‘Do you mind doing the 2.30 viewing?’ Asks assistant manager T as he taps at his keyboard with unaccustomed vigour. I sense a trap immediately. Longevity counts for something occasionally.
‘Ok you got me.’ He admits with a resigned grin, once I’ve quizzed him on his reluctance for a jolly out of the office, one he usually strings out to include some window-shopping and a Starbucks. What? He thought I didn’t know?
‘The guy's a complete arse,’ continues T. ‘Arrogant city type, cash but no class. Thought you’d deal with him better.’
It’s a backhanded compliment at best, but I like a challenge and a cappuccino, so I pick up the baton.
‘Why’s he worse than normal?’ I quiz as I grab my clipboard and a set of details, after lunch.
‘You know the type,’ reports T. ‘Earning more money than is good for them. Bullying manner, thinks they can buy anything they want.’
‘Slutty girlfriend in-tow?’ Asks mortgage man M salaciously.
‘Almost certainly.’ Responds T to disapproving tutting noises from buxom negotiator S.
‘There’s no justice.’ Gripes M. waddling away, unpleasant friction noises emanating from between his lardy legs.
‘This looks overpriced.’ Announces the expensively clothed city boy when he unbends from a bulky Porsche of some description. It’s an ugly car and I’m in an ugly mood. You can’t often pick and chose buyers, but given the opportunity and more than one punter, you can influence an owner. Steer them in the right direction. The old boy in the rundown home I’m about to show listened to my advice on price and didn’t quibble on the fee. I’ve a duty of care to him I intend to uphold. Plus I already hate this pompous prat.
‘It looks like it needs a shed load of work.’ Gripes the overpaid man odiously, sneering towards the peeling windows and scruffy front garden.
‘It’s reflected in the price.’ I bat back neutrally, trying to mask my antipathy.
‘Yeh you would say that wouldn’t you.’ He sneers, as not for the first time I ponder punching someone in a spectacular resignation that would make me a local legend – at least for a day. Of course I don’t. That only happens in movies, where mortgages and Job Centre interviews don’t impact on a good story.
‘I’m so sorry about that man.’ I tell the wrinkly owner, when I go back inside, once the German monstrosity - with the obnoxious Englishman inside - has screeched off down the street in a cloud of burn rubber.
‘Don’t worry about it son.’ Responds the old boy generously. I warm to him all over again. He’s the sort of guy you’d like for a grandfather, plus he’s ancient enough to call me “son”. I just hope he’s not a paedophile.
With no time restraints I join the lonely man for a cup of greasy tea as we discuss how rude the last viewer had been. Openly and audibly criticising the décor and condition, as if the owner hadn’t been sat there in his worn and saggy seat.
‘That’s the way of the world now.’ Opines the elderly gent ruefully. In another culture he’s be sat on a mountaintop, sought out by youthful apprentices for his wisdom and knowledge. Here people piss in his garden and deposit empty Carling cans in the shrubbery.
‘If he makes an offer any less than the asking price, we should reject it.’ I advise confidently.
‘Don’t worry, we will.’ Agrees the man with a gummy grin. ‘I’ve met his type before.’ He seems to be enjoying himself; despite the fact all his relatives are either dead - or waiting for him to be.
‘Don’t know how you put up with the likes of him.’ Chuckles the old man as I say my goodbyes and promise to bring a better buyer next time - fingers crossed behind my back.
I’m not wise beyond my years yet, but I know more than the bank-balance-blinded prick in the Porsche does. He’s clearly never failed – yet. It’ll happen of course. Self-awareness only truly comes with setback and sorrow. Then again, regrets harbour like herpes, never truly go away, and are apt to flair up unexpectedly.
The ointment helps.
‘Ok you got me.’ He admits with a resigned grin, once I’ve quizzed him on his reluctance for a jolly out of the office, one he usually strings out to include some window-shopping and a Starbucks. What? He thought I didn’t know?
‘The guy's a complete arse,’ continues T. ‘Arrogant city type, cash but no class. Thought you’d deal with him better