Friday 9 July 2pm: gripping a witch’s broom between my thighs in a dank basement car park at a prospective client’s shopping centre.
The things I do for GBH. Desperate measures are the order of the day. Especially if you own a 50-year-old secondary shopping centre, worth less than its annual business rates bill. The Harry Potter-mad fund manager who bought this dog back in 2017 tries not to sound desperate as he addresses us seven hapless agents.
We are here only because Mr P works for a huge fund manager. Me, because my boss has a nasty streak.
“I hear you are off to play Quidditch,” he snorted. “Plenty of pictures please!”
No chance; me and my fellow sufferers from CBRE, JLL, C&W have taken a vow: no shots of us with a broomstick between our legs waddling after a ball called a Quaffle.
“Come on, guys,” shouts Mr P, who has clearly been inspired by Canary Wharf giving over a floor of their car park to go-karting. “Quidditch could be a real earner here, push up income. Best player wins the instruction to sell this lovely, lovely shopping centre!” I charge grimly towards the stupid ball, then trip over the bloody broom. Who cares? Mr P is in denial, his job at risk. This place needs a wrecking ball not a Quaffle.
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