Merry Christmas Everybody - Wednesday

‘I can’t hear myself think.’ Shouts a colleague I haven’t exactly pegged for a an intellectual mind. He staggers on, slopping a pint of gassy lager as he zig-zags towards the free bar. I’m back at the corporate Christmas party and the music is too loud, my dinner suit too snug. It gets tighter each year. I get less tight. The thought of how my head will be thumping in the morning outweighing the lure of limitless alcohol - another reminder I’ve been doing this too long.

‘F**k, there’s some amazing totty in here.’ Shouts assistant manager T, who has appeared at my side as if on castors. His pupils are widely dilated behind the designer glasses. I’m not sure it’s just beer doing that.

‘If you can’t get screwed tonight,’ Continues T with an unpleasant leer. ‘You haven’t got a pulse.’ He pauses and waves at all the young women in bright party frocks, then adds: ‘Or a penis.’ Before wobbling away.

I’m in the seventh circle of hell, only with a smarter dress code. Like most people, I don’t like mixing with estate agents if I can avoid it. This pulsing mass, dancing to what might be drum and bass, but could also be the digital equivalent of a needle stuck in a groove, are making me yearn for a quiet night at home with a lime and soda and some catch-up television. And to think I once tried to climb inside the PA rig at a Stranglers gig.

‘I’m going to shag something tonight.’ Slurs another voice, breaking in to my ear-buzzing melancholy. I look up to see M, my fat finance man has appeared, glass in hand. His stomach is battling to break out of a straining cummerbund and he’s waving towards the table where the Human Resources - or is it People Division now? - ladies are sitting.

I read a survey recently, stating those in accounts and personnel where the most likely to have sex at the office Christmas party. Odd, because our lot spend the other fifty-one weeks of the year trying to shaft us anyway. You’d think they’d want a rest.

I’m tempted to point out the objects of M’s ill-directed ardour are rumoured to be lesbians, but before I can, he slurs. ‘They might be dikes but that chubby one looks like she could be turned.’

I should be reporting him for this, but as he’s heading that way I think I’ll save myself an email and more grief.

‘Here goes nothing.’ Chortles M, as he departs towards a probable disciplinary and a shed load more paperwork. ‘I reckon I can get her back on the straight and narrow.’ Judging by his progress and the likely outcome, nothing is going to be straight and the only thing narrow, as his lardy arse departs, is his mind.

‘You not drinking?’ Enquires a disembodied voice, and for a moment I think I’m hallucinating, or maybe the strobe light has set off some sort of previously unreported fitting session. But I eventually realise H, my vertically-challenged rival manager, is looking up at me. Gin and tonic in each hand.

‘Pacing myself.’ I tell him.

‘Eh?’ he bellows , on tip-toes.

‘Never mind.’ I reply, only to find he’s disappeared towards the dance floor, where I spot S, my negotiator, looking achingly beautiful in a red frock. If he touches her, I might commit some sort of dwarf related homicide that would actually, briefly, make me happy…

Now, as the music jolts from unknown noise to the cheesy Christmas favourites, I feel pressure in my bladder. If I break the seal I’ll be pissing all night, but I can’t resist the pressing need. En-route to the gents’ toilet I pass the bean counter boss, sat at his table with a gaggle of his odious followers. I haven’t seen such uncontrolled fawning since Bambi took to the ice.

‘Condom machine is empty.’ Shouts some young buck I don’t recognise, as I’m greeted by the heady stench of urine and David Beckham after shave, in the toilets.

I’m too old for this shit.

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Festive felicitations to everyone, thanks for reading and may your chosen deity be with you.

S.A.

Dying For The Business - Wednesday

'She can’t cope on her own any longer.’ Says the middle-aged daughter conspiratorially. Her gummy-toothed mother is sitting no more than three foot from me me, in a moth-eaten armchair. I can smell the stale urine and body odour - I really should have spent longer in the shower this morning.

‘Of course she thinks nothing is wrong,’ continues the daughter as her mother rocks back and forth gently and daytime television continues to blast out at an ear-bleeding decibel level. ‘Imagines she is still a housewife and Dad is still alive.’ I’ve seen the upstairs bedrooms, definitely no sign of the old boy, other than the dip in the ancient bed where he lay for five decades.

‘You’re not talking about me are you? Bellows the mouldering mother over, appropriately enough, some property based drivel on homes being auctioned to amateurs whose pension fund isn’t performing.

‘No mum.’ Screams the daughter, before adding slightly less deafeningly. ‘She’s a stubborn old goat, we need to get her into a home.’

She’s in one, I think, unsettling reminders of my own parents’ later days whirring before me like the bad dream they became. I wonder if the other siblings will be bickering about what happens and who does what, in this house?

