Sat at the morning meeting, troops huddled round me in a protective semi-circle, overhead lights off to deter any pre-opening-hours nutters coming in from the rain. I’ve done the usual crosschecks before take-off. The review of offers pending and their progress, the delegation of appointments for the day depending on who I’ve deemed the most suitable staff member to attend, the run-through of recent viewings and the need for more follow-up of buyers, more feedback to vendors.
Blubber-boy M has said his almost pre-recorded piece about everyone feeding him more mortgage and insurance leads, in-between hurried mouthfuls of some ghastly grease-flecked bacon and brown sauce monstrosity. You can almost hear the man’s arteries furring up. And B in lettings has reminded everyone that she needs more landlords and less foreign students. All par for the course.
They all look at me expectantly, boredom and indifference just an undisguised look away, and wait for my morning add-on. It’s something I try from time-to-time, to stimulate some sort of sleepy-eyed debate before the phones start to ring. Not sure it’s working.
‘So,’ I begin ‘Did anyone listen to that radio four report on the way in this morning?’
And as soon as I utter the words I realise it’s a mistake. The looks have shifted from incipient apathy to a mixture of pity and disbelief.
‘You succumbed to the old people’s channel then?’ Mocks M as a thin film of un-solidified fat sprays across the desk and actually completes a vacant entry in the viewing book comments section. ‘I can accept radio two, but all that pompous drivel about politics and bankers.’
‘It was about the property market actually.’ I counter, tapping a favourite news page into the computer as I respond. ‘Another survey saying prices are on the up.’ Even as I say it I realise it’s a mistake and I should have just closed the meeting and headed for a much-needed second of the morning, piss.
Trouble is you end up just selecting the market reports that suit your purpose – buying or selling – and with surveys so narrowly drawn and supply and demand as fragile as a sixteen year old X-Factor contestant’s ego, it can only end in tears.
‘Those reports are rubbish’ Says negotiator S earnestly, her head shaking in tandem with her tits. ‘They conflict most of the time.’ I’m a whisker away from saying inappropriately: ‘Those puppies don’t conflict do they? They’re in perfect harmony.’ When I’m saved by assistant manger T peering at my just-loaded screen.
‘Look at this nonsense.’ He says tapping a long-nailed finger on the screen and leaving a mark. ‘Seems estate agents days are numbered.’ And he proceeds to read a piece on agents being doomed by the rise of internet search sites. A debatable point annoyingly endorsed by some dial-up-and-quote, supposed industry spokesperson.
It seems one in four agents have closed since the peak of the market, but then one in four deserved to I confirm, as the debate gets interesting and we forget to turn on the lights.
‘I’ve seen all this before.’ I tell the team with a world-weary shrug, as we read that the rent-a-headline spokesman has tried to use the hated Home Information Packs as a valid reason for not selling privately, or engaging one of the joke DIY property websites who provide a self-assembly for sale board - and little else.
‘Not much better than those cowboys who ring-up from your private sale car advert in the paper, and promise they’ve a line of buyers waiting for a late-model Trabant.’ I quip to universal confusion.
‘What’s a Trabant?’ Asks S, instantly making me feel my age and nothing else. I decide to change the subject, as I suddenly feel as redundant as an East German motor.
‘Take it from me.’ I tell them decisively, rising to hit the lights, which all start pinging and flickering into life apart from the one wretched tube that never works properly, no matter how often you change the starter. ‘Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.’
‘You not well then?’ Asks trainee F to universal groans of despair.
I’ve felt better.
Blubber-boy M has said his almost pre-recorded piece about everyone feeding him more mortgage and insurance leads, in-between hurried mouthfuls of some ghastly grease-flecked bacon and brown sauce monstrosity. You can almost hear the man’s arteries furring up. And B in lettings has reminded everyone that she needs more landlords and less foreign students. All par for the course.
They all look at me expectantly, boredom and indifference just an undisguised look away, and wait for my morning add-on. It’s something I try from time-to-time, to stimulate some sort of sleepy-eyed debate before the phones start to ring. Not sure it’s working.
‘So,’ I begin ‘Did anyone listen to that radio four report on the way in this morning?’
And as soon as I utter the words I realise it’s a mistake. The looks have shifted from incipient apathy to a mixture of pity and disbelief.
‘You succumbed to the old people’s channel then?’ Mocks M as a thin film of un-solidified fat sprays across the desk and actually completes a vacant entry in the viewing book comments section. ‘I can accept radio two, but all that pompous drivel about politics and bankers.’
‘It was about the property market actually.’ I counter, tapping a favourite news page into the computer as I respond. ‘Another survey saying prices are on the up.’ Even as I say it I realise it’s a mistake and I should have just closed the meeting and headed for a much-needed second of the morning, piss.
Trouble is you end up just selecting the market reports that suit your purpose – buying or selling – and with surveys so narrowly drawn and supply and demand as fragile as a sixteen year old X-Factor contestant’s ego, it can only end in tears.
‘Those reports are rubbish’ Says negotiator S earnestly, her head shaking in tandem with her tits. ‘They conflict most of the time.’ I’m a whisker away from saying inappropriately: ‘Those puppies don’t conflict do they? They’re in perfect harmony.’ When I’m saved by assistant manger T peering at my just-loaded screen.
‘Look at this nonsense.’ He says tapping a long-nailed finger on the screen and leaving a mark. ‘Seems estate agents days are numbered.’ And he proceeds to read a piece on agents being doomed by the rise of internet search sites. A debatable point annoyingly endorsed by some dial-up-and-quote, supposed industry spokesperson.
It seems one in four agents have closed since the peak of the market, but then one in four deserved to I confirm, as the debate gets interesting and we forget to turn on the lights.
‘I’ve seen all this before.’ I tell the team with a world-weary shrug, as we read that the rent-a-headline spokesman has tried to use the hated Home Information Packs as a valid reason for not selling privately, or engaging one of the joke DIY property websites who provide a self-assembly for sale board - and little else.
‘Not much better than those cowboys who ring-up from your private sale car advert in the paper, and promise they’ve a line of buyers waiting for a late-model Trabant.’ I quip to universal confusion.
‘What’s a Trabant?’ Asks S, instantly making me feel my age and nothing else. I decide to change the subject, as I suddenly feel as redundant as an East German motor.
‘Take it from me.’ I tell them decisively, rising to hit the lights, which all start pinging and flickering into life apart from the one wretched tube that never works properly, no matter how often you change the starter. ‘Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.’
‘You not well then?’ Asks trainee F to universal groans of despair.
I’ve felt better.
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5 comments:
'engaging one of the joke DIY property websites who provide a self-assembly for sale board - and little else.'
ummm isn't that why it's called DIY?
Aren't you worried about Sarah Beeney's website though? You should be.
Worried by the Sarah Beeny website? About as worried as I was by the Tesco and the Asda property shops. RIP.
S.A.
I'm waiting for Waitrose to set up a property shop actually.
Beeny's idea is a total non-starter. You'd have thought she'd have more sense.
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