Fashion Move To The Left - Monday

‘What in the name of God was she wearing, pyjamas?’ I ask incredulously, as a chavvy looking woman exits the office after visiting loose lettings lush B’s desk. The lady was sporting those baggy, floral patterned trousers that seem in vogue, despite only being suitable for supermodels with flawless figures.

‘Someone should call the fashion police.’ Says assistant manager T chuckling. I start to join him, then realise both B and S, my sweet-natured negotiator, are scowling at me in disapproval. Oh no, have I crossed another boundary that wasn’t there when I first started in the industry? Political correctness is more confusing than local government reorganisation, when they changed all the county borders.

‘They are quite fashionable.’ Says S, frostily, her stern look challenging me to disagree.

‘And commenting on people’s dress sense is sexist, anyway.’ Adds B in sisterly support.

I don’t think it is. I happily slag-off blokes who come in with slack tracksuit bottoms meant for exercising in, when they clearly have done nothing more strenuous than waddle to the fridge for the last six months.

‘It just wasn’t very becoming.’ I say weakly.

‘That’s sexist too.’ Continues B. I look to T for help, but he’s suddenly become very interested in his computer screen.

‘What’s sexist?’ Asks trainee F, appearing from the direction of the gents’ toilets after fifteen minutes. I make a mental note to leave if for a while, even though my bladder is firing off full-up signals.

‘He’s making comments about female customers’ clothing.’ Enlightens S, nodding towards me coldly.

‘Another shocker with a fat arse and those flowery leisure pants?’ Asks  F, perceptively, but not entirely helpfully.

‘And now you are doing it!’ Snaps S. ‘How are we going to change attitudes with neanderthals like you?’

That’s F out of the argument. He’ll be Googling neanderthals, with creative spelling choices, for the next twenty minutes.

‘I just don’t get the style, that’s all.’ I continue wearily. ‘They are not flattering and make people look like they are still in their bed-wear.’

‘It’s not for you to judge.’ Snaps B.

Just as well she doesn’t read the blog - that’s how I keep going.

‘Women can make choices without the patriarchy dictating to them how they dress.’ She continues.

I’m guessing she won’t be holidaying in Saudi Arabia this year.

I haven’t seen such a ghastly clothing style, since those terrible culottes things, that were worn in the eighties. But I feel I’m going to need to apologise again, just to ensure there’s no paperwork required by Human Resources and a re-education course to attend.

‘What are they called anyway?’ I ask, after making the necessary atonement.

‘Comfy bottoms.’ Says T with a giggle. I shut him down with a fierce frown.

‘They have lots of names.’ Answers S, ignoring T.

 Yep, and I’ve got a few.

‘But some outlets sell them as Lounge Drapes.’

Haberdashery shops and curtain makers I presume.

‘I don’t think you can call men sexist.’ Posits F, as I cringe. Really? You going down that cul-de-sac fella?

‘Why?’ Demands B angrily, ‘You are all inherently prejudiced.’

‘Well,’ continues F doggedly. ‘You can wear short skirts and sleeveless tops in a heatwave and we have to sweat our nuts off in suits and ties.’

I could point out at this juncture, that if you have actually perspired away your bollocks you might be able to wear a summer frock, but best not to open a trans-gender debate. We’ve only just enough room for two toilets as it is.

‘We’ve been oppressed for hundreds’ of years.’ Argues B, as I wish I’d never made the thoughtless comment and the phone would ring.

‘Well at least you are comfy when the air conditioning fails again.’ Chips in T, as I sense an unwanted sex war brewing. The fact is, women are more than equal in property and some of the most successful agents I’ve met have been female.

‘I read on-line that some firms allow men to come to work in cut-offs, if they are smart.’ Says F, to laughter all round.

I give him short shrift.

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Boys And Girls - Friday

‘Have you seen this ridiculous article?’ Asks assistant manager T, as I walk across the office fretting nobody is on the phone.

As I can’t see his computer screen, it’s not an easy question to answer. Hopefully he’s not on another frivolous social networking site, they seem to suck more time from a working day than porn portals used to - before they were blocked by our main server.

‘Here look.’ Encourages T, spinning his screen and showing me an article, surprisingly, with a property based theme.

‘What is it?’ Asks B from her lettings’ desk.

‘You’ll love this.’ Predicts T with a smirk, as I skip read the vacuous, poorly-researched article. ‘It seems lettings agents are inherently sexist.’

That’s all I need. Some things are just taboo in the new world of office politics, and now the porn has been made inaccessible it’s anything remotely, sexist, racist or disability related. I just hope T isn’t about to say anything contentious.

‘That’s f***ing bollocks.’ Snaps B angrily.

Terrific, I’d forgotten inappropriate language. The swear box is already getting hard to lift.

‘Why do you say that?’ Asks negotiator S, as she joins the nascent discussion, that might be heading towards an argument, shortly.

‘Because most lettings’ agents are women anyway.’ Answers B.

