Battle Zone - Friday

I’m outside a pleasant semi-detached house in one of the nicer parts of town. I want it on my books - but so will every other estate agent locally.

Preparation is everything in a sales situation. I have a briefcase full of promotional material, agency contracts, print-outs of suitable buyers I have registered looking for similar homes to the one I’m about to value - and most importantly of all, data on comparable properties sold recently.

I glance at my watch, then double check with the car clock. I’m at least fifteen minutes early after the last appointment turned out to be the biggest pair of time wasters since….well….since the previous ones.

In the days when I used to help train new recruits, before I was deemed too dated and dowdy, I would labour the importance of never being late for a valuation appointment. The owner - at least the house proud ones - would have tidied up and been looking at the clock for at least ten minutes before the agreed time. Run behind and turn up just five minutes late and your potential client may well have been looking out the curtains fretting about your arrival, for at least quarter of an hour.

This bitch clearly hasn’t though, I realise, as I look across the road and recognise a bitter rival’s company car. It doesn’t have the tacky paint job, or the corporate logo down the side but it’s just as conspicuous to me. Damn it. I’m on a beauty parade and having pulled down the sun vizor and checked a few moments ago, I’m going to need to labour the charity work and world peace angle. Calling it a vanity mirror was painfully accurate.

My mobile chirps insistently. I really need to change that irritating ringtone, but I’ll need to wait until one of my sons is back from University. I can’t have the office thinking I’m more of an inept Luddite than they already do.

‘Yes?’ I enquire curtly, seeing it’s the office calling. I was about to turn the phone off. You don’t want it ringing when you are half way through trying to convince an intransigent owner their home really isn’t worth the £30,000 more a rival agent told them they could get.

Negotiator S comes on the line, her soothing tones a loss to the Premium Rate phone industry.

‘Could you fit in a late valuation this evening?’ She asks artfully.

I can’t afford not to, even though it could mean another charcoaled dinner when I finally get home - and my wife doesn’t do barbecues…

I jot down the details, hoping it won’t be me and several other agents this time.

‘Did you know I was going to be in a queue of oily liars in suits, on this valuation?’ I ask S. She laughs.

‘What?’ I demand.

‘Well that sort of indicates you’re a greasy bloke in a three piece.’

As it happens, I ditched the waistcoat after too much ridicule from my unsympathetic team. In truth, it was too sweaty anyway. Nothing worse then reeking of body odour when you are trying to appear fragrant and professional.

‘She didn’t say there’d be others.’ Answers S defensively. ‘But then there always is, isn’t there?’

There is. Unless it’s a probate sale. The dead are less argumentative than the living, although the squabbling beneficiaries more than make up for it.

‘Do you know who is in there?’ Quizzes S, as I look at the dashboard clock and wonder how long to give it before I cut short my opponent’s sales pitch

‘The shitester with the zero-fade haircut and loud ties.’ I tell her sourly.

‘God, you’ll not be able to breathe in there for aftershave fumes.’ Chuckles S.

More importantly, I’ll have to push my suggested sale price to stratospheric proportions. The outfit the man works for are notorious for misleading sellers to secure a sole agency, before starting to work on big price reductions.

‘We reckon you should sneak over and let his tyres down.’ Says S mischievously.

It’s tempting, but knowing my luck I’d be caught on someone’s home CCTV.

I’ll just pull his for sale board down after dark.

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Rain On My Parade - Friday

‘They’ve got to be having a laugh.’ Announces assistant manager T dryly, as I hurry in to the office damply. My umbrella wasn’t in the car boot where I left it, but I can see it now, all primary coloured, golfy, sponsory and fashion-free, as it sits in the corner mocking me.

‘Who used my umbrella?’ I demand testily, but I know even as I say it. F the trainee with the single-figure IQ, is looking the colour of the rain-protecting freebie even as I scan the appointments diary and realise he was the last one to use my company car.

‘You used it to walk back from the car park earlier didn’t you?’ I state rhetorically.

F blushes a deeper shade of crimson, then nods sheepishly.

‘Why didn’t you put it back?’ I demands, vaguely aware I’ve gone off topic, but too soggy to see sense.

‘Uh, it was raining.’ Responds F.

No shit, Sherlock? Seems like a viable option, but if he cries again it will mean more paperwork and the involvement of Human Resources – the only sustainable boom in housing, or any other industry, from my experience.

