Heart To Heart - Thursday

‘Are we doing Valentine’s cards this year?’ I ask my wife in passing, the muesli has just moved and I’d rather not do my ablutions in the office.

‘What sort of question is that?’ Comes the terse reply.

I should know better. I tell my staff daily the phrasing of an enquiry is almost as important as the question itself, but I’ve allowed my lower intestine to override the grey matter.

‘Do you want to do them?’ I ask hurriedly, the en-suite door beckoning me as alluringly as that Victoria’s Secret catalogue fat mortgage man M has left on the windowsill in the gents’ at work. I’m beginning to regret my choice of words - and my water closet venue. The thought of fifteen minutes peace with just my thoughts, some of that soft and smooth tissue I’ve hidden in my desk drawer and a soft and smooth underwear model, is looking more enticing than an argument about overpriced soppy cards.

‘What sort of question is that?’ Carps my wife, disappointment written all over her face. It’s a look I’ve seen before and one I see on buyers and sellers faces alike, most weeks. I’m not doing well today and I’ve not even left the house.

‘If you have to ask if we’re doing cards and then compound it by saying, “do I want to do them?”, you’ve rather missed the point.’ Says my wife sourly. The point of something will definitely be emerging if I don’t make the Armitage Shanks soon. Sanctuary isn’t just for those being persecuted by fanatics, it works for harassed husbands too, as long as there’s a lock on the bathroom door.

I’m feeling relieved on more than one level by the time I’m stuck in traffic on the way to the office. I don’t need full-blown arguments before I get to work, particularly over an exploitative marketing man’s wet dream. The fact is I’ve never really got over the schoolyard trauma of Valentine’s Day. The humiliation of not receiving any cards while the good looking lad who plays for the first eleven football team bags more than the total number of girls in your class, was only surpassed by the year the whole maths lower set recognised my handwriting on the card I sent myself. Awkward.

I can feel my cheeks colouring just thinking about all the Valentine’s Days past, as I crane my neck and try to see if that bloody JCB driver is up ahead causing the tailback, again. It hasn’t been much better in the many years since leaving school, the sciatic-suffering postman repeatedly had no call for concern over his bag weights when he approached my letterbox every February 14th. And as my early morning altercation proved, a card from your partner, one headed: To my lovely wife/husband, doesn’t leave much room for mystery. 

The traffic finally clears, the holdup as bafflingly obtuse as the need to reinforce affection with a supposedly anonymous declaration of love from a stranger - signed by your spouse.

Morning meeting over, not my most rousing oration judging by the yawns-per-targets-missed ratio, I sit back and consider the grease-flecked cooling mug of tea in front of me. Then trainee F raises his hand tentatively. I’ve told him he doesn’t need to do that, but years of conditioning in a minor boarding school have stuck with him, a shame any useful knowledge hasn’t been that adhesive. I just hope he doesn’t expect me to sexually abuse him round the back of the bike sheds….

‘What is it?’ I ask, as everyone looks on.

‘Shall we have a sweepstake as to who gets the most Valentine’s Cards tomorrow.’ replies F, eyes aglow.

My verbal arrow to the heart hit the target. The rebuttal may have been a bit harsh, but negotiator S would win hands down anyway.

I did receive one mystery card a few years ago. Sadly, the long-awaited flush of pride soon evaporated when I realised it was from a pug-ugly woman I’d sold a flat to. Face like a moose and arse to match - although if she’s lost weight and had the antlers shorn….

I’ll wait and see. 

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Feel The Rush - Monday

Takes a while, in that semi-conscious time between sleep and waking, to realise what day it is. Then the irritating local radio breakfast show duo, my wife insists is the best way to be woken – we have been married a long time – confirm it’s a work day. Traffic already bad, several new sets of road-works.

‘You okay?’ Asks my wife as she pours out two more frugal bowls of some bran-based wood chippings that should lower my cholesterol, but as I can’t abide the stuff, not do much for my blood pressure.

I stop buffing my shoes vigorously and ponder the question.

‘Ask me later.’ I tell her realising I have black polish under my fingernails again. Nobody else in the office bothers to clean their footwear as fastidiously. But I know customers check out your shoes. Know a certain category of vendor will choose not to use you, if they see scuffed and unloved brogues.

The fact is the old cliché no two days are the same, couldn’t be more applicable in house sales or lettings. That sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach each Monday comes from a mixture of apprehension and adrenaline. If the day goes well, you’re King of The Hill, if it doesn’t you’ll feel as lonely and vulnerable as that first day of school, over and over again.

As I drive to work I can already feel the acid bubbling in my stomach – unless it’s the roughage starting to move from the fibre-heavy breakfast. One that promised to remove that bloated and tired feeling within five days. I should really ring the Trading Standards people about that claim, but we’re not really on the best of terms after that taped interview under caution….

‘Morning boss.’ Chirps assistant manger T as he arrives fifteen minutes after me. I’m feeling good. Two offers in the book from the weekend and a couple of promising – on paper – valuations for later. Should I call my wife and answer her question now while I’m the best salesman in Christendom, or leave it until after the day has unfolded? Experience says the latter.

