Mike: Your Day Of Change

I've got the brains, you've got the looks
Let's make lots of money

"Has everyone got a coffee? Right. Then let me tell you all about how it was for me on my own personal Special Day…

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"Fuck me! But I was feeling rough that morning. All my own fault? Night on the sauce? Well actually, sir or madam, I think you'll find there was blame on all sides. And we had something to celebrate, didn't we?

"So. It was half-six. Sun just starting to show through the blinds of my nice little loft. And me feeling rough. No surprise there. Not unfamiliar at all. But I wasn't expecting to hear voices. I hadn't had much more than usual and I'd stayed off the white stuff, like a good boy.

"At first I thought it was my phone. The way I worked it out, I'd left it on silent the night before. It must have fallen into the bed next to me. Believe it; I sleep next to my phone. It's life and death to me. Or more important than that. It must have gone off in dildo mode and woken me up and I must have hit answer automatically. That made perfect sense. And if it had been my mate Bigsy on the horn I'd have understood perfectly why it was telling lazy sod - i.e. me - to get his arse out of bed and into the office.

"Only it wasn't my phone talking. It was something my bleary eyes registered as small, sqidgy-soft and brownish-green. Which my phone most definitely wasn't. And the voice was female. Which Bigsy most certainly wasn't. What the fuck was happening?

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"OK. Let's go back a couple of months to when I first noticed there was something funny going on. Back to my old job at Twyford, Armitage and Shanks. It was like this - we'd all had a crack at number 23a Blenheim Ave. Me first, because I was the senior negotiator and I was fucking good. Three months and nothing. No interest at all. So the guvnor gave it to Nisha, the new girl. Give her a chance, he said. Earn her spurs.

"'Spurs?' I said. 'Fuck off! Like she cares!'

"Shanks looked at me sideways. 'What d'you mean?'

"'She doesn't like football?'

"'No, you plank! Spurs. Horses. Knights in armour. Not football.'

"I sighed. 'Yes boss. But she won't shift it. Not even if she was Joan of Bleedin' Arc. Are we done?'

"'Yes. Piss off.'

"Nisha didn't shift number 23a, Blenheim Ave. She tried, I'll admit that. She rewrote the prop des ten times. It was a work of art by the time she'd finished. But there was one problem. No, make that two. First, the place was a shithole. No doubt about it. Do you like the smell of rotting garbage? Good, because the main bedroom overlooked next door's compost heap. Enjoy the quiet life? Unlucky you, seeing as how there was a club full of long-haired Norwegian death metal fans doing their grungy thing just two doors down. Got a nice motor? Not for long, if you left it parked outside.

"Two reasons, I said. The other one? The vendor wanted one and a half mill and wasn't going to budge. 'Rising market,' she said, on an echoey line from Paraguay or Argentina or wherever it was she'd holed up. 'Do you take me for stupid?' she said. 'Sell me short, would you? You're all crooks, the lot of you.'

"Which I won't deny.

"So Nisha worked her cute little tail off and got nowhere.

"Which suited me just fine. Let me explain.

"It came every time - every time I was at some little drinks-and-a-few-nibbles thing in North Finchley, East Barnet or even bleedin' Crouch 'Practically Hampstead' End. I've met this babe or this guy with contacts and we've talked about the weather and had a moan at Blair and we're getting along nicely and I've got them a couple of drinks and some tosser's put fucking Coldplay on the stereo. Good stuff, eh? And good for business, whether it's pounds, shillings and pence or some horizontal hoopla. And then the babe or the guy in the Dockers asks the question. 'So Mike, and what do you do?'

"Over the years I tried every spin I can on this one. I'm an entrepreneur, a negotiator, a dealer, a consultant. I'm a placement specialist. And it never worked. 'Oh, you're an estate agent,' they said, and their eyes drifted sideways and they had to go to the loo or they just spotted old Charlie who they'd not seen for absolute bloody yonkers. And that's it, mate. No Charlie for you tonight.