‘To be fair,’ soothes S my negotiator, a woman who could pacify for a living – only without the giant dummies and over-sized nappies, that would just be weird. ‘How would he have got back from the car himself without being soaked.’

Sometimes you don’t need logic, even from someone as uplifting as S.

‘You need two umbrellas,’ slurs lettings lush from her cluttered desk. She sounds like she’s been daytime drinking again. ‘One to leave in the office and one to leave in the car.’

Everyone ponders that one for a while. After multiple furrowed brows, F begins to raise his hand.

‘Don’t.’ I tell him, as gently as I can.  After the last trip to the dentist I’ve got to cut down on the teeth gnashing.

‘I’m on a corporate jolly next week,’ Says rotund finance-fiddler M as he waddles across the office towards the kitchen. ‘I could see if I might snaffle a few of their golfing brollies.’

Who is it?’ I ask, still thinking I should be addressing something other than clunky rain protection, which inevitably inverts catastrophically the moment a breeze wafts above 1 on the Beaufort scale.

M tells me the lender’s name and I bristle.

‘There’s no way I’m advertising that bunch of shitesters,’ I snarl back, still remembering the mortgage offer they withdrew at the eleventh hour, on a chain of three sales. ‘I’d rather drown.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Says M unperturbed. ‘You won’t be wanting any of their goody bags with the free pens and pads either.’

‘No I won’t.’ I fire back primly. To be honest I’ve a cupboard full at home and now the boys are at university….

Finally it clicks.

‘Who is having a laugh?’ I ask T, turning to face him and feeling the crotch of my trousers sticking damply as I move. My shoes are soaked; the leather soles are slipperier than a politician on Question Time and my jacket shoulders appear to be gently steaming in the office warmth.

But my mind is already running through an Interpol-like suspects list: buyers pulling out, vendors wanting more money as the neighbour has just gone on the market for £20k more than they’ve agree a sale for, bad employers references, a 100% mortgage retention pending re-building works – the list is endless.

‘The buyers of flat 7 want a £15,000 reduction or they are pulling out.’ Says T wearily.

S shakes her head and her breasts go back and forth doing that well-upholstered Newton’s cradle thing again.

‘Remind me.’ I ask T witheringly. ‘Is this the same couple who pleaded with us to take it off the market and not show anyone else round?’ T nods. ‘And said it was their dream home and promised they wouldn’t let us down, that their word was their bond?’

‘That’ll be them.’ Confirms T.

‘Bastards.’

‘Any luck?’ I ask T after he’s spent the rest of the afternoon, trying to save the dying sale.

‘Owner won’t drop a penny,’ answers T, face drawn with fatigue. ‘Say they might take the flat off the market now.’

It never rains but it pours.

----

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Big Bang Theory - Monday

‘That’s the third for sale board that has gone missing.’ Says trainee F, look of puzzlement on his face. God why didn’t I see that when I interviewed him? He was the best of a bad bunch and if you don’t set a minimum standard for entry in to the industry I guess you keep getting in-bred public school boys not smart enough to be surveyors and solicitors - or chancers with the gift of the gab who didn’t pay attention at state school…

‘The time of year isn’t it.’ States assistant manager T. It’s not nearly enough to illuminate F. His face creases into the sort of frown I use for fractions and algebra. Some people dream of being naked in a public place, I just have nightmares about being exposed anywhere without my calculator.

‘What because the clocks have gone back?’ Questions F hesitantly. Oh for the days when you could sack someone with just a letter and a bin bag for belongings. I can’t face another session with the lesbians in Human Resources and the chairwoman of the industrial tribunal had a distinct dislike of estate agents. In fact all three on the panel did, even the token guy who supposedly had some experience of running his own business.

‘Never heard of Guy Fawkes?’ Asks lettings lush B, voice thick with sarcasm.

‘I don’t watch gardening programmes.’ Replies F in seeming sincerity. A stunned silence engulfs the office until a phone rings.

‘Fireworks night, you plonker.’ Says T as B answers her line and begins a fractious conversation with a tenant too lazy to turn the stopcock off herself, despite the woman downstairs needing an umbrella in her living room.

‘They steal the boards to put on bonfires.’ I tell F wondering, not for the first time, why I bother. If it takes months in a laboratory and half a ton of bananas to teach a chimp to push the right button, I’m not going to train F to function properly without another five years and my own greengrocers.