‘New tie?’ Asks negotiator S as she bounces in bubbly and – well, bouncy. I’m flattered she noticed. Every day is a beauty parade of course. It’s why I sit S in the front window desk. But like the fat girl at a disco I don’t get as many offers as I’d like and those I do accept often pull out on me prematurely, leaving me unfulfilled and feeling rather dirty.

‘You seem much more experienced than some of the other agents we’ve had round.’ Says the lady of the house later. Her husband, newly retired and no longer the boss, nods in agreement. Take it as a compliment, urges my inner voice.

‘Bunch of snot-nosed kids some of them.’ He contributes to a look of admonishment from his wife/new line manager.

Despite myself, I like this couple. It’s an emotion I try to avoid. Even the best salesman’s resources are finite. Like the aforementioned big-bird by the dance floor, you can only take so much rejection. It seems to me the best salespeople have skins thicker than Rhinos and a reduced level of human empathy. Like my bean-counter boss, you need to treat people like numbers on a balance sheet – and I was never good at maths.

‘Now fees and your valuation.’ Says the wife briskly and I feel the bran regurgitate. At least she isn’t clutching a note pad, with columns to highlight the most absurdly optimistic asking price recommendation and desperately low commission rate. The sort of myopic owners who will end up with all the information and none of the insight only to realise they’ve made a mistake, several months later.

‘Come on.’ I shout at the car headlining, elation flooding through my veins; signed sole agency form on the seat beside me. Like a footballer scoring a winning goal, or that first time you realise the equipment in your pants can do more than just empty your bladder, I’m more alive than I’ll ever be.

The high can’t possibly last, not in an industry where one in three sales fall through.

I should ring my wife.

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Pipe Dreamers - Wednesday

‘Oh no, this won’t do at all. It’s nowhere near as nice as ours, is it Norman?’

I look at Norman, he looks at me and we both have that feeling of resignation. I just haven’t had the guts to pen the letter yet.

‘No dear.’ Says Norman with a ghosted look of apology in my direction. The house isn’t badly priced. It’s a bit tired admittedly, but then so is Norman - both worn down by years of exposure to uncontrollable elements. I need to move the couple on. They’ve booked three appointments on the spin with me, fortunately I have keys to all the homes and the owners are out. People don’t always take kindly to irritating time-wasters criticising their property in overloud stage whispers. I don’t need another stand up row.

‘These properties are so expensive here.’ Whines Norman’s wife in tandem with my failing drive shaft, as we cross town at the worst possible time to another, almost certainly, abortive appointment. You should look at some of their houses, I think angrily, as I pass an opposition agents board, one standing outside a property I valued and they priced 20% higher than my already bullish estimate. It still rankles, but I’m biding my time.

‘I don’t like the décor at all.’ Complains Norman’s wife dismissively even before we’ve left the entrance hall of property two.

‘You could change that dear.’ Suggests Norman warily.

‘Not at these prices.’ Snaps the dragon, as I suppress the urge to punch the woman, or at lease puncture her pomposity. She’s looking at properties in a dearer location than her own home turf and you might as well compare apples with pears.

‘No it’s not for us at all.’ Concludes the wife from hell, as I start to dislike Norman too just for putting up with her. I could show him a perfectly serviceable studio flat if he’s just grow some balls and divorce her. He’d obviously lose all his equity and half his pension but that would be the first price worth paying he is likely to see…

‘How are things going with your own sale?’ I probe as we move through the school traffic slowly. F my idiot trainee booked the viewings to this out of town couple and he told me, less than convincingly, that he’d qualified them properly and they were on the market with good interest. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.

‘Oh you don’t need to worry about that,’ scoffs Norman’s nemesis. ‘Our house will sell very quickly. It’s the best in the road.’

‘It is on the market though isn’t it?’ I say, sinking feeling returning.

‘No we won’t be wasting our time with that until we see something suitable.’ Replies the wife icily.

Not wasting your time, no.

‘The garden is no more than a pocket handkerchief.’ Grumbles the woman as I open the patio doors on the third house. I’m tempted to lay out a snotty piece of linen on the lawn, just to disprove her theory, only she hasn’t finished. It’s one I’ve heard a million times before but it still makes me want to scream with frustration.

‘Of course what we’d really like to do is pick our house up and move it here.’

Another piece of my soul breaks away. It’s delaminating bit by bit – a surveyor would ask for a specialist report.

‘You haven’t shown us the garage.’ Carps Norman’s wife, as he throws me a shrug behind her back. That’s because you have no intention of buying, I ache to scream but I can do without another complaint. The bean counter boss always favours the public – but then he’s only ever viewed a balance sheet. I lift the up-and-over door.

‘You wouldn’t get your Rover in there Norman.’ Decides his wife, face as sour as a lemon. No, but you could sleep in there when you’re in the doghouse Norm, I think angrily, nearly cracking my skull open as I slam the door.

‘And our dining room suite wouldn’t fit in any of them.’ Drones the wife as I drive them to the train station, Norman’s Rover obviously saving the wear and tear I’m taking.

It’s hard to stay on track.

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