"So we tended to stick together. Fucking incestuous, us. Which is why I was keeping my eye on Nisha, who was, no doubt at all, extremely tasty.

"She'd had number 23a on her books for six weeks before I made my move. Of course I'd been raising my profile in the meantime, but not so much as to put her off. Just little things - a favour here and there, let her drop me a tip or two. You know, professional but friends. Have a drink or two after work but don't make no move, boy.

"So when I asked her about 23a one slow afternoon she gave me that sad smile I liked so much and told me there was nothing doing and we might be going to lose the exclusive. As if I didn't know. I suggested we go round and take a look. Maybe it smelled funny. Perhaps the cleaners had been doing shit instead of moving it. Or we could check out its Feng Shui.

"We checked out its Feng Shui (I'd bought a book the day before). Nope, it was all perfectly aligned. We sniffed for smells in the kitchen. Nope, everything was squeaky-clean. I rubbed my thumb on top of the fridge to make certain. Sure enough, it squeaked. Ditto the bathroom. Ditto the living room. Even the stash of echhi behind the aspidistra (freshly watered) was clean, if you get my meaning.

"Guest bedroom? Check. Second bedroom? Double-check. Master bedroom? Now that required more attention. Much more attention. Attention which cute little Nisha with her cute little butt and her cute not-so-little tits was happy to help me out with. Happier than I'd expected, to be honest. And I'm always honest.

"We gave that master bedroom a close examination, one way and another. Nisha's enthusiasm for her job was most gratifying. 'You're an energetic lad,' she said, buttoning up her blouse. 'You bet,' I said, unbuttoning it again and throwing her back on the bed for a second viewing. And a full structural survey.

"I think I'd have applied for a mortgage there and then, only a sudden wave of tiredness swept over me and I flaked out on the bed just where I was. I hope I didn't squash my colleague too much. But as I drifted in and out the way you do after an especially vigorous workout I thought I heard a voice. A male voice. And mixed up with the buzzing in my head was the thought, Oh fuck, we've been caught. There's someone coming up the stairs and we're fucking shagged. But that made no sense, because it was next to me on the bed and what it said was, 'You silly, silly girl.' Which didn't sound much like the vendor or her agent, did it?

"I pretended I hadn't heard it and gave her another one. And then we went back to the office, grinning and smelling of sex. At least, I was. Grinning, that is. Nisha looked less sure of herself but that didn't stop us going back the next day. And the day after that.

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"It wasn't long after that first viewing that old man Shanks got a cat. Like we needed one. And fuck only knows why he needed one. But there it was, sat in his office, by his chair or on his desk. And him fucking stroking it, like your Nan does. I started wondering whether he'd lost it. How about a partnership for me, I thought to myself. My name over the door. My share of the profits.

"Look, I know what you say about estate agents. Parasite is the least of it. But I say it's business. And business is tough. Business is looking for chinks in your competitors' armour and slipping in the knife. Business is getting the best deal for yourself. Business is looking after Number One. You don't agree? Well fuck you, you hypocrite. Look in the mirror.

"So I kept my eyes open. I did business. I checked Shanks for signs of early senility. I shagged Nisha whenever the opportunity came up. Still - in those cosy post-coital moments I kept on hearing that voice, again and again, saying the same old thing. Silly little tart. What are you doing with that slimeball? Dump him now, why don't you. Polite, eh?

"And I couldn't see how a sparrow could've got into the flat, unless the cleaners were leaving the windows open.

- 0 -

"I walked into the office bright and early a day or two later. Early worm gets the bird, see? I wasn't the first, though. No, there was Bigsy my ol' drinking buddy (and handy in Lettings) sitting at his desk with an idiot grin on his face with some kind of rat on his left arm. Fuck me if he wasn't stroking it, just like the guvnor and his moggy.

