Fly Me To The Moon - Friday

‘Much happening?’ I ask trainee F, as I return to the office. It’s a double-edged question. I want the good news, but there’s an equal amount of unwanted tidings in property. The worst being a sale falling through. I’m guessing on-line agents aren’t that bothered if a deal collapses as they get paid irrespective of result. But the traditional, full-service-agent, gets diddly-squat, nada, zip, if a sale doesn’t proceed to completion.

‘Drone salesman called in to see you.’ Announces F, with a soppy smile.

‘What was he selling?’ I ask frowning.

‘I told you.’

‘You told me he was boring, and talked too much.’ I answer shirtily. ‘But then I’ve said before, selling isn’t telling. You remember the two ears, one mouth rule?’

F looks at me bemused. He has the attention span of a cerebrally-challenged goldfish, so I realise he may not remember the old sales’ adage that you must listen twice as much as you speak. As ever negotiator S comes to the rescue.

‘He meant a salesman that sells drones. Those hovering things that you mount a camera on.’ She enlightens, gently.

Now I realise it’s me who is the fool, it’s not a new phenomenon but it smarts every time.

‘You told him I’m not interested.’ I say to F.

‘Not exactly…..’

‘Tell me he’s not coming back?’ I ask groaning.

‘Well he was in town anyway, seeing one of our competitors.’

‘He wasn’t.’

‘He said he was.’

‘How many times, have I told you?’ I demand wearily. ‘Don’t believe most of what a salesman tells you. He’s on commission.’

Reprimand issued, mostly to cover my embarrassment at misunderstanding a drone salesman, I head for the message book to see what fresh hell has been inked in there for me. The salesman is, having a coffee, somewhere up the high street and will be back shortly. The truth is I can’t make purchasing decisions any more. It’s all been re-allocated to head office, where some jobsworth constantly renegotiates our supplier contracts, presumably for free lunches and crap branded pens that break in your pocket and leak ink over your suit. Invariably, we end up with a more complicated purchasing system and a national supplier who is half as efficient as the local business that preceded them, was.

‘I think it would be great.’ Says F gushingly, as I return to a spare desk and nurse a cup of tea, no sugar - I’m on a diet again.

‘Don’t you need a special licence to fly them?’ I ask flatly. ‘To stop people taking out an Airbus on final approach.’

‘They take the footage for you, I think.’ Says F. ‘Or maybe there’s a training course?’

Terrific. Another patronising teacher who tells because they can’t sell, is all I need. And sending F, as the youngest, supposedly most tech-savvy staff member isn't going to work. He still hasn’t mastered the colour printer. The clown causes more jams than a broken-down lorry on the by-pass.

Many of these, drop-in as they are passing salesman, have vanished as more and more business is awarded centrally. Others have died a death, as their product suffers the law of Darwin, rendering them extinct. Time was, I was plagued by map salesman trying to flog you overpriced handouts for lost punters, which they’d lifted - sometimes with dubious legality - from a Ordnance survey sheet. If you showed interest, they wanted names and numbers of all your local business contacts, to try and flog them advertising space in the margins of the expensive street plan. Google maps finished that, thankfully.

‘Why would I want aerial views of half the shite-holes we are trying to flog?’ I ask sourly. ‘It’s not going to help unload an ex-council house someone bought at a knock-down price with right-to-buy, by showing they have a load of spent white goods in the back garden and haven't cut the lawn for three months.’ 

Then in he comes, with a bad suit, sickly grin and an over-sized briefcase.

‘Have I got something you are really going to want.’ He begins gushingly.

You haven’t.

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Black Pudding - Friday

‘If I see another f***ing PowerPoint presentation I’ll top myself.’ Hisses my vertically challenged rival manager H as we settle into another bland hotel meeting room and the bean counter boss unfolds his laptop.

He has a point. The graphic of the be-suited man climbing some sort of snakes and ladders sales mountain had a certain novelty value about a decade ago, but now I just long for an old-fashioned overhead projector and a couple of acetates. Maybe even some A4 handouts.