‘You see them in back gardens on waste ground, even at organised displays.’ Adds T. ‘Some they’ve had since they moved because the agents forgot to collect, some they keep out of spite because they hate the agent they bought through and others they nick in the night when they’re short of firewood.’

‘Loads of people dislike us don’t they?’ States F pensively.

‘It’s because the home moving process is stressful and adversarial.’ I tell F, wondering how much of a hit the office profit and loss account will take when the new board order comes through in a few weeks time.

‘The best thing to do,’ advises T. ‘is to hate them right back. Most of them wouldn’t put us out if they saw us burning. Make the feeling mutual and it’ll help you get through the day.’

I never knew T was becoming such a protégée. And I thought he didn’t care that much.

‘You do fireworks at home?’ Asks negotiator S looking me in the eye as I strive to reciprocate. I’m hoping her bra has some sort of super-strength carbon fibre inserts because there’s a strong gravitational pull going on.

‘Not since both boys went to University.’ I tell her wistfully, feeling old all of a sudden. There was a time when I was the youngest, sharpest, best salesman in every firm I worked for. That flame has long since guttered.

‘Do you remember those jumping jacks that leapt round your ankles and those hover fireworks that came at you at head height?’ I ask big mortgage man M. He shakes his vast jowls and waddles to the kitchen. ‘Before my time mate.’ It wasn’t - and he isn’t my mate. I turn to B who has just finished arranging the landlord’s plumber.

‘Don’t look at me either.’ She growls menacingly, as a line about old bangers spins wildly in my head like an ill-attached Catherine wheel.

‘Health and safety wouldn’t allow any of those munitions now.’ I say to the ether, a man out of time.

Rest of the day a bit of a damp squib too.

------

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Starting Over - Sunday

‘How long can we park here?’ I ask my wife anxiously as we pull up outside the faded grandeur of some semi-detached Victorian houses, now mostly converted to student flats. She studies the complicated sign that seems to offer residents permit parking at certain times of the day and free for all, subject to length of stay restrictions, at others. I’m baffled, but unlike my two sons I never made it to a University town, apart from to flog homes. I suppose it is part of the ageing process. Offspring get stronger, live longer and are smarter than their parents. At least if they get both get decent degrees they won’t end up estate agents.

‘I think we’ll be okay for a couple of hours.’ Answers my wife unconvincingly. It’s the sort of conviction she showed when left turned out to be right and a one-way street didn’t really work, if you were going the wrong way. I notice some curtains twitching and thank God the company doesn’t sign-write the cars or I wouldn’t park here at all. Youngest son appears looking taller and fitter than ever, pride and envy odd bedfellows.

‘You made it then.’ He announces by way of a greeting. He’s sat in the back for enough journeys to know it was never a given with my wife’s map reading and my patience. I answer in the affirmative and eye the steps warily. We have the car down on its rear shock absorbers and I’m the man who always tells punters doing your own removals is a false economy.

‘This is really nice.’ I say incredulously as I sit slumped in a leather sofa, back grumbling in tandem with my tummy. Boxes are strewn everywhere but this is still a high standard conversion, far superior to the first forays into the property market I made back in the eighties. Since when did students get picture bay windows, original fireplaces, full gas central heating and a huge 50-inch plasma television? No wonder they end up with thirty grand’s worth of debt. Thank goodness he didn’t opt for one of the comedy qualifications we always laugh at on CVs. If I get another graduate with a 2.2 in Theatre Studies or Event Management I’ll scream unconvincingly and lay out some trestle tables.

‘So this is like the nearest shops and stuff.’ Informs my son after I’ve crosschecked the inventory like an over-zealous astronaut on lift-off then noted the flaws on a snagging list. I’m the guarantor after all and if the landlord thinks I’m coughing for the iron-shaped burn on the bedroom carpet he can think again. We’ve walked into a secondary/tertiary shopping area, peopled by estate agents and take-away food outlets. The rents will be cheaper here and A2 and A3 commercial planning consent easier to obtain. I look inside each competitor and check out the staff. One office is having a meeting, staff grouped around the manager’s desk at the back. I grudgingly approve then move on to the cheaper operators where the telltale signs are shown by window displays with bulbs out and weeds growing on the forecourt. Cheap fee, cheap service I conclude.