‘I mean look at the kitchen.’ Grumbles the daughter, as we enter the cluttered space and I curse myself for accepting a cup of tea. I want to spend as long as possible here to grab the business before some other cowboy does, but the thought of drinking from one of the numerous tannin-stained mugs lined up on the filthy drainer, turns my stomach.

‘Oh Mum you’ve been hoarding again.’ Chides the daughter to deaf ears, as she opens an over-stuffed cupboard and I spot boxes and boxes of cakes and slices, all the same type, all no doubt past their sell-by date. ‘She thinks she’s shopping for a whole family still,’ says the daughter ruefully. ‘Dad died ten years ago and my younger sister left in the eighties.’ Time flies when you’re having fun.

‘The garden is a jungle too.’ Complains the daughter as we look out on an overgrown plot. It’s like something from a fairy tale, only I’m pretty sure there’ll be no sleeping princess amongst the thorn bushes - possibly a decomposing pet or too, maybe even the dead Dad if they’re into those eco-burials with the wicker caskets. But no happy ending - unless you’re a developer.

‘There’s a possible building plot.’ I venture, before adding the usual caveats about time-spans, planning issues and up-front costs. I dislike most small-time developers who would love to buy this house. They all want a, cheaper than it should be exclusive deal, expecting you to be favouring them for the promise of future re-sales. I’m acting for the owner, not some slimeball who offers brown envelopes with cash backhanders – plenty of estate agents forget who the client is when sweeteners are involved. I could do with some sweeteners in the murky tea, I think, suppressing a gag.

‘We want her out of here sooner rather than later.’ Says the daughter. ‘I can’t keep coming in and the others say they are too busy and live too far away.’ Been there, done that. They’ll want their share of the proceeds soon enough though, assuming the old girl doesn’t outlive her capital.

‘Who is this?’ Demands the mother angrily, looking at me through rheumy eyes, as if for the first time.

‘The estate agent Mum.’

‘I don’t like estate agents.’

Join the club Grandma.

‘I’m not moving.’ Shouts the old woman towards me, when her daughter leaves the room. I smile and nod neutrally.

‘They’re all just after my money, ungrateful bitches.’ Continues the pensioner, making more sense that she has done so far. She’s possibly right, at least partially. I feel quite righteous only wanting 1.5%.

And then it comes. The old chestnut. She leans towards me. ‘Don’t get old will you, young man.’ Her eyesight is worse that her hearing.

She leans further and I get a waft of death and Dettol. ‘Everyone wants to screw you at my age.’

Ugh, I was thinking specialist housing, not specialist market.

 Still feeling itchy now.

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Parklife - Wednesday

‘Do we sell park homes?’ Asks trainee F, phone cupped ineffectively instead of on hold, as I always keep telling the numbskull.

If it’s a home set in a park, I think, yes we’d be delighted - if it’s an overpriced shed, not so much. But with new instructions to sell always a battle, I waver, despite the evidence of history.

‘Get some more details.’ I tell F having walked over and stabbed the mute button on his phone base. ‘Then see when I can go and visit.’

It’s a long shot. Park Homes, for the uninitiated, are what used to be called mobile homes until someone realised you’d get more money for them if you took the wheels off, hooked them up to a rudimentary sewerage system and provided electricity for daytime television viewing. In the United States, I believe they’re known as trailer parks, in the UK they are similarly trashy only without the need for air conditioning units. The parks tend to be populated by elderly couples who failed on the property ladder of life, or have downsized ill-advisedly, thinking a timber cabin with stick on rubber roof tiles is actually a bungalow, only cheaper, thereby allowing them to eat more than value meals and tinned horsemeat for the rest of their naturals. The beneficiaries are never thrilled.

‘So they’re, like, really good value?’ Enthuses F after I’ve given him the low down.

‘Not exactly.’ Interjects assistant manager T.

F frowns that bovine look that makes you think slaughterhouse and a humane bolt-gun administered to the cranium - no questions asked and only minimal paperwork for the Personnel Department.

‘Nobody will lend on a park home.’ Continues T. ‘At least not mainstream banks and building societies.’

‘Waste of time.’ Echoes fat mortgage man M as he seesaws past, masticating.

‘Cash buyers only, as a rule.’ Says T.

‘And they’re too skint to take out decent insurance policies.’ Adds M. ‘Property underclass. I wouldn’t have one if you gave it to me.’

He would.

‘Thanks for letting me come with you.’ Enthuses F, as I negotiate the bumpy track and see the Park entrance. A paint-blistered sign promises high-quality new homes from a price point I still consider expensive. I’m already regretting my generosity twofold; one by coming to value a timber caravan I probably can’t sell, and two for bringing the only type of owner these places will appeal to – albeit in about forty-five years time after F’s inevitable failed marriages and ineffective career. I really must look into registering as a charity. I’ve talked about it and there are plenty of empty shop units in the high street for a rent-free outlet. I just need to get round to the paperwork.