"'You hold it and I'll whack it,' I said, grabbing a ruler and advancing on him with malice aforethought. Fuck me again if Bigboy didn't hide the animal in the pocket of his Burtons.

"'Clear off, Mike,' he says with some strange expression I've never seen on his face before. As if he was sorry for me, the bastard. And it was weird, because there seemed to be more animals around the place. In shops and pubs, and nobody minded. Sitting next to drivers in their cars. I saw a copper petting a squirrel in East Finchley, just as I was about to shift a dampish purpose-built to a nice young couple with cash-rich parents and no sense.

- 0 -

"And then it was that morning. Nisha had been losing interest in me, so we hadn't tested the master suite in 23a for a week or two. In other words I woke up alone. No, pay attention. I hadn't been sleeping at the flat. I was at home, though fuck knows how I'd got there.

"She'd only shifted it after all, the sly bint. Number 23a. To some Russian or Arab or something. For the full asking price. And I'd smiled and said well done and hinted that I might be up for some additional congratulations if she wanted. And she'd given me the sad smile and hadn't we moved on? Shit. I supposed we had.

"I slipped out of bed, shaved, showered and shat and got myself out the door. I still didn't know, you see.

"Bus to the office. Shanks didn't trust us to take the office cars home, though he convinced us he was doing us a favour, not making us liable for tax. He was a salesman too, right? So two stops on the bus; though fucking mobile zoo would have been a better description of it. The place was seething. Wings, jaws, claws and paws. And people everywhere with stupid fucking grins on their faces.

"Of course the office was no better. Everyone had got in before me. Every desk had a smiling cretin sitting at it and an animal standing, crouching or perching on it.

"'Go on then, Mike, you old wanker,' said Bigsy, waving some kind of rodent in my general direction. 'I've shown you mine. Now you show us yours!'

"'My what?'

"'Your familiar, you dick!'

"'My what?'

"'I think he means me,' said a small voice from my coat pocket. And something with a slimy-green face jumped out and oozed its way up my sleeve.

"'What the fuck are you?' I swept the disgusting thing off my clothes. It landed on a desk and at the same time I felt a funny twinge, like a toothache that's not quite happening yet but is going to give you fucking screaming hell before very much longer.

"The creature drew itself up on its four legs. 'I,' it said, 'am a Great Crested Newt.' I looked at it.

"'Where's your great crest then, you ugly fucker?'

"'I am a female Great Crested Newt. Therefore I have no crest. I do, however, have an attractive pattern on my underside. Look.' It rose up on its hind legs and showed me a sort of yellow splodge on its belly.

"'Christ, you're ugl…' And then it struck me. I was talking to some kind of lizard, sitting on a negotiator's desk at Twyford, Armitage and Shanks' main office. And it - she - was talking back to me. Clearly the triple Sangrias I'd been knocked back the night before were still running around inside my head.

"'What's her name?' asked Shanks, coming out of his goldfish-bowl office with that cat in his arms. 'Mine's called Marietta,' he added, as if I gave a toss.

"One more stupid question that morning wouldn't have made any difference so I asked it, right to the revolting creature's face. 'What're you called, then?' But before it could answer, Bigsy jumped up.

"'Asbo! Her name's Asbo! After what you got up to last night, my son, you fucking need one!'

"That did it. I spun on my heel - bad move - and made it like offski. I was out of it, and that fucking cunt of a Great Crested Newt could throw itself down the drain for all I fucking cared.

"I got nearly as far as the kerb before it hit me.

"Perhaps it was the booze addling what was left of my brain. Perhaps I wasn't as smart as I thought I was. After they got me into Shanks' office and I stopped screaming and they took the pencil out from between my teeth they explained how it was - that Asbo and me were joined together by a link that couldn't be broken. They handed the reptile over to me and told me to hang on to her, literally for dear life. After a while I stood up, lurched over to the door with the animal in my pocket and caught the Northern Line to Waterloo. I was buggered if I was going to walk around with a fucking lizard hanging round my neck. I'd show them.