‘The first and last refuge of the terminally dull presenter.’ I tell H, as I sit reluctantly next to him after missing out in the unseemly scrabble to be seated by the new and smoking hot female manager, who is having some early sales success in an office where the last incumbent spent more time downing measures, than measuring up.

‘She won’t last long on top.’ Sneers H, conjuring up a vision I have trouble shaking, until the eastern European girl with the embryonic moustache and the unflattering nylon housecoat turns up, with pots of stewed tea and coffee strong enough to strip the enamel from your teeth.

‘She’s producing some good instruction figures.’ I tell H, pouring a dark and suspicious smelling brew into the already stained cup in front of me. And I look at my new colleague and give her, what I judge to be, a companionably but in no way salacious smile of encouragement. She smiles radiantly back and I realise why she’s getting quite a few sole agencies with boards - at least from the male vendors.

‘It won’t last.’ Gripes H ungraciously. ‘They always get hormonal or pregnant once the first flush of enthusiasm goes.’

He really is a whole heap of chauvinistic unpleasantness for such a small package. It really irks me his office outperforms mine, ten months out of twelve.

I watch the bean counter as he fiddles with his tracker pad and tries to line up the first image, one his secretary probably prepared for him, with the portable projection screen. Despondent, as I imagine scores of slides a ten year old would be ashamed to produce flashing before my eyes for the next ninety minutes, I look at the pile of dusty Imperial mints in the saucer in front of me and wonder how long it would take to overdose on sugary spheres?

How did I get here? Asks that annoying inner voice, one that grows in intensity with each passing year and each newly increased sales target. A salesman’s career is finite, like any other, but unlike say, a doctor or lawyer improving with the accumulation of age and knowledge, estate agency is essentially a young man’s – or woman’s – game. There are only so many late night viewings and valuations you can do with utter wasters before you start to lose that youthful enthusiasm. Next time round I’ll definitely pay more attention at school and try not to grow up in a dysfunctional family.

‘Financial service performance is far from acceptable.’ Drones the bean counter, as I begin to yearn for the temporary high of the soggy bacon butties that we’ll be having at the comfort break. I already have virtual indigestion, the physical version might as well accompany it once the industrialised white baps and water-pumped bacon arrives. When the absurd, Americanised, breakfast meeting idea arrived on these shores, it seemed radical and not a little exotic. But budget cuts soon ditched the full English for poor man’s transport café fare and the realisation that the whole charade of shared sustenance and team-building was just an excuse to get you out of bed a couple of hours earlier, and back in the office before opening time.

‘I hate clapping for someone else.’ Gripes H as I think welcome to my world short-arse. The pretty new manager has just collected a bottle of cheap bubbly and the embarrassingly naff, new instruction performance cup. At least she has the good grace to blush – it will soon fade.

‘We’ll see if the bitch has sold any of them next month.’ Says H poisonously.

The Imperial mints are rattling around in the car coin tray. Not sure I’ve stolen enough.

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Animal Farm - Monday

‘What’s this woman like?’ I ask negotiator S who is adept at booking valuations and overcoming objections. The charm helps with the females and the huge tits seem to raise the men’s spirits.

‘Might be a bit of a man hater.’ Warns S with a distracting shrug.

‘Woman hater too.’ Adds lettings lush B from across the office. ‘I went to see her yesterday to see if she’d rent instead. She didn’t seem to like me much.’

It’s an open goal but I can’t face more tears and a possible three-page form from Human Resources to complete, so I let it pass.

‘Do we know why she’s thinking of moving?’ I ask both women, while scanning the valuation form. I see the information, in S’s handwriting just as B answers in the negative and S confirms her notes.

‘She’s got a job move and has to decide whether to let her flat or sell.’

‘Time frame?’ I ask, information being power. B shrugs as S answers. ‘Needs to be in post end of next month.’

I’m pleased, a committed mover. In theory if I don’t get the sale B should get the rental business. A win-win situation, only I want to win and B is more interested in wine, and probably her next Internet dating shag. I start my preparations, the now slightly battered Samsonite briefcase – I refuse to buy a man bag – loaded with agency contracts, corporate brochures, spare tape measure, digital camera, breath fresheners, anti-bacterial spray and plenty of Kleenex.

