Another week’s gone by at Rickety Properties and a very busy one, too. Darren is on holiday, which means that Call-me-Harry’s stress levels have been steadily rising with every telephone enquiry he’s had to take. Harry is normally shielded from all the crap by Darren’s formidable ability to take call after call after call from people who want to lease takeaway restaurants, shops, cafes and garages in the less than salubrious parts of Mordor. The big developments and therefore the big clients are handled - you guessed - by Harry himself.
When I said that Harry was taking enquiries, I actually lied. I have been taking the enquiries; call after call after call on a subject that I know very little about, guided only by the company website and whatever listing I have managed not to screw up since starting four months ago. Not only that: people have been dropping in unannounced - a pet peeve of every commercial estate agent on the planet, because we don’t operate in a shop front type of place, like in residential. Book an appointment! What makes you think that we want to talk to you? And so, every time some random punter lands in reception, I am shipped downstairs to meet them, armed with absolutely nothing save an empty promotional folder with Darren’s business card wedged into it and possibly - if they are very lucky - one single pathetic set of details of the one property that I am sure is not under offer, or hasn’t been sold or repossessed by the bank or demolished while we weren’t looking. With this sad display of information I have to then crank up the charm to the unsuspecting punters and apologise profusely for the fact that there is absolutely nobody remotely qualified to assist them and that my boss is hiding in his office, squirrelled away behind the safety of his wood-panelled chambers, and that he has no intention of speaking to anyone looking to rent a kebab shop in the slums.
Somehow, though, I have managed to survive the week. By the 4 PM yesterday, Harry’s mood was lifting, as the reality that he was going to be on holiday playing golf for the next three weeks was finally dawning on him. So as I said goodbye to him and wishing him a nice time, assuring that he could ring me on my day off in case he had any last-minute instructions to leave, he gave me a big hug and kissed me on the cheeks. And told me, jokingly, that I was in charge. Well - I thought to myself - I kind of have been in charge for the last week, and you’ll probably see your profits nosedive as a result in the next round of billing, but whatever.
And so from next week it will be a long-distance relationship, with the constant threat of Harry attempting to Skype in from the poolside of his Mediterranean villa. But Darren will be back so at least he will talk to the members of the public while I listen to Harry’s golfing exploits and re-arrange the paperclips in my desk tidy.
*Bearing in mind that Call-Me-Harry in a bad mood is the equivalent of most people’s idea of feeling pretty much on top of the world.
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