As I daydream and slowly motor along the cramped, weed-strewn lanes of shabby units, an officious little man with a goatee beard and an attitude problem steps in front of the car and holds his hand up, traffic policeman style. I’m sorely tempted to accelerate, but of course I don’t. Window down, I wait for the inevitable lecture.

‘Who is this?’ Hisses F as the sour-faced man walks around the car towards me.

The park owner, or warden to be more accurate.’ I whisper. ‘Little Hitlers most of them. He’s about to warn us nobody sells without his say-so.’

And true to form, we’re informed.

‘So you’ve met that grubby little man.’ Says the lady owner, as we sit in her open plan lounge, slight swaying motion as the wind whistles round the angles. She’s made the best of a bad job with a mock fireplace housing an electric fire, and a sagging sofa set arranged toward an ancient cathode ray television set with a digital box perched on top. It’s still a caravan though, just without the option to shift elsewhere that easily. I tell her we’ve had our card duly marked. The owner reminding us all the homes are on leases granted by him and that he has to approve any new incomers - effectively making the whole flyblown couple of acres his own creosote-coated fiefdom. Needless to say, he’s already offered to ‘buy’ the unit, at a price even I wouldn’t dare to suggest.

Moving on.

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Not Needed On Journey - Holiday Monday

The car is groaning on the springs again. I keep asking for the company to change it but it seems to have developed a mechanical empathy with me – I haven’t given it a pet name or anything, I’m not that weird, but I might miss its quirky character when they finally chop it in for something smaller, cheaper and sign-written with a company logo.

‘Don’t pick an argument with anybody will you.’ States my wife as the turning for the municipal dump approaches. I know the public opinion of estate agents isn’t stratospheric, but you’d like to think your missus would value you a little higher. After all we spend our lives listening to people wanting more than they’re worth…

‘They are just so aggressive and dictatorial.’ I tell her grumpily. ‘I mean where’s the customer service?’

‘They work for the council.’ She tells me. Fair point. No competition, heavily unionised and don’t need to make a profit was never the best motivator for a financially lean, successful operation.

‘Here we go.’ I announce as I turn into the depot and see they’ve added a further four or five skips since my last rubbish ordeal here. The boundaries have high, razor wire- topped fences and stark warning notices, referencing health and safety rules, items unsuitable for disposal and charges that will be levied for anyone trying to dispose of commercial waste, are everywhere. No wonder every country lane I go down is littered with fly-tipped tyres, washing machines and fridge-freezers.

‘How many public servants does it take to watch you struggle with heavy items?’ I ask facetiously, as I spot at least a dozen surly attendants in hi-visibility jackets following our approach with what can only be described as suspicion.

‘The trash Taliban have us in their sights.’ I tell my wife as I walk to the rear of the car and wonder what to dump first? It’s a wonder the dour-faced garbage guardians aren’t issued with Kalashnikov rifles.

‘Let’s hope they don’t realise you’re an estate agent.’ Says my wife as we both look at the opposition for sale boards I have in the car.

‘Do I look like one?’ I ask, gesturing towards my grubby gardening clothes.

‘Maybe an on-line only operation.’ She says chuckling.

Not funny. Plus they’re a false economy.

‘What you got there squire?’ Demands one of the two wardens standing by the steps of the general waste container. None of his colleagues have made any attempt to assist the people warily unloading their cars, despite me spotting at least two unaccompanied females and one old boy of pension able age struggling with an ancient typewriter.

We wait at the top of the steps like errant schoolchildren as our waste is picked over discourteously.

‘That’s for the wooden recycling bin.’ Instructs the more senior of the fascists, pulling out a worthless, pine compact disc rack. ‘And that’s for metals and that’s garden waste.’ He instructs, leaving my wife holding a sagging bin liner that she is told she must keep back, as she struggles to empty the remaining contents into the skip below.

‘Pompous pillocks.’ Says my wife angrily as we return to the car and I spot the polypropylene for sale boards of my rivals.

‘Welcome to my world, finally.’ I tell her with a wry laugh, as I wonder if there’s a deep hedgerow on the way home with a convenient lay-by alongside.

‘Old cathode ray televisions?’ I ask wearily, as my wife dumps the timber element of the for sale boards in the appropriate skip. I’m clutching my eldest son’s VHS/Television combi that a, no longer with us, relative bought him seemingly only yesterday. Everything goes back to the ground eventually - it’s just some items take longer to rot down.

‘You okay?’ Asks my wife as we drive away, the polypropylene advertising boards still in the back of the car. It’s no wonder women make such good estate agents. She knows.

‘It’s a bit sad round the back there.’ I tell her referring to the technological graveyard where, with a lump in my throat, I left my boy’s faded-blue 14-inch television set, along with my once prized Sony stereo VHS player.

‘Beer?’

She knows.

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