Bittersweet Home - Wednesday

Fifty-odd weeks of the year, there’s a game I play when not actually visiting their homes, or being polite to them in the office, that works well when people-watching. Try it, if you like, I’ve not filed for a patent.

Take any outside situation, be it cafe, park, beach or just avoiding the crowds in Oxford Street and ask yourself as people walk towards you, would I talk to them on holiday? It might be an indictment of me or more likely the general public, but ninety-nine times out of one-hundred, as I search for fashion sense, self-awareness and a hint of intellect in the eyes, it’s a big fat, badly-dressed, overweight no. So when you do actually go on holiday, be prepared for quite a few dinners for two.

‘Look at the state of that.’ I  whisper to my wife, as another obese Brit in unsuitable swimwear waddles past me at the pool.

‘Shhh. You are so judgemental.’ My wife replies. ‘They might be nice once you get to know them.’

‘I have to deal with knobs all day long at work, I’m not going to start conversing with them voluntarily.’ I say. ‘Particularly when you can actually see their knob.’

What is it with old men and Speedos? If I wanted to see wrinkled willies thinly-encased in over-stretched lycra I’m sure there’s a specialist website, but I don’t - particularly when I’m trying to relax on a sun-bed and read my Kindle in direct sunlight. And don’t even start me on thongs. If you meet complete arses every day of the working week, there’s no need to ever see another one.

‘Don’t you despair of the human race?’ I ask my wife, as I wave for another ice cold daiquiri - a sort of slushy for adults that I’ve become rather fond of. Well, as you can no longer drink at lunchtime in a working week, there’s something pleasantly decadent about getting quietly pissed, then sleeping in the afternoon, knowing everyone in the office is stressed and sober.

‘You just don’t give people a chance.’ My wife responds, wearily. ‘I do, I just don’t really believe in them until they exchange contracts.’ I retort. ‘Until then they are just another wastrel, who’ll probably go back on their word.’ Maybe I’ve been selling homes for too long. Bad surveys, bad solicitors and bad karma have sucked the optimism from me.

‘I mean look at this meathead.’ I hiss, as a tubby lad with a wife-beater vest struts by, clutching one of those ridiculous e-cigarettes.

‘You don’t mind looking at his girlfriend.’ Responds my wife, tartly. Busted. But in truth just as much as I was checking out her toned bikini-body, I was actually thinking, no I won’t be talking to you on holiday, because your partner is punching above his considerable weight and you, girl, have made some bad boyfriend and tattoo choices.

‘Why do pretty girls ruin their bodies with awful inking?’ I ask as the pair walk by.

‘So you were looking at her.’ Retorts my wife.

‘Purely in an observational fashion.’   

‘What other kind of looking is there?’

She doesn’t need to know.    

‘Now that’s a outfit only an Italian can get away with.’ I say later, as we escape the heat of the pool and check out the local town. I’ve been drawn, like a moth to a flame, to look at the local real estate office, much to my wife’s chagrin. A stylish-looking man has just sauntered out of the office in question. The olive-skinned bastard looked effortlessly cool, in a linen ensemble, that on a sweaty-Saturday in the UK, would resemble a rumpled dish-cloth after four fruitless viewings with time-wasters from Tewksbury, who will, only put their house on the market once they find something. ‘Ours will sell really easily, you see.’ No. I don’t.

‘Have you seen the piss-poor photos these Italians take, and where are the EPC ratings?’ I ask as I look in the dull window display with far less flamboyance than the just-departed agent.

‘You are ready to go home, aren’t you?’ Asks my wife.

Yes.

--------

Right To Rent - Thursday

‘She’s prickly today.’ I whisper to S, my negotiator, as I see B the loose lettings lush arguing with a young couple, at her desk. The pair are giving as good as they get, albeit in a sort of guttural slang English, peppered with language richer than they appear to be.

‘She’s been moody all day.’ Confides S, nodding towards B, as the heavily tattooed and heavily pregnant female she’s arguing with - an earlier production model in a pushchair alongside - starts to spout a line about unfair treatment. I grind my teeth. You don’t need accusations of that kind, no matter how false. The paperwork wipes out rain forests…

‘They can’t, like discriminate us, ‘coz we’s on the social.’ Spits the woman, as her neanderthal partner grunts in agreement. He has multiple piercings and a big ring through his nose that I’m thinking might come in handy if I need to lead him, forcibly, from the office. His tattoos are less inky than his girlfriend’s, but do extend up his neck in a fetching manner, that he might think fashionable, but pretty much precludes him from working in any public-facing position.

‘What a pair of retards.’ Offers fat mortgage man M, in a wheezy stage whisper as he waddles past us, en-route to the kitchen.

‘You can’t say that.’ Replies S, bristling, turning to me and adding. ‘Can he?’

Best not to tell her what I was thinking - pretty much a mantra to stick to all the time with S, as it happens.

‘They do seem a little agitated.’ I say to S soothingly. B is now spouting some line about her landlords not wanting tenants who don’t have their own income and employment, to cover the rent. It’s not an unreasonable request, and one I’d want to make if I could ever afford a second property as an alternative to my pitiful pension.

‘It’s f***ing guaranteed.’ Shouts the female, swooping to pick up the soiled dummy her child has spat on the floor. The chubby girl is too old to be sucking on the comforter but as her mother - and possibly her father - are still locked on to the State’s virtual tit, it seems ironically appropriate. 