‘I hate to say this but this is quite a cool shop.’ States my son as we wheel a trolley round a barn-like home goods store. He’s selected a beanbag, some matching duvet covers and a collapsible clothes dryer. It only seems like moments ago he was playing Pokemon on his hand held Gameboy. I’ll be getting mail-shots from undertakers offering funeral plans soon. I’ve already been insulted by the Saga holidays brochure arriving un-requested.

‘Afternoon.’ Greets a neighbour warily as my wife and I finish unloading the car, son already inside with a supermarket-sweep’s-worth of food and drink we’ve paid for. The man looks comfortable middle class and has emerged from one of the few houses yet to be converted. I’m guessing he’s hoping we might be moving in rather than three more teenagers with loud shirts, loud music and late nights a plenty.

‘Neighbours seem nice.’ I tell my son as I check my watch for the long journey home.

‘Not sure I’d buy here.’ He says

Not for another twenty years on current trends.

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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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Strange Town - Saturday

‘Don’t embarrass me Dad.’ Hisses my son with a line I’ve been hearing ever since both lads reached the age where they realised what I do for a living.

I’m in a strange town, doing a familiar thing. Amazingly the youngest lad has nearly completed his first year at university and already he needs to throw his lot in with a bunch of fellow grant-grabbers he barely knows and whose parents I’m going to be co-guarantor with. Time to choose a student-share house.

‘And don’t tell the landlord who you are.’ Adds my son earnestly, as we clamber out of the car and move towards the terraced house to meet the middle-aged man who is standing on the doorstep, looking officious. ‘Just let him do the talking,’ suggests my wife. ‘And don’t ask any technical questions.’

Terrific. I’ve finally found myself in a position where I might be the most knowledgeable person at a meeting - and not trying to sell something - and I’m not allowed to flex anything.

The area is typical university town, student ghetto stock. Tightly packed terraced homes, chock-full of cars, on streets that were designed for foot traffic, or the odd horse and cart at best. I can spot dormer windows and Velux roof-lights in the loft areas, where every bit of space has been converted to milk maximum revenues from minimum square footage. Greedy landlords at it again, I think, as I curse the fact I didn’t ride the buy-to-let boom myself. The yields here must be pretty impressive.

‘He’s already chosen it.’ Reminds my wife as my son does the introductions and the landlord greets us warmly. I’m looking for deception after years in the business, but he seems a nice guy. Seems. ‘Yes and I’ve signed the guarantee and I’m jointly and severally liable.’ I tell her, still wondering if the co-tenants are going to prove reliable enough to make it to the end of their course - and the end of the agreement.

I follow my family and the landlord up surprisingly airy stairs to the upper flat. One with three bedrooms and one bathroom, something I’ve reminded my son of to his obvious annoyance. His first year room had, of all things, its own en-suite. He’ll have to learn better bowel control when he finds someone in the bath for an hour when he needs a dump. But this place is turning out to be far from a dump.

‘This is way too nice for students.’ Gushes my wife to my annoyance, as we look round an airy lounge with a pretty bay window, original fireplace and most importantly a huge plasma television set with broadband router winking underneath. Enthuse too much and the landlord will put the rent up, I think defensively, as I start to scan for smoke alarms and wonder if I should ask about the pointless Energy Performance Certificate?

‘You’ll supply a detailed inventory won’t you?’ I ask, to looks of admonishment from wife and son. The landlord confirms affably, as I add. ‘And a gas safety certificate at the start of the tenancy?’

‘This seems too good to be true.’ I tell my wife softly as we look at my son’s room. A large loft conversion, with roof lights and twin double beds. I’m already thinking my homes for the first five years of our marriage weren’t as well presented as this. ‘Where’s the catch?’ I whisper to my wife, with the sort of mistrust of humanity my third decade of dealing with people and property has engendered.

‘God you’re so jaundiced.’ She says, with what I detect isn’t concern for my health.

We say our goodbyes on the doorstep as I wish I’d brought my calculator to work out just what sort of return the man is getting out of these kids - far better than on a conventional let of a family home in the area. But then the property is far better than I expected.

‘I bet you wish you could have lived somewhere like this when you were my age.’ Suggests my son, as despite myself I wave at the departing owner.

They learn fast, these students.