‘Women can be sexist too.’ Responds T, looking at me for some sort of support that isn’t going to be forthcoming. Since Lady Di died, I’ve not been interested in minefields.

‘That’s a typical male response.’ Argues S, her eyes alive with fire. God, she’s attractive when roused.

‘And that’s a typical female retort.’ Bats back T, as I sense I’m losing what little control I had.

‘Men get called out for decades of sexist behaviour and they start whining that it’s not fair.’ Snarls S. ‘You try getting wolf-whistled at, every time you go on a building site wearing a hard hat.’

It wasn’t me. I was talking to the site foreman, who also had a hard hat on.

‘What does the article say?’ Asks B, in a move I hope will defuse the situation. So I quickly finish reading the scant piece. Before I can deliver a verdict, T says to B.

‘Anyway, you are guilty of being pretty sexist yourself. You are always lusting after young male tenants and commenting on their butts when they leave the office.’

‘That’s different.’ Replies B.

I’m not sure it is.

‘This writer…’ I begin.

‘A woman.’ Interjects, T.

‘Yes, this writer, reckons she doesn’t get the same treatment as men when she tries to rent places.’

‘Probably doesn’t.’ Announces S, icily.

‘Says,’ I continue. ‘That she is patronised when she asks technical questions about boilers and maintenance but then doesn’t get the same discounts on the rent that men negotiate, when she comes to sign a tenancy.’

‘That’s got nothing do do with having tits.’ Spouts T, as I die a little inside again. ‘More like they are just big tits, and too stupid to get a deal.’

‘What do you think?’ Demands S, looking at me piercingly. I feel naked again. Not even a hard anything, to protect me.

‘Yeh, what do you think?’ Adds B.

I think women are usually the decision makers when it comes to choosing a home. I think women, if they stay long enough in the profession, are often the best estate agents. I think, women have more empathy and patience, as a rule. Something the tortuous property transaction process demands in spades. I also know, that women dominate the lettings industry, at least outside of London, as traditionally the lettings side of the business was seen as a junior partner to the sales operation. That’s been turned on its head in recent years. Probably why I seem to feel dizzy most of the time.

‘I think we are in an equal opportunities industry.’ I hear myself saying pompously, to groans of derision - both male and female. ‘It’s purely down to ability, who succeeds in this job.’

‘Yeh, but there’s a lot of pricks.’ Says B, unhelpfully.

‘Yes, and we’re often just treated as pleasant to look at adornments.’ Adds S.

Shit, I hope she hasn’t finally realised why I insist she sits at the desk nearest the window.

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Tinderbox - Thursday

‘Here comes the postman with the hots for you.’ Teases assistant manager T, as he peers up a rain-swept high street.

B our loose lettings lush, looks up hopefully, but of course T is referring to S, my nubile negotiator and pretty much the best thing in our window.

‘He’s just friendly.’ Counters S with a hint of a rising blush.

‘He’d like to be.’ Chuckles T, as he tracks the mailman’s progress.

‘Thought he’d be more your bag.’ Contributes fat mortgage man M, nodding towards B. I’m not sure if he meant the weak pun, financial services staff have a charisma removal as soon as they sit their exams.

‘She prefers them younger.’ Says T, to a scowl from B, a look not enhanced when he adds: ‘That way she can help them with their homework.’

That’s the problem when it goes quiet in the office. Idle hands, latent keyboards and silent phones leads to unnecessary frivolity. It’s why I always have a planned leaflet drop up my sleeve. You can’t have people enjoying themselves at work…

‘What happened to the postman’s bike?’ Asks trainee F innocently and momentarily I glance across at B. Fortunately she’s filing her nails again. I’ve told her, but if she wants to inhale powdered cuticle, that will probably surface in some study as a pre-cancerous trigger at some stage, that’s her look out.

‘Health and safety.’ Replies T with a shake of his head. ‘Some dyke in the post office human resources department probably didn’t like anyone getting their leg over.’

‘That’s sexist.’ Snaps S. ‘And a lazy generalisation of personnel people.’

She’s feisty this morning. Definitely some cobbled together claims of buyers waiting handouts, for nearby letterboxes, later.

‘What do you think?’ Asks S, looking at me earnestly.

Does she mean about the lesbians in HR, or the postman’s missing bicycle? It’s tough being in management these days. I have to keep abreast of quicksand-shifting legislation and I don’t do touchy-feely. At least not without a reprimand and another re-education course…

‘I think you shouldn’t make sweeping generalisations about people’s sexuality.’ I say rather pompously.

‘Or their mode of transport.’ Adds M with a rumbustious chortle.

‘God knows what it was like in this industry when you two started.’ Says S with a shake of her head.

I look at M and he gazes back at me.

‘You really don’t want to know.’ I eventually tell her, just as the postman arrives.

‘Morning love.’ Says the man breezily, ignoring B and making a beeline towards S’s desk.

She nods a little frostily. Not sure love is an acceptable greeting any longer, in a world where you have to be careful not to discriminate against peoples’ pet porcupines, in case they get - ahem - prickly.

