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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Hungry For Business - Tuesday

‘Could you do a viewing at lunchtime?’ Asks negotiator S as I come back in the office stomach already rumbling. The bran and suspect dried fruit offering I had at breakfast, in solidarity with my wife’s family diet, has proved an inadequate substitute for a full English.

I move towards the viewing book, before spotting S’s reproachful look. I shouldn’t be cherry-picking the viewings, not a great example to the staff. Treat them as you’d like to be treated yourself I think, as another unhelpful image of S treating me, as I’d like to be indulged flits through my mind.

The silence has gone on too long and as I’ve often told S, as well as the other team members, silence is a powerful tool in selling. Make your pitch then shut up. People always feel compelled to fill a conversational void. I’m paused halfway towards my target and she’s waiting, knowing, looking. Looking pretty good, as it happens. I crumble.

‘No problem. Where is it?’

She tells me, with the hint of a triumphal smile.

‘You’re kidding?’ I grumble, stepping to the diary and confirming the worst with my own eyes. It’s a grotty converted flat in a shabby part of town, currently let to a couple of scruffy students – although I suspect there are more than two occupants most nights. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had sub-let the couch and the carpet. The landlord wants to sell when the tenancy expires, but the current occupiers have no interest in helping him - or us.

‘Have you told the tenants?’ I say cursing this wretchedly misplaced socialist attitude towards my colleagues. A dictatorship works best in sales. I should have ordered someone else over the parapet and stayed at the back like a First World War General, sipping red wine and screwing the locals.

‘They are going to be out so it’s ok to use the keys.’ Says S a trifle smugly. I scan the other appointments, short of re-arranging the diary in an obvious ploy to avoid the smelly socks and unwashed dishes I need to go. I take a sulky walk to the key-cupboard grab, a set of the details and the viewers contact details. I won’t need the rape alarm, I think absurdly, seeing the spare unit alongside the other dozens of sets of keys, but I might need the flea-spray. I’m already starting to itch.

‘Oh it’s a bit dark and dingy.’ Says the girlfriend of the slightly effeminate, posh-vowel city boy alongside her. He has that weak-chinned overfed and overeducated look of someone used to privilege and spending his parents’ money. If he works for one of Daddy’s friends, as he’s unemployable anywhere else, I suspect they’re not paying enough if this dump is all he can afford for his weekend shag-pad.

‘The communal areas are due a spruce-up.’ I tell the woman with a smile I hope isn’t as sickly on my face as it feels looking out. They’ve been due a redecoration for at least three years but the residents are in dispute with the freeholder. He wants to appoint his own building company to do the work, then doubtless stiff the sinking fund with an over-inflated invoice. No change there then.

Dodging a couple of grubby prams, both empty this time, and a rusty bicycle, I reach the landing just as the light-timer pops off and we’re plunged into semi-darkness. Hurriedly I stab the button and the greasy landing light wheezes back to a low-energy, low wattage puddle – it’s certainly not a pool – of light. My stomach rumbles like a Tube Train passing under the foundations.

I tap the door than work the flimsy lock.

‘I’m really not sure about this one already.’ Trills the girlfriend with the double-barrelled surname. God, if he ever does marry her they’ll need a whole page in the phone book to themselves.

‘It’s nicer inside.’ I say then remembering how quick people are to sue now with all the no-win-no-fee shark solicitors around, I add. ‘Or will be once you’ve decorated to your own taste.’

‘Did they like it?’ Asks S on my return.

 Not a lot.

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Moving On - Saturday

‘The house feels empty again.’ Sighs my wife as we load the car with bag after bag of carefully ironed and folded clothes, more shoes than I’ve ever owned and an expensive collection of electronic equipment. The youngest son has gone on ahead to his second year University house, the next step to property independence after the hotel-like safety of first year halls. My life is flashing by in a blur. Soon I’ll be stopping complete strangers in the street and asking them to guess my age.

‘We’ll get used to it.’ I tell her as the sun catches her face and tears glint viscously. I’d cry if they never leave home, I think fleeting, until I realise I miss both boys when they’re away. I just don’t want them staying in their rooms, like some I see, until their fortieth birthday approaches. You’ve got to move on, even if it’s to an overpriced flat share with only one toilet.

‘The house seems so big with just the two of us.’ She continues in a downbeat tone. I’m supposed to be the depressive one. That comes with the territory dealing with home moves for longer than I care to remember. I don’t do jollying up very well.

‘That’s because there’ll be a lot more room by the time we’ve humped all this kit several hundred miles.’ I tell her trying for a laugh as I indicate the fruits of her three weeks of pressing, packing and list making. The boy won’t need to use the launderette or an iron until the end of the first term if he ekes things out carefully and does the underpants inside out thing beloved of students with an aversion to washing machines.

We drive in silence for an hour and a half as I strain to find something meaningful to say, and to see out of the back window. I just hope she’s not thinking of talking about downsizing the property. That’s the slippery slope to yearning after bungalows, a Spanish apartment for three months of the year, then a sheltered development with pull cords for when you are lying in a pool of urine wondering what day it is. The final one too reminiscent of many deceased estate flats I’ve seen – and my last boys’ night out.

‘It’s the circle of life.’ I tell her breaking the silence with something so trite I expect a Disney character to splat against the front bumper. I’m already pretty sure I did a hedgehog a while back, now I’m just hoping I won’t develop a slow puncture. This is deflating enough as it is.

‘What’s that even mean?’ Asks my wife with what I might term a prickly response, if it wasn’t for the unwanted vision of a slow moving mammal splattered down my offside paintwork. Might have to break another company standing order and whack the motor through a carwash. I’m already trying to calculate how to creatively account the private mileage form so I might as well go the whole…. Hog.

We pass the infamous Little Chef we stopped at on our first year trip to an emptier house and a fuller fridge. I accelerate on. Things are gloomy and another trip back to seventies dining hell I can do without. Fortunately the red and white battered building is single story, or they’d have cholesterol-clogged jumpers hitting the car park every lunchtime.

‘You have the map.’ I bellow at my wife as some arse in a giant four-by-four sounds his horn in anger and tries to enter my exhaust pipe. I’m straddling two lanes, just in case, and the lights are about to change before I know which exit I’m taking. The satellite navigation our son leant us dropped the signal as soon as we hit the built up area and now we’re into familiar territory inside the car and Indian territory outside.

‘So you meant the other left.’ I shout sarcastically, as I look for somewhere to do an illegal u-turn and realise with a sinking feeling I’ve been driving in a Bus Lane for the last fifty yards. Somewhere a camera is doubtless recording my meltdown for the record.

Smile.

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