‘Ask her if she wants to do full management or find a tenant only.’ Instructs B casually as I prepare to leave. I feel my blood pressure climb another notch or two. Furring arteries already clogged with too may punters and too many pasties. If she can’t close the business – or her legs for that matter – I don’t see why I should mop up after her.

‘Oh by the way.’ Adds B as I head for the door, anxiously synchronising my watch with the office clock. ‘She has cats.’ B smiles a lipstick-stained grin. The sort of look countless men, who lied about age and job prospects on their profile, must have seen just before they realised they’d made a big mistake.

‘Do you have your tissues?’ Asks S. A question I’ve not fantasised about receiving from her with my clothes on and a 3.30pm appointment with an allergic reaction, to look forward to. I answer in the affirmative and begin thinking how long I can last in the flat before my nose is running, my eyes streaming and a warm pussy is rubbing my leg against my will.

‘I don’t want any sales bull.’ Opens the frosty Ms when I introduce myself and hand over a business card. She won’t notice it but even before I’m over the threshold I can smell the stench of felines. Dogs are only marginally less offensive, they stink a bit more but at least they’ll fetch a stick if you toss one, and bark at a burglar. Cats are just sly, disingenuous, self-serving, untrustworthy users. What you might find on the ideal personality traits for some estate agents, now I think of it..

‘All I want is a price and how low your fee can go.’ Hisses the woman as two tortoiseshell cats slink from behind a hair-strewn sofa. One is purring obscenely the other spitting menacingly. ‘Do you like cats?’ Asks the lovelorn woman pointedly. The Property Misdescription Act lists over thirty specified areas where it is an offence to give a false or misleading answer – as far as I know it doesn’t cover animal adoration. Probably another set of legislation completely. I fib.

Perched on the sofa, suit collecting shed hair like Velcro, I try to pitch for the business as one cat eyes me suspiciously and the other winds itself in and out of my legs. You can see why this woman is single. The cats are substitute children and boyfriend all in one. If they’re not seeing off suitors and salesmen they’ll be out toying with baby birds and shitting in neighbours’ gardens before sleeping on their owner’s pillow.

Several sneezes later, I’m blown out.

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Stereotypical - Friday

‘F***ing tenants!’ Exclaims lettings lush B with venom, bashing the phone down with maximum velocity. Momentarily I think it’s a summary of her week, as she’s rumoured to have screwed a few - and not just on their security deposits - but I catch the look in her eyes. Tears aren’t far away.

I should reprimand her over the expletive still bouncing round the office, but as nobody has come in for the last thirty minutes and as she’s about to start sobbing I decide against it. Who said estate agents have no empathy?

‘What is it?’ I ask, despite the inner voice telling me to not get involved in more emotional turmoil. When I made branch manager nobody told me I’d have to be psychiatrist, social worker and salesman all rolled in to one.

‘These people I deal with are the scum of the earth.’ Spits B, swallowing hard. Another scurrilous inter-office story enters my head unhelpfully and I have to gulp down myself. Laughing when you should be empathising is never a good thing and B has a viciously sharp letter-opening knife in her top drawer.

‘Naff tenants again?’ I ask needlessly and she sobs an affirmative and says.

‘They don’t deserve to live anywhere. Scumbags.’

‘What is it this time?’ Asks negotiator S from over my shoulder. Id’ much rather be comforting her but she seems to stay on a more even keel, which given the size of her tits is quite an achievement.

‘Trashed the flat, in arrears, Environmental Health have been called and the landlord thinks it’s my fault.’ Answers B emotionally. We always get the blame. I think glumly, whether it’s prices climbing, price falling or rats infesting. B doesn’t discriminate; she hates all tenants equally and thinks they should sleep in the gutter. But with two sons growing up fast and needing their own accommodation, I’m painfully aware the next generation need to live somewhere.

