for us three evenings a week. Much as the balance sheet is a glowing indication of Harding Homes’ success, the property
business is both fluctuating and somewhat seasonal and we get slaughtered by any social or economic downturn. We’re just coming out of the mid-winter crisis and very slowly prospective buyers
are starting to prise themselves out of hibernation, ready to face the property world and all the sharks in it. Or so they think.
For the time being, the salary overheads are right on their upper limit and an embargo has been placed on recruitment but once the sales pick up in the spring I fully intend to remunerate the
staff with some sort of sales incentive. Or commission bonus. I want to keep them and I want them to want to stay with me. Good management is all about satisfying your staff. Reward them with
thanks, encouragement and achievable incentives and in return they will serve you unequivocally. And if that doesn’t work get them completely pissed and they’ll love you forever!
Looking around, I note the odd jobs that need doing, simply to bring the office into mint condition. It’s nothing major but it is in need of a little touch-up. It’s been three years
since the upstairs rooms were painted. Both of them. We use one as the staff-room-cum-storage-room where the stationery, exhibition banners and photocopier live. The other is my office, used also
for client interviews, away from the inquisitive ears of snooping folk. With so much identity fraud, it doesn’t do to convey your personal details in an open room full of strangers. I
wouldn’t do it and I certainly don’t expect my clients to.
The premises as a whole comprises a large open-plan ground floor, with separate WC and a small storage room to the rear of the building, and the two large rooms upstairs. There is a small back
yard scattered with potted marigolds and pansies, which Mum kindly donated to us, in addition to a stained timber bench which was the congratulatory opening gift from my wonderful family.
Talking of whom . . .
Pulling up outside the large white detached house, I witness a driveway overflowing with cars, two of which I recognise, the rest not, but I would certainly like to meet the
owners.
My former home is today playing host to a Porsche Carrera and a BMW 5 series with a private plate. You wouldn’t get much change from sixty-five grand if you bought that.
Parking on the busy road in front of the house, I adjust the rear-view mirror, quickly applying a dab of Touche Éclat but going completely overboard on the lip gloss. You never know who
you’re going to meet or when, and yes, I was in the Brownies. You really do have to be prepared.
Hurrying down the long gravelled driveway, I admire the mature gardens and inhale the fresh scent of the recently mown lawn.
Sam and I had some fun playing in the front garden with the other kids in our street. Or ‘ road ’ as Mum would correct. “A street, darling, is for council
houses.” My mother, a snob without any just grounds, is part of the reason for my past shortcomings, or so I feel, rightly or wrongly. It was she who pushed me towards a media career. It
was she who was first in line to sign me up for dance lessons and it was she who managed to land me an agent at the hormonally challenged age of fourteen. I guess like a lot of parents they live
their dreams through their kids and by God was my mother ever the dreamer.
Talk of the devil!
“Christie. Darling.” She smooths down the cashmere sweater, fixing it just below the waistband of her tailored trousers. “Hurry up, sweetie, we’re all waiting for
you.” She is standing at the front door, bouncing excitedly. Her eyes are more alive than I have noticed for years. It’s nice to see.
“Hi, Mum.” I hand her the champagne. “Sorry I’m late, I had to call in to the office first.”
She grabs me, crushing me to her ample bosom, before roughly pushing me back to take in the view. How
business is both fluctuating and somewhat seasonal and we get slaughtered by any social or economic downturn. We’re just coming out of the mid-winter crisis and very slowly prospective buyers
are starting to prise themselves out of hibernation, ready to face the property world and all the sharks in it. Or so they think.
For the time being, the salary overheads are right on their upper limit and an embargo has been placed on recruitment but once the sales pick up in the spring I fully intend to remunerate the
staff with some sort of sales incentive. Or commission bonus. I want to keep them and I want them to want to stay with me. Good management is all about satisfying your staff. Reward them with
thanks, encouragement and achievable incentives and in return they will serve you unequivocally. And if that doesn’t work get them completely pissed and they’ll love you forever!
Looking around, I note the odd jobs that need doing, simply to bring the office into mint condition. It’s nothing major but it is in need of a little touch-up. It’s been three years
since the upstairs rooms were painted. Both of them. We use one as the staff-room-cum-storage-room where the stationery, exhibition banners and photocopier live. The other is my office, used also
for client interviews, away from the inquisitive ears of snooping folk. With so much identity fraud, it doesn’t do to convey your personal details in an open room full of strangers. I
wouldn’t do it and I certainly don’t expect my clients to.
The premises as a whole comprises a large open-plan ground floor, with separate WC and a small storage room to the rear of the building, and the two large rooms upstairs. There is a small back
yard scattered with potted marigolds and pansies, which Mum kindly donated to us, in addition to a stained timber bench which was the congratulatory opening gift from my wonderful family.
Talking of whom . . .
Pulling up outside the large white detached house, I witness a driveway overflowing with cars, two of which I recognise, the rest not, but I would certainly like to meet the
owners.
My former home is today playing host to a Porsche Carrera and a BMW 5 series with a private plate. You wouldn’t get much change from sixty-five grand if you bought that.
Parking on the busy road in front of the house, I adjust the rear-view mirror, quickly applying a dab of Touche Éclat but going completely overboard on the lip gloss. You never know who
you’re going to meet or when, and yes, I was in the Brownies. You really do have to be prepared.
Hurrying down the long gravelled driveway, I admire the mature gardens and inhale the fresh scent of the recently mown lawn.
Sam and I had some fun playing in the front garden with the other kids in our street. Or ‘ road ’ as Mum would correct. “A street, darling, is for council
houses.” My mother, a snob without any just grounds, is part of the reason for my past shortcomings, or so I feel, rightly or wrongly. It was she who pushed me towards a media career. It
was she who was first in line to sign me up for dance lessons and it was she who managed to land me an agent at the hormonally challenged age of fourteen. I guess like a lot of parents they live
their dreams through their kids and by God was my mother ever the dreamer.
Talk of the devil!
“Christie. Darling.” She smooths down the cashmere sweater, fixing it just below the waistband of her tailored trousers. “Hurry up, sweetie, we’re all waiting for
you.” She is standing at the front door, bouncing excitedly. Her eyes are more alive than I have noticed for years. It’s nice to see.
“Hi, Mum.” I hand her the champagne. “Sorry I’m late, I had to call in to the office first.”
She grabs me, crushing me to her ample bosom, before roughly pushing me back to take in the view. How
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