Magic Numbers - Friday

‘So I read there’s a real shortage of new properties coming on to the market.’ Begins a prospective vendor as I sit perched on his sofa under the scrutiny of not only him, but also his wife and an evil smelling little rat-dog. ‘So what can you offer me?’

It’s beauty parade of agents time again and I feel like sobbing with frustration, although it could be the pet-hair allergy bubbling up in my eyes. It only takes a few relatively up-beat pieces in the media from vested interests to encourage owners back on the front foot. Not that my erstwhile colleagues in the industry help, pump-priming asking prices in an undignified scramble to gain always needed new instructions.

With as much enthusiasm as I can muster I run through my pitch, highlighting key selling and service points, turning to my visual presentation pack like an emotional crutch when I feel the couples’ concentration wavering.

‘Yes we know all that guff,’ interjects the man bluntly, totally blowing away the sanitised sales situation the trainers like to envisage when they are pushing over-priced identikit courses to our blinkered management team. ‘Just tell me how much you are offering us.’

It’s déjà vu time. The pair of mulch-brains in front of me have reverted to two years ago type, somehow imagining I’ll be wanting to buy their soon to be over-priced pile. My spirits drop faster than an alcoholic landlord’s optic, as they ignore my recommendation for restraint on the marketing figure and push for the most over-inflated number I can muster, without walking away.

‘I’ve read all about it,’ continues the man as both his wife and incredibly his dog nod in unison. ‘Asking prices up 4% at least, people fighting to bid, more buyers than sellers. I reckon we’re in the box seat.’

I really ache to tell him a few home truths. To let him know that mythical cash-rich Russians exploiting the parlous state of the pound wouldn’t look twice at his bog-standard Barratt box. To enlighten him that the rest of the country isn’t the same as the London market, despite what he’d like to believe. Vladimir and Svetlana, his nubile model/socialite/freeloader bride, may not have English as their first language but they sure as hell know the difference between Westminster and Wigan.

‘You do need to be aware of the difference between asking prices and actual selling prices.’ I cajole gently, knowing that too much honesty will only result in the opposition’s board in the front garden within forty-eight hours.
‘Ah-ha you would say that,’ Interjects his wife who I’m beginning to suspect is the source of my irritation as much as the dog. Perhaps I’m allergic to over-priced perfume as well as property. ‘All you lot want is a quick sale and a massive commission.’

Default punter’s position on the industry denied, I skirt the ludicrous price proposed by two of the other agents and gently test the water on my fee. And the man laughs in my face. Then his wife does the same only with the sort of sneer that could curdle milk. Then the bloody dog starts growling at me in empathy with his owners.

‘You’re way out.’ Announces the man haughtily. ‘I’ve been offered a full one per-cent lower than that, and they’ll defer the cost of that Home Information Pack nonsense until we sell.’

‘He’s trying to rip-us off.’ Snipes the wife in a heavy stage whisper to her husband as I prepare to be shown the door. I’ve been thrown out of better places than your timber-framed shack I ache to say. Instead I wish them luck and make a diary note to contact them again in twelve weeks, when they’ll be needing a real agent not some clueless kid with a commission-heavy salary, a suit from Next, and a calculator with one too many noughts on the readout.

‘Any luck?’ Asks trainee F breezily when I slump through the office door. He wouldn’t be able to read body language if a stiff was lying in the doorway first thing in the morning.

‘It’s not about luck.’ I tell him witheringly. Before exiting to buy a lottery ticket.