‘Not much in your dangly bag today.’ Says T pointedly, as I fleetingly wonder if maybe the postie has spent time with B, after all.

‘Bit quiet at the depot.’ Replies the man, invading S’s personal space for longer than I’d like.

‘Did you need a signature or something?’ I demand.

‘No, just shooting the breeze,’ Replies the letter-lugger, with a yellowy-toothed smile.

‘That was a bit abrupt.’ Chides S after the postman has gone, looking rather crestfallen. God, you can’t win.

‘Those guys’ days are numbered anyway.’ Says M, with a hint of a belch. ‘It’ll be all email, and instant messaging before long.’

‘Or parcels in the DX.’ Adds T, referring to the private document exchange service beloved of solicitors and estate agents.

‘Change doesn’t come as fast as you think.’ I tell my team, glancing at the stack of A4 leaflets waiting to be hand delivered later.

‘That’s true,’ agrees T. ‘Or everybody would use those ridiculous on-line agents.’ 

The communal laugh-in rumbles around the office for longer than it should. But then if people think selling a home is just placing an digital listing, they will probably get the agent they deserve.

My phone pings with incoming messages. If it’s offspring they’ll want something costly, wife ditto, but it’s the bean counter boss bothering me with new technology.

I swipe left.

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Glazing Over - Monday

Morning meeting over, I loiter in the main office as my team set about the delegated tasks. Then negotiator S looks up and calls across to her only other female colleague, loose lettings lush B.

‘That’s going to brighten up our day.’ She announces and they both turn towards the window. Any hope of it being a punter with a suitcase full of cash – although with money laundering rules even that pleasure is denied – is soon forgotten. It’s the young window cleaner. They think he’s hot. So does he.

‘When he comes inside.’ Suggest B with a disconcerting chuckle. ‘Ask him to get right in the window display and clean the sills.’ B isn’t usually that bothered about the office appearance, but S confirms why.

‘You filthy cow.’ She says to B. ‘You just want him to bend over in those tight jeans again.’

Now I’ve had countless memos and ball-achingly dull courses reminding me that sexist behaviour in the workplace is unacceptable, but generally they’re generated by the humourless, sexless, women in the Human Resources department, and generally they’re aimed at males. Should I say something? After all, my risqué thoughts have to stay in my head, or at least wait until I write the blog.

‘Here come the soap suds.’ Announces B with a dirty laugh. And the women watch mesmerised, as the lithe lad smears the window with a foamy mix that hopefully will loosen the sticky pizza and puke combo in the bottom right corner. One I couldn’t completely flush away with warm water and the washing up brush, M the mortgage man uses to clean out his soup flask.

‘And bend, then stretch.’ Chimes S in a throaty, x-rated commentary that could earn her good money on an adult chat line. I might ask her to replicate it next time we have to ring round the mailing list to generate much-needed viewings.

‘You two are disgusting.’ Chides assistant manger T as the window cleaner re-appears with each confident sweep of his squeegee.

‘What?’ Challenges B aggressively. ‘You don’t letch after all the totty that comes in looking for flats?’

‘Or want to take them out on a viewing even though they can’t afford anything we’re offering?’ Says S.

‘He’s coming in.’ Announces B. ‘Look like we’re not interested.’

Too late for that, I think. I can recognise much subtler buying signals than the two women are emitting.

‘Morning boss.’ Says the lad towards me, before offering the females a broad smile and adding. ‘And morning lovely ladies.’ I can almost feel the atmosphere moisten, unless it’s the slosh of water he spills on the fake laminate floor as he stretches, as requested, to wipe the layer of dust and dead flies from around the corporate, guide to buying leaflets, lying underneath the displays.

‘How’s the search for properties going?’ Asks T brutally, as the snake-hipped cleaner emerges from under the halogen lights, with even more of a winter tan than before. It’s a cruel question. We all know the lad, on piece rates and self-employed with no more than a year’s accounts, will never get a mortgage. He’s more a payday loan kind of guy.

‘It’s you lot.’ He says in reply, stooping to mop the puddle on the laminate, just as I’m fretting where the yellow Wet Floor Hazard sign is. If someone goes arse-over-tit on site, the paperwork is endless and the accident book is used to prop the rear fire door open.

‘What about us?’ Asks S coyly.

‘You keep shoving the prices up. Making it impossible for ordinary guys to get on the ladder.’ A cheap joke about some steps and the outside fascia needing cleaning flashes by unspoken, as B says suggestively.

‘What you need is a more experienced Cougar to look after your housing needs.’

‘Scared the shit out of him.’ Jokes T, as the window cleaner exits, leaving a waft of aftershave and soap bubbles.

‘It’s depressing they all still think prices are our fault.’ I say as I spot a mark on the window he missed.

‘He’s a renter for life.’ Pronounces T, adding. ‘And he probably thinks a Cougar is something in the zoo.’

The mauling was nasty.

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