Actually, when the state paid rent direct to landlords it was a fairly safe vehicle for buy-to-let landlords, but once the benefits were diverted to the tenants first, the problems started. The off-licence and the drug dealer, sometimes got the cash before the landlord. It’s a cliche, but most cliches are rooted in unfortunate fact.

‘You shouldn’t pre-judge people.’ Says S softly, as the argument continues across the office. My money is on B, if the two feisty bitches start to fight. I reckon I can take the pig-nosed bloke if it kicks off, he’s wearing enough ironmongery for me to get painful purchase.

‘We try not to.’ I reply in a conciliatory fashion. And I don’t; I’ve sold enough homes to scruffy-looking individuals who turned out to be loaded, just with poor fashion sense, to know that. But the endless stream of deadbeats, who seem to know more about their rights than contraception, are starting to test, even my loosely liberal, ideals.

‘They just need somewhere to live.’ Continues S. ‘It’s not their fault housing costs in this country are a joke.’ I nod in agreement. She is right, and successive UK Housing ministers who last about as longs as an epileptic virgin on his wedding night, haven’t helped the problem. But this angry couple must have spent six month’s worth of rent on their absurd inkings, they don’t come cheap. And the over-sized baby in the pricey pushchair has managed designer boots and pierced ears, before she has jettisoned the dummy and been potty-trained.

‘I tell you what, I’ll swing for some of these people one day.’ Growls B, after the punchy pair have left, and the office door still rattles in its frame

‘Couldn’t you have found them somewhere?’ Asks S.

‘Would you want scum like that in your flat?’ Snaps back B.

‘I haven’t got one.’ Says S, haughtily.

‘Hypothetically.’ 

Probably not.

----------

The Invisible Man - Friday

I’m early to the office again, so decide to pick up the post from the DX drop-off point. Document Exchange is a private postal system favoured by lawyers, accountants and a few quasi-professionals, like estate agents. Our collection point is round the back of a local solicitor firm’s rather gloomy offices. There’s a dank alleyway approach, where you sometimes find rough-sleepers and always hope it’s nobody you’ve evicted from their home.

As I near the venue, dodging the detritus of last night’s takeaway leftovers scattered across the road, the door is just closing. The drop-dead gorgeous receptionist from the law firm at the far end of town, is just leaving, arms full of bulky brown envelopes. I silently curse my luck, just being in the same confined space as her while we unlock our boxes, would have been a guilty pleasure.

‘Morning.’ I say breezily, flashing her my best smile - one designed to convey a friendly, non-threatening in a sexual way - bonhomie. She looks at me struggling for recognition. I tell her my firm’s name and who I am.

‘Oh, yes right.’ She answers flatly. ‘I didn’t recognise you.’

Great. I’ve turned into one of those middle-aged women who no longer turn heads in supermarkets and who would actually welcome a wolf-whistle from a building site, if they hadn’t been banned by the joy-stealers. The last time I was on a construction site the list of health, safety and welfare rules ran all down one side of the portacabin and the only pin-up was a boast about the zero accident rate tumbling from scaffolding.

‘No worries.’ I say to the fast departing girl, who looks as good from behind as the front elevation. It took me all this time to gain some confidence talking to the fairer sex and now all they see is an old bloke who might just be leching inappropriately….

I shrug and punch the four-digit code into the door entrance panel. Turning the handle and thrusting forward I nearly break my nose on the peeling door surface.

‘What the f••k?’ I bellow rhetorically, juggling the knob angrily. The door rattles but stays firmly locked.

‘They’ve changed the number.’ Says negotiator S, once I’ve rung her mobile phone.

‘Why didn’t they tell anyone?’ I ask grumpily. ‘ Did they send a f•••ing fax, or something?’

S laughs, knowing only too well some solicitors still communicate by the ancient shiny copy-paper system, then admonishes me for the expletive which will cost me another visit to the office swear box - and gives me the new number.

Inside the gloomy ante-room there are two walls covered in banks of square wooden boxes, each with a wider than average letterbox hole and a lockable door. I ignore the dank, slightly decomposing aroma, briefly wondering if another wino has pegged it behind the industrial-sized wheelie-bins outside, and open the company cubby-hole.

As I sort through the bulky manilla envelopes, keeping a keen eye out for any familiar franking marks that might be a lawyer’s firm I recognise, sending me a completion commission cheque, the door swings open again.

I look up to see another young woman, I don’t know come breezing in. She’s multi-tasking, by scanning her phone messages, frantically tapping some sort of response  - thumbs moving in a blur - and chewing gum. I can’t see any visible tattoos as she has a long-sleeve coat on, but if I was a betting man…

She might be another junior legal employee or even a negotiator for the latest bunch of cut-fee shitesters to open up in town. After all, in UK estate agency no experience or qualifications are required.

‘Morning.’ I offer, with the same smile that has failed once already.

She looks up startled - I swear she wasn’t even aware I was there until then - and gives me a scowl. I’m just passing pleasantries, I don’t want to shag you, I feel like bellowing, but spooling the scenario forward I can envisage a complaint, some sort of offenders’ record and a police caution, so I leave hurriedly.

I’m too old for this lark.

--------

Check out the Amazon e-book links on the right - you can see them....