‘Now he expects me to go there and do a report on the mess.’ Sniffs B. ‘I did all the references properly, it’s not my fault they turned out to be junkies and hookers.’ She continues angrily. Don’t get too involved, urges the inner voice as B pulls a box of Man Size tissues from her drawer and I see the letter knife glinting menacingly.

‘I’m not going there on my own.’ B announces in between two snotty trumpets into the one tissue. ‘I don’t feel safe.’ She adds knowingly. That’s me done, I think sourly. The company standing orders allow the female staff to play the personal safety card at will. Sadly there are too many nutters out there wanting to do damage to pretty property professionals and our rules mean you need to be a bit of a prick to take the hits. That’ll be me then.

‘Is this it?’ I ask warily, as B and I stand on an ill-lit landing in a cheaply converted Victorian property, now housing several one-bed flats. The grubby prams and battered bicycles in the downstairs hall told a tale about the economic group most of the occupants inhabit and the smell attaching itself to my suit jacket confirms it. Another dry-cleaning bill coming my way and even before B has turned the key in the lock, I’m starting to itch.

‘You’re wasting your time there.’ Calls a female voice from behind us. I turn to see a fat woman in the next flat’s doorway dressed in baggy sports leisure wear. She’s clutching a dribbling baby on her well-padded hip and a toddler is peering round her bulky thighs, while sucking on a Chupa Chups style lolly. God, I despair of humanity.

‘Not around any longer?’ I ask neutrally, as the B opens the door and the smell intensifies tenfold.

‘Pissed off two weeks ago and good riddance.’ Snarls the young mum, who seems a little too articulate for the Jeremy Kyle show slot I placed her in moments earlier. ‘It was me what called the council.’ Adds the well-fed woman. ‘I can’t be doing with whores and smackheads with me kids on the same landing. I’ve got standards.

You and me both lady - I’ve just compromised mine.

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Expletive Deleted - Tuesday

‘It’s not my fault.’ Pleads loose lettings lady B loudly over the phone, with a line familiar to teenagers everywhere. Her tone is rising dangerously. Fortunately there are no punters in the office, but that also means we’re all listening to her conversation. She’s oblivious, in that concentration zone where all you can focus on is the verbal battle you’re partaking in. It’s best not to swear.

The public can be difficult where property is concerned, moving home is the third most stressful life event after death and divorce, and come to think of it the former isn’t strictly speaking a “life” event. People forget the usual pleasantries if their dream home feels like it’s being snatched away by a combination of bad references, dilatory lawyers and awkward owners, add a ballsy bitch from our lettings department and you’re going to hear a few expletives.

‘I don’t make the…the rules.’ Snaps B, using another well-worn excuse. I fear for what she nearly said. I don’t have to wait long.

‘Don’t bloody well swear at me.’ Snarls B, forgetting all those customer service courses she’s been on. A classroom and some sticky post-it notes of soothing responses, never likely to replicate real life. It’s why those that can, sell. And those that can’t train.

I try to attract B’s attention, making clam down gestures with my hands, but she might as well be in a different office.

‘Perhaps if you paid your utility bills on time you wouldn’t have such a crap credit rating.’ Growls B menacingly, as I feel another complaint coming my way. I’ve already had the Ombudsman wanting file copies of a messy deal a few months ago and the Trading Standards officer doesn’t like me that much after she was gazumped last year. Not a lot of love coming estate agents’ way.

‘I could have let this flat three times over in the time I’ve spent on your tenancy agreement.’ Sneers B in what is looking like an unrecoverable spin towards a hard landing. I’m now waving like a signalman trying to stop a runaway train. I may as well not be there.

B is a nightmare to man manage, primarily because she manages more men than me, plus about half a bottle of gin most days. I should get rid of her, but the process of sacking staff, no matter how incompetent, is so convoluted with employment law as it is that the best you can often do is recommend them for a transfer to another office and shift the problem elsewhere. Promotion works well too.

