I had a studio flat in Wellingborough to look at today. I had arranged the viewing yesterday over the phone from work, for 1pm.
When I got to the street the flats were on I stood outside in the rain for fifteen minutes, until I was thoroughly drenched, watching up and down the street for signs of an Estate Agent in case I was waiting in the wrong place. I would know an Estate Agent straight away. They would be alone, in a medium priced car, probably young, definitely short-haired and clean shaven, and wearing a fancy suit and tie. The only people who look like Estate Agents are mobile phone salesmen.
I stood, waited, dripped, sneezed, wiped. The rain kept coming, but no Estate Agent appeared. I considered phoning them to ask where they were. But I didn't have their number with me. It would have to wait until I'd done the shopping and gone home.
As I was walking down the road I passed a second block of flats that hadn't been there the last time I spent any time in the town, and this block had the sign of the Estate Agent I was dealing with on a board outside, with the phone number emblazoned on it.
I phoned them. The guy who answered said he'd been out on the street looking for me for the last fifteen minutes, and he'd attempted to contact me at home before that. The building had an unexpected mould problem and they needed to reschedule the viewing so the workmen had time to repair it.
I agreed, made another appointment for next Tuesday. All the while on the phone I tried to sound as middle class as possible because the advertisement for the studio flat had asked for a "professional." Doing the rounds of the Estate Agents looking for somewhere to rent makes you feel as if your whole life were on show.
When you buy somewhere nobody cares what kind of scum you are as long as you have the readies.