On the home front (From Times Series)

On the home front

8:30am Friday 5th December 2008

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Last week I received a call from an organisation called Landlord Action. They were keen for me to write an article on a dodgy North Finchley estate agency that allegedly goes under a series of aliases in order to con anyone and everyone it can get its grubby over-fingerprinted mitts on.

Basically they wanted me to expose the people involved, undermine their business and warn all prospective clients of the dark dealings that lurk beneath their suave Savile Row-suited exterior.

"So will you do the story?" asked Paul, my source.

"Bring 'em on," I said, with all the Kevlar-laden machismo I could muster.

And I meant it. Because if there's one thing I hate beyond all other things - including Henry Kelly and washing cheese graters - it is dodgy estate agents.

Like with most things, there is absolutely nothing altruistic or heroically high-minded in my hatred. It is not due to a keen sense of socio-economic injustice or eagerness to mend the ethical and financial fissures of society wrought by corruption and deceit.

It's because I too am a victim and want to kick their weasley little arses.

My problems all began back in the summer of '06. Travelling to London to discover streets made of gold, I instead stumbled upon the Seven Sisters Road with streets made from stale halal and eclectic 99p toiletries. In the centre of this road, towering defiantly between defunct carwash and sink estate, was the object of my mission: the Red Rose pub, alleged ex-haunt of Rolf Harris, affirmed new home of yours truly.

My room above the pub – which seemed to double as a correctional facility in the day time and outpatient ward at night – was cheap, large and almost habitable. All I needed to do was to pop down to the Property Bureau office and sign on the dotted line.

A gangly blonde called Sally greeted me when I entered. Lacking the odd essential chromosome, her main job seemed to be keeping me waiting for no apparent reason and removing heavy objects from within my reach to prevent me from throwing them at her.

By the time the plaster of Paris replica of the British Library had found its way into the filing cabinet, Danny had arrived with my papers. Suspicious as I am of anyone whose name ends with a redundant "y" (which I tend to associate with clammy handshakes and shirts that give off static electricity), my fears were heightened when he casually mentioned that they wouldn't be able to issue a receipt for my payment today because the only person who could do it – Tommy – was off sick.

Glancing around me, I cursed Sally and her nimble fingers. I had booked this appointment a week beforehand and there was no other time I could come. Plus my flatmates and I had been waiting a number of weeks for the correct contract to come through the post and I had been told that this would be arranged after my payment was complete. Up until this point, despite the fact both my flatmates had been living there for nearly a year, two strangers continued to appear in place of them on the tenancy agreement.

Finally, with a little gentle persuasion, Danny brushed the crumbs of plaster of Paris from his shirt and managed to scribble down what I had paid, complete with date and signature. Success!

TO BE CONTINUED...

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