‘If you abuse me any more I’m hanging up.’ Warns B feistily, as I sense a messy ending. She’s had a few by all accounts and her fair share of abuse outside of the office. Some folks attract the wrong people like magnets - some pick them up in wine bars. It probably isn’t B’s fault the deal is going belly up, or that she’ll probably be adopting the same position with a stranger in about seven hours time, but sometimes you need to know when to back down.

‘I’ve told you. I’m just doing my job.’ Continues B the end of her tether now visible to everyone in the office, observing like rubber-neckers at a car crash. I listen and watch, fascinated and horrified in equal measure. I’ve been close to similar meltdowns a dozen times before but somehow have managed to keep my equilibrium It’s just a mater of time. A salesman’s shelf life is finite.

‘You hear this?’ Demands B theatrically, grabbing a sheet of A4 from the printer and ripping it in two. ‘That’s the sound of your tenancy application being terminated.’ My heart sinks as I think of the extra paperwork this action will doubtless generate. No wonder the rain forests are disappearing.

‘And you have a good day too.’ Shouts B before holstering the phone thunderously, with what sounded distinctly like plastic cracking. ‘F***ing public.’ She says with the hint of a sob. She’s been known to do that, I think, uncharitably. And if it helps get a deal through I’d probably turn a blind eye.

After all, selling is the second oldest profession…

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Ice Ice Baby - Thursday

‘You could wear a short-sleeve shirt today.’ Suggests my wife, gazing out the window at unaccustomed morning sunshine. You’d think she’d know me better by now, but they still try to mould you, however mouldy you are.

‘Short-sleeve shirts are for computer engineers and door to door salesmen.’ I tell her snootily.

‘You are sort of a door-to-door salesman.’ She retorts with a twinkle in her eye. She’s not getting me that easily, especially as I’ve already showered and don’t need to get hot under the collar…

It’s a long-running argument. I accept it might be more comfortable to wear casual sports wear on the few days we get any decent weather in this rain-lashed island, but you are just going to look like Alan Partridge or one of those dicks that run their own estate agency as if it’s their front room. Sitting there in slacks and a tank-top jumper, with some wheezing Labrador lolling on the office carpet as if it makes the whole operation homely. And don’t even start me on the knobs that wear designer polo shirts, loafers and artfully battered £200 jeans – it’s just distressing.

‘I just think you’d be more comfortable.’ She persists over breakfast, as youngest son raises his eyes to the heavens. He’s going to get a prematurely wrinkled forehead if he stays at home too long.

‘It’s not about feeling comfortable.’ I tell her absurdly as I pick at the dusty muesli she insist will help my girth and not necessitate that long-delayed move into the next waistband size, and a whole wardrobe full of new suits.

‘What is it about then?’ My wife presses. ‘You don’t want to be turning up in people’s homes hot and sweaty. I wouldn’t instruct an agent that smells of body odour.’

I take a surreptitious sniff under my shirt armpits. My son increases his frown line damage and moves a step nearer to early-application Botox. I’m fresh now, post shower and with the liberal use of under arm deodorant but come mid-afternoon, two sales fall-throughs, a duff survey and my third abortive valuation I might be a bit stale. Not stale enough to look like an antipodean bank manager though. Those television programmes where they follow families thinking of relocating to Australia or New Zealand still make me shake my head in bemusement. I shouldn’t watch them, but anything property related has a masochistic attraction. There’s always one partner driving the move on the back of some drunken gap year when they didn’t have three kids, a heavily mortgaged house to flog and limited career options. You should never go back. Bruce or Sheila have moved on and are probably bald or saggy and property prices are no longer in your favour. If you can’t make it in the UK it’s a fair bet you’ll do no better just because the sun is shining and you can barbecue nine months of the year.

‘It’s all about how you present yourself.’ I tell my wife as I gather my briefcase and pull on my jacket, already too hot, but refusing to compromise.

‘As sweaty and overheated?’ She replies, kissing me on the cheek with about as much enthusiasm as a blunt-beaked woodpecker.

‘I just know what I feel comfortable in.’ I tell her doggedly. Hoping the air con in the car doesn’t need topping up again. Is there a bigger racket than that industry? Apart from estate agency, obviously.

