioning cassette, where I now see a steady flow of fluid, dripping into a waste paper basket on the floor.

‘Oh for f***ks sake.’ I bellow and instantly look at the swear box on top of the filing cabinets. Another massive fail to go alongside the useless ceiling unit that sits unused for 360 days of the year, then pisses bacteria-riddled water into the office on the one day you actually need cooling.

‘Hadn’t you noticed how unbearably hot it is in here?’ Asks F indignantly.

You know what? I hadn’t actually, what with sitting on a stained couch in a superheated smoke-filled lounge, trying to persuade a pair of greedy bastards that their shabby home in a pretty shitty area wasn’t in fact Buckingham Palace in disguise.

‘Has anyone called the engineers?’ Asks obese mortgage man M, waddling across the office, shirt sleeves rolled up, unpleasant dark stains under his armpits. Fashion tip: Don’t wear a dark blue shirt when the sun comes out - and don’t haul round several scores worth of unnecessary lardy poundage either.

‘Fat chance of seeing them before the first frost.’ Predicts assistant manager T.

‘Well we can’t work in these conditions.’ Contributes loose lettings lush B, unhelpfully.

‘Just leave the office door open?’ I suggest, more in hope that expectation.

‘Christ no,’ snaps T. ‘You don’t want every nutter under the sun coming inside.’

I’m tempted to point out that no office had air conditioning when I started out in estate agency. But I was mocked relentlessly when I told them we used to have to send off 35mm films for next day processing, before we could produce property particulars. They already think I’m a dinosaur, no need to hasten my extinction.

‘Is there not some rule about maximum office temperature, before you can go home?’ Asks B, rather too enthusiastically.

‘I think it’s only a minimum temperature, not a maximum one.’ Says M, mopping his brow, with an unpleasantly discoloured linen handkerchief.

‘What about that Shops and Factories Act poster in the mens’ dumper?’ Suggests T.

Yeh, I need to relocate that before the next visit from the Human Resources nazis.

‘Any luck? Asks S, gently after I’ve spend twenty fractious minutes on hold, before speaking to a moron with English as a second language, at our mandated air conditioning maintenance company. The bean counter boss sacked the local family firm we’d used for years and gave the contract to some centralised bunch of shitesters, who quoted rock bottom price for subterranean service.

‘It seems they are very busy this time of year.’ I say sarcastically.

‘Bloody thing sits there idle all year and when you actually need it to do something useful it’s a monumental waste of time.’ Spits T.

I don’t think he’s talking about F, but it’s a sticky moment.

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Rights And Wrongs - Friday

‘This is a pretty crap area really isn’t it?’ States trainee F as I weave the company car in and out of ageing Fords and Vauxhalls parked half on the kerb, half on what’s left of the grass. I hesitate to point out to him that this may be crumbling ex-local authority housing stock but the prices are still way out of his reach.

We’re on our way to measure up a voluntary repossession, the keys and instructions from the lender nestling in my briefcase. At least I know the outgoing owners will be long gone this time, it’s when they are still inside it gets messy. A scruffy brace of teenagers, hoods raised, look at us menacingly as I slow to walking pace to ease between a huge flatbed 4 x 4 and a rusty Citroen Saxo with more differing coloured panels than Joseph’s Technicolor Dreamcoat.

‘How come some houses have all new windows and roof tiles and some are all rundown?’ Asks F pertinently, as I spot the 1950s built semi in question. As if to underscore F’s question, the house we’re about to enter is scruffy, with the exception of a low-level picket fence to the front and a naff-looking windmill, while the adjoining home has updated UPVC and tiling.

‘The next door place is still owned by the council.’ I tell F as we clamber out of the car and I feel several pairs of eyes watching from behind net curtains. The dislike is almost palpable. At least if they key the car it’s not my long-term problem.

‘So they are actually in better nick than the one’s people bought?’ Questions F, brow furrowed.

‘Often.’ I tell him. ‘The people with mortgages can’t afford the upkeep.’

F shrugs and stands aside for me, his bovine brain clearly working on another question more rickety than the gate he’s just opened.

The house is typical of the era. Open-plan front garden, no garage, hence the on-street parking issues. To the side, is a narrow, wire-fence-bounded walk-through to a concrete shed, once for coal, more often full of bikes and rusty prams now.  We stop outside the front door. A door I now open with the shiny new set of keys, as I wonder if the ex-tenant, now ex-owner, regrets exercising their options.

‘So this was, like, one of those right-to-buy jobs then?’ Asks F uncertainly, as we check out, first the cramped under stairs cloakroom, with the temperature of a morgue, then the through lounge/diner to the rear kitchen, fitted with a cheap-looking DIY kitchen units, not quite level. A tap drips mournfully as I glance at the 100-foot garden, wildly overgrown, with the odd discarded push-along toy rising from the grass like some avant-garde entry at the Chelsea flower show.

‘Yes.’ I tell F as I unpack my clipboard and begin scribbling my notes on autopilot. I know the floor plan by heart and could probably guess the measurements it wasn’t for fear of prosecution under that pesky Property Mis-Description Act.

‘It was a mixed blessing.’ I tell F as I continue to jot down the home’s particulars and wonder how I’ll get a decent picture without using PhotoShop.

‘So they all just turned a big profit then moved on?’ Asks F, as we make the upstairs landing and I see the cramped third bedroom and undersized bathroom, and then check out the two bigger bedrooms, both with cheap louver-fronted fitted wardrobes, circa 1970.

‘Those that didn’t run out of money and couldn’t make the payments.’ I tell F.

‘It was that women who invaded the Falklands that done it, was it?’ Says F, throwing me briefly, until I realise he’s talking about Margaret Thatcher. Sometimes I feel really old. Ignoring F’s tenuous grasp on history, I tell him that, as with most things in property, there are winners and losers - and no easy solutions.

‘So this place will be cheap then?’ Concludes F when we are back out by the gate and I’ve taken several snaps, none of which will hide the obvious without artifice and a risk of prosecution. I tell him my suggested number and he almost chokes.

If I’m right, he won’t be buying.

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