Ice Ice Baby - Wednesday

I pull slowly into the council car park, the only one I can still use without punitive charges that chase local businesses out of town, even as clueless councillors wonder why there are so many charity shops in the high street?

My wheels spin on the un-gritted surface. For a moment I think the company car is going to slide  rather gracefully into one of the disabled spaces that are always annoyingly free, while I circle endlessly for a space, post appointment. The doctor on call sign doesn’t fool the Nazi wardens who patrol here with zestful malice, as long as it’s not raining, so I might have to lift one of those Blue Disabled parking badges if we get to another deceased estate property before the distant relatives have stripped it.

‘Morning.’ Calls a familiar voice as I step gingerly onto the glistening tarmac, having found a free bay and placed the legitimate taxable-benefit permit in the window. I look up to see the disillusioned banker with the dodgy hips, parked opposite me. Great, now I’ll have to talk to him all the way across the park and on to the office. His job title is only one letter swap away from the truth….

‘Slippery.’ Says the banker as he shuffles towards me and I hope for some black ice and a tumble. The new implant can’t be that well bedded in yet, so a dislocation and a trip to A & E can only be a misplaced foot away.

‘Don’t know why they can’t put salt on the surface.’ I say to the banker, as we slip-slide in some ghastly approximation of Dancing On Ice, towards the exit.

‘Cutbacks.’ He answers, spreading his hands for balance like a cheap tightrope-walker. ‘Same at the bank nowadays, bean counters looking to cut corners, irrespective of the consequences.’

He has a point, my boss is a figure-fiddler par-excellence and to think we used to pinch the sandwiches from that geeky kid who excelled at maths, each school lunchtime. Last I heard he was running some multinational outfit who specialise in buy-ins and turnarounds. Shorthand for asset-stripping, a shed load of redundancies and a pension pot deficit. 

Our musings on middle-aged underachievement are cut short by a pitiful scream and a dull thud. We spin in unison and I make an unseemly grab at the banker's sleeve as my inappropriate brogues, with the leather soles, momentarily betray me. We steady each other like a pair of over-sized fawns on a frozen lake, to see another old person has taken a tumble.

We get several fallers a year outside the office and I always give out cups of tea and the meagre dressing our impoverished First Aid box will allow us to stock, now the health and safety bitches from head office have removed all the drugs and the scissors. I look at it as more of an investment than compassion that might alter the public perception of estate agents. If they croak in the ambulance, the family might find my business card in a handbag and give me the probate sale.

‘Are you alright?’ Asks the banker pointlessly, as we approach the old lady whose head is already bleeding alarmingly. She has a crimson stain spreading through her blue rinse and we can see her thermal underwear, with her legs at such an an ungainly angle. I’m no paramedic, but I’m guessing not.

‘I don’t want to get old.’ Says the banker wistfully, once the ambulance has gone and we resume our journey. It’s the same comment I get several times a week from ancient people contemplating selling the family home for something more manageable, with emergency pull cords in the bathroom. Pointing out the alternative is much less palatable, is always futile.

The park is as treacherous as the car park and I wonder why the council can’t supply those children’s Penguins, you see on ice rinks for stability, as people slide towards work. Probably spent the budget on a drop in centre for trans-gender giraffes with height issues.

‘You’re late.’ Taunts assistant manager T, at the office before me for once.

I let it slide.

-----------

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.

--------

Download the ebooks - links on the right - what all the best dressed readers are doing...