It’s my armour, I think, as I drive in to a slowing traffic queue and see the orange flashing lights of that bastard in a JCB digger who delights in travelling at peak rush hour time. I feel protected in a suit. It gives me that 100% wool carapace to keep the public at bay. To maintain a veneer of professionalism when sometimes I’d like to just tear off my shirt and go toe-to-toe with the latest time-waster, liar, or deal-wrecker that comes across my path. Like an anonymous Blog, the two-piece mix and match from Marks and Spencer keeps me at – long-sleeved – arms length from my life stripped bare. I don’t have to show the real person as long as I remember to do my zip up after pissing.

‘Air conditioning is leaking again.’ Announces assistant manager T when I hurry through the door red faced and damp with perspiration, mid afternoon. I’m not the only thing dripping. A bin sits in the middle of the office collecting the run-off from the overhead unit. T is sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up untidily. B, the lettings lush, is in a vest top and busty S, my comely negotiator, is just about wearing a flimsy blouse. The temperature continues to rise.

And I used to think I was cool.

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Back To Life Back To Reality - Tuesday

Walking across the park nothing much has changed. The detritus of last night’s takeaway meals look broadly the same. A scattering of branded boxes, some fox-stripped chicken bones and a selection of high-strength lager cans are strewn amongst the meagre flowerbeds. A lone council employee is over the far side in his dayglow jacket, poking disconsolately at the debris with one of those long-handled pickers that give the illusion you’re at arms length from a rubbish job.

‘Spare some cash for a cuppa?’ Pleads a scarecrow-like figure slumped on one of the benches, in a vast army greatcoat glistening with dew. The unshaven man has that look of despair in his eyes, the look I tend to wear on a Friday afternoon when the weekly stats are due and I’m still trying to piece together a deal that might save me from transmitting negative figures.

‘Sorry. No change.’ I tell the unshaven man curtly. It’s not exactly true in relation to the pound coins in my pocket but I’m guessing it’s spot-on when I get back to the office. The man mutters something unflattering behind my back and I only just restrain myself from spinning and giving him the Daily Mail readers’ rant about getting a job and taking some responsibility for a being washed-up failure, but I realise it’s too close to home.

‘Hello.’ Calls a familiar voice I don’t want to hear. ‘Been somewhere hot?’ I paste on my public persona smile and turn to see the hobbling banker. He looks like shit.

‘Holiday.’ I tell him with a thin smile. I can feel my skin starting to flake and I’m guessing the tan will be gone before the credit card bill arrives and I wonder just what I bought from an unknown shop, with such a poor exchange rate.

‘Alright for some.’ Rejoins the loan peddler. ‘I can’t afford to get away.’

Neither can I mate, particularly with a mortgage from your pension-plumped bosses, I think sourly. That’s why I’m heading back to the office hoping against hope they’ve had a decent few days while I’ve been away.

‘Somewhere nice?’ Enquires the banker, pleasingly struggling to keep up with my slightly brisker now, pace. Just another flyblown island where they’ve over-borrowed and overspend on property projects I feel like saying, but I just give him the destination instead.

‘Get a good exchange rate?’ He asks as we cross the road together and I see the office fascia looming ominously. Not for the pottery pieces my wife insisted on buying which were in pieces when we opened the suitcase. I give a neutral answer. You never know when you might need a loan, or another holiday - this time a payment one.

Nobody is in the office yet, as expected. I scan the window display looking hopefully for a batch of new, realistically priced, sole agencies and maybe a couple of freshly appended sold stc stickers. It looks exactly the same. Even the dead wasp is still slowly desiccating on the windowsill on top of those glossy corporate brochures extolling our group virtues. Brochures that no potential seller reads when all they want is a high price and a cheap fee. As office manager you like to think you’re the best salesman, so paradoxically and against my financial benefit, I’m almost glad they haven’t done too well in my absence, but then again... Sighing, I stoop to unlock the door. The alarm starts to sound as I wonder if they’d miss me if that dream of becoming a writer - or more likely the lottery numbers coming up - ever came to pass? Probably not. I’ve seen colleagues exit for varied reasons: greener grass, mewling maternity and nervous breakdowns. You’re quickly replaced.

