Estate Agent Blues

Bugger. A viewing at 2pm. Another right across town at three, then an annoying gap until 6.15.
What ever happened to nine to five?

The phone had been ringing non-stop all morning. There were next week's listings to collate, in preparation for the printers tomorrow. Contracts to pass on to Stevens and Bowen. Tenants in Rosevean Terrace to chase up – behind in their rent. Again. A meeting with Penwith Housing Association, something about...oh, what was it again...private sector landlords? That's right. Nominating prospective landlords on their books, to match up with home-seekers on PHA's register.

Great. As if she didn't have enough on her plate already.

And what was Barry doing? Nothing, as usual. Pissing about at his desk. As usual. Browsing on ebay, no doubt. Or playing solitaire. So what was it that he actually did? Other than sweat profusely that is – the dark, stained patches under his armpits, a constant shadow, even on the dullest of days.

Sandra was right over in the far corner of the office, but she still involuntarily wrinkled her nose.Could still smell, taste, even feel, the tang of his body odour. God only knows how his wife put up with it, because of course, he does have a wife. And a couple of bratty kids. How was it that fat, unattractive, boring blokes with bushy eyebrows, and offensive BO, still manage to find a partner?Get married, and do all that happily-ever-after bollocks? It was a source of constant bewilderment to her, how others found it all so easy. Loafing through life.

Some people seemed to have the knack. Not Sandra. She wished she did, but there Barry was – a constant reminder, of just how much she didn't.

She hated the way he leant back on his chair. Really hated it. Scuffed size nines plonked on the work surface, scrumpling the paperwork he should've been attending to. Why is it that he never appears to do any work? At least not in office hours anyway. Maybe that marriage made in heaven isn't so perfect after all? Maybe, he takes stuff home so that he can avoid having to spend time with her. Or the brats. Wifey probably can't stand his stinking, sweaty shirts either. Imagine having to share a bed with that? Rub up against a blubber-body the wrong side of fifty, smelling like...ugh, it didn't bear thinking about.

He wore naff, brown leather brogues; the kind with perforated holes on the uppers. Old man's shoes – the holes the same pattern as the mouthpiece of a 1970's telephone. She could vaguely remember one like that in the old office. Chocolate brown, in keeping with the tacky brown and orange décor. A brown not dissimilar to the colour of Barry's offending footwear.

At this point, Sandra drifted off into a bizarre reverie involving Secret Agent Barry; swirly orange wallpaper; some kind of top-secret mission; a laser pen; and a sexy, seductress villainess that sort of looked like her. Oh, and a shoe telephone. Get Smart had a lot to answer for.

J olted back to reality by the ludicrous warbling of her own mobile phone, Sandra made a mental note to change the ring tone asap. She cleared her throat, and bleated a faint 'hello'.

'Speaking. Fine, that's great... I'll pick them up later today. Thank you.'

Great. At least now I've got something to be doing between appointments, she supposed. But why, why the bloody hell why, do I have to fetch his suit too? It's bad enough having to make coffee all the time, but where in my contract does it say that I'm to be the dry-cleaning skivvy? And his suit – what a joke. Would've cost a bomb, but now the jacket's at least two sizes too small; straining to disguise the paunch of a middle-aged nobody. Yeah, yeah, so he runs his own business. Big deal. And has a wife and family...blah, blah, blah. So why can't she pick up his dry-cleaning then? Isn't that what wives are for?

Not for the first time, she pondered over the wisdom of having scrimped on the price tag of her own suit. A false economy. If she'd paid over the odds, she could now be wearing something classy, with a good cut and design. Tasteful. More importantly, it'd be made out of that space-age fibre that washes and goes. No delicate cycle. No ironing. And most definitely – no dry-cleaning.

But what was she thinking? Suits suck.

Sandra hated suits, in the same way that she hated it when Barry scooted over to the photocopying machine on his rollerball office chair. She hated how formal and restrictive they were. She hated how they reminded her of her dad. And she really hated having to wear a suit to work.

'It's what people expect in our line of business. We need to look the part, look professional. It's all part of the service, and reassures our customers – they know they can trust us.'

Blah, blah, blah...smacks of avaricious greed more like it.

At the end of each day, when she walked in through the front door, Sandra would shuck hers off like a corn skin. Peeling away the so-called layers of respectability. Removing the yellowy hairy bits that get stuck between your teeth: the assumption that you will do your job better if you dress like this; the excuses you can make for incompetence on the basis that you look right; and the intimidation you can wield, just by wearing the uniform.

Most people, take a shower in the morning to wake them up – start the day clean and invigorated. Not Sandra. She'd kick her shucked suit to one side, make her way to the bathroom, and stand motionless beneath a torrent of hot water. The hottest she could handle without scalding.