"No. The bastards at T, A and S showed me. They followed me onto the Tube and they let me throw Asbo off Waterloo Bridge. They didn't stop me jumping into the river after her. Anyone would think they didn't like me, though I suppose they did call for help. After a while.

I must say the river police were quick. There'd been a lot of cases like mine, the frogman said, clutching his dolphin-familiar. Quite a few deaths. Nasty way to go. Standing orders to watch the railways, bridges, high buildings, that sort of thing.

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"I soon discovered that your familiar's form said something about you. Big shots got big impressive familiars. Policemen, soldiers and the like got dogs. Ordinary people got cats, birds, whatever. Bigsy got a rat. There was still some justice in the world, then.

"But slimy little amphibians? No. They were rare. And the funny thing - the fucking bollock-crunching thing - about it was that whenever I tried to move a bit of property after that day the punters would take one look at Asbo and laugh in my face.

"'Why don't you wear a sign round your neck?' said one bloke, leaving me standing on the kerb. 'It could say Greasy Lying Bastard on it.' Ha-fucking-ha.

"So that was that. All the sales jobs went to people with nice cuddly friendly familiars with nice fur and cute fucking whiskers, not stinking pond-life reptiles. I left T, A and S the following week. And for a while it was rough.

"I probably don't have to tell you this, but there's a fine line between doing very nicely thank you and being totally fucked. I was fucked. No job meant no commission. No commission meant no mortgage payments. And that special deal Shanks had set up for me so I could screw down the vendor on my nice little loft wasn't so special if I couldn't keep up my end of it. I was on the street within a month. Me and fucking Asbo pond-life Great Crested Arsehole.

"It was bad enough that she was repulsive to look at and smelled of stagnant ditch-water. But that wasn't enough. She had to talk as well. And not just ordinary look-out-you're-about-to-step-under-a-bus-let's-go-for-a-pint talk. Nothing so useful. No. She bloody lectured me. Like she was the fucking Voice Of God. Morality was her speciality. Being nice to people so they'll be nice to you. Or just for the sake of it, because it's the right and proper thing to do. I've told you already what I thought of that. And if it was true that looking out for me and fuck you was the only way to get by when I was in work it was even more so when I was dog-eat-dog out of it.

"I had it hard. I had pain. I had fear. I had despair. Like you. I tried to kill myself several times. I even had to sell my iPhone to buy food. That's how bad it got.

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"Just like it was for you good people here. When I started you off on this course last week I told you that total honesty is the only way you're going to make any progress, and it's true.

"Today I've told you the total honest truth about myself and my familiar. You're all sitting here in front of me today because you've been referred by your doctor or Social Services. All of you face being sectioned or being put on the risk register. All of you have dysfunctional familiar relationships. All of you had a Day Of Change that nearly ruined your lives. You're living in the pit.

"I've climbed out of that pit.

"This is your very last chance, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. The Twelve-Step Plan to a Fabulous Familiar. And I'm here to tell you - to show you - that it can be done. You see, whatever it is you face - humiliation, disgust, rejection - you can be sure I've faced it too. And I'm living proof that you can survive it. I'm a survivor. I've come back from nothing to running my own counselling business, which, I'll have you know, is doing pretty darn well. So can you, if you try. Your lives are stretched out in front of you like an open road.

"Are you ready to take the first step along that road? It won't be easy, but it will be worthwhile, I promise you. Yes? Ok, take out your familiar. Hold him or her in front of your face. Yes, that's it. Now, let's take Step One. Ask the First Question. We'll all do it together. Don't be afraid. I'll lead you.

"Right. I'll go first. Here we go. 'I'm Mike. Who are you?'

"You see, everyone? She has a name. The day I learned and accepted my familiar's true name was the day my life turned itself around. I firmly believe that today is going to be that day for your life. Now let's all say the names of our familiars - our darlings - in turn. I'll lead off…"