Codes punched in, I notice a light bulb out in the window display and growl in disapproval. And yes, I spotted the weeds growing outside the office hadn’t been tugged up. Firing up my terminal I find my password no longer works. About the only thing that has happened judging by the manual copy of the stats I peruse instead.

And another piece of me dies inside.

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Love the Public - Wednesday

‘Good news.’ Announces assistant manager T as I enter the office having dodged the winos in the park, the Big Issue salesman and the traffic warden successfully. In this business good news, like punters, requires qualification. It’s really only good news when the sale has exchanged and completed, plus the cheque has cleared.

‘One of our competitors gone bust?’ I ask optimistically as I glance at the message book and see I need to ring bean counter boss. My mood darkens. How many times a week can he ask how the week is going? Just wait until the stats on Friday you figure-fiddling f***er.

‘No.’ Answers T. ‘Sadly not, although I hear that lot up the road have only three sales in their pipeline.’ I nod in appreciation, as T gets to the point and tells me we have an increased offer on a house I’ve been negotiating on for three, drawn-out, days. I should be delighted, but the owner has been less than enthusiastic and I sense they might be cooling on the whole process, something that might potentially cost me £7,500.

The first offer was admittedly £20k off the asking price and once I’d checked the buyers’ credibility; the finances, the chain and the state of progression, it was turned down dismissively, as expected. Sometimes a deal needs to “cook” a little. Too quick an acceptance from either party and doubts begin to surface. An extra £10k was the first revised bid; then yesterday I got within £5k of the asking price as the buyers began to needle in tandem with the reluctant sellers.

‘Full price offer.’ Crows T, before adding a premature. ‘Another one in the bag.’ He has a lot to learn about property and even more about human nature.

‘You don’t think they’ll turn it down do you?’ Asks negotiator S, showing more perception and a distracting amount of flesh with the low-cut blouse she’s wearing.

‘I just got the feeling they were getting cold feet.’ I say cautiously. ‘Sometimes they bleat for months about nobody wanting their home. Then when it comes to the reality, to an offer and the prospect of packing and moving, they panic.’

‘They’d be mad to turn it down.’ Persists T. ‘It’s the full money. They can’t.’

‘They can do what they like.’ Says loose lettings lush B acidly. ‘People jerk me about all the time.’ I really don’t want to take that conversation any further, so I retire to my office to make the call.

‘So’ I conclude. ‘After some tough negotiation we’ve got them up to the full price and of course they are in an excellent position.’ The reiteration seems needed because the resistance is almost palpable. I wait, silence being an old friend where negotiations are concerned. I’m rewarded with a heavy sigh before the owner says. ‘Let me talk to my husband’ We’ll think about it.’

‘It will put you in a fantastic negotiating position for your next property.’ I urge, needing some positive spin on what is fast becoming a dead wicket. ‘The trouble is, we’ve seen nothing that comes close to our house.’ Grumbles the woman. ‘I’m wondering if we’re too cheap.’

‘Five months marketing.’ I shout angrily, once I’m back in the main office and studying the computer screen, ‘Four adverts. Over five hundred unique web visits. Four mail outs. Twelve accompanied viewings. One broken for sale board and three days of negotiation and she thinks she’s we’ve not done enough for the money.’

‘The public always screw you over.’ Pronounces B rising and click-clacking towards the ladies’ loo. I can’t be bothered to take the easy points I’m so demoralised.

‘We’ve thought about it.’ Says the owner last thing when I ring, bean counter’s voice still ringing like tinnitus in my ear. ‘And we’ve decide to withdraw from the market.’

I try half-heartedly but the horse has long gone.

‘We won’t be charged will we? It’s no sale no fee.’ Says the woman rubbing the salt, before adding.

‘You’ll tell the buyers won’t you? We’d rather not speak to them again.’

Leave that with me. I’m an expert at disappointment.

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