Foskett's Day

Earlier in the week
I sensed trouble the moment this power-dressed female literally blew into my office on Monday with a gale at her back and an excited glow to her cheeks.  'I've found just the place for my first buy-to-let investment' she gushed.  'My mortgage people say your Mr Foskett's the man to ask for a rental valuation, and of course I'll want someone reliable manage it for me.  When can I see him?'  Without turning round I could sense the smirk on my assistant Gracie's face but, dressed to heave 6 or more months' of dead files into the loft, I suppose I didn't exactly look the clean-cut Sole Practitioner the creature was expecting.  I soon regained the tactical high ground, however, by taking Mrs Blackwood into my inner sanctum and treating her to my well-rehearsed cautionary tales about buy-to-let mistakes made by all manner of innocent parties.  To no avail, though, and on Wednesday there I was, inspecting the property in question; Hangover House (it's actually called Hanover House, but even the briefest acquaintance with the assorted residents, all dedicated patrons of the off-licence next door, would justify the name-change).  What's worse, it transpires, Ms Smartipants had ALREADY AGREED TO BUY!
In fact, apart from the surveyor's report which condemned the wiring as a 'death trap', there turned out to be at least a dozen other question marks over the place, as a fit subject for letting.  I got not a single reassuring answer to any of them, either from the selling agents (surprise, surprise!) or from the lady herself when she came back for my report.  The killer though was that there was no way the best imaginable rent would cover her mortgage payments, even if the property was earning 365 days a year.  She came up with a clutch of 'improvements' she planned to make, lifted straight from the worst examples of the charming Carole Smiley's "Changing Rooms".  (I am beginning  to suspect there must be a training course to develop the participants' bad taste and financial incompetence in these programmes!).    Marketed by the estate agents as a 'delightful garden flat', the garden part clearly went missing some years ago, obliterated under a 6 foot square slab of concrete at the back - even a Titchmarsh would find that a real challenge.  I can't even see my most nonchalant, "I-don't-mind-where-I-live-as-long-as-it's-cheap"  tenant, Andrew Dobson, (who describes himself as an 'underground poet') settling very well into  three rooms that seem never to see the light of day.
I was nothing short of  brutal in persuading the blessed woman to go back to the drawing board; and very disappointed she was too.  Still, since she'd not merely agreed to buy the house, but solicitors had been instructed, I suspect the vendors will have been even more gutted than she was; and from the way Mike Alsopp tore great chunks out of me on the phone half an hour ago, I guess I haven't exactly improved relations with their estate agents either.  
Friday, 4.55pm
I am just celebrating the high point of the week in finally finding an appropriate inexpensive bed-sit for Andrew Dobson who has been pestering me relentlessly for a cheap room for over three months, when I receive the phone call from Mrs Blackwood saying that she has decided to go ahead with Hangover House and was placing the property with Jefferey Makepiece, our arch rivals just across the road.  Hey ho!
Friday 6.35pm
I thought I should attempt to lighten my mood before presenting myself to the Head Fairy, as an old acquaintance calls his nearest and dearest, and have a quick glance over the pages of the Snaildale Gazette - our local newspaper.  I am just glancing over the property section when the phone rings with an offer to sink a quick one down at the Flute and Flyswat. 
Normally, this is an irresistible invitation but today, I cannot think of an appropriate refusal in time. Jefferey Makepiece, my inviter, clearly wants to gloat over winning an instruction from us on the pretext of catching up on local gossip.  The last time I heard from him was when he boasted about hiring Marcus, our relief manager (who was subsequently 'let go' when he mistakenly let squatters into a flat belonging to the local Chief Inspector of Police).
As I lay down the paper, I notice the familiar foreboding lines of Hangover House advertised by Express Properties, a new rival firm staffed mainly by pock-faced teenagers.  And again by Retching Rentals and, as my eye wanders over the other advertisements, by just about every other agent in town too. Yes, I thought smugly, he's more than welcome to that can of worms.   A few beers at the Flute and Flyswat will go down nicely after all - he'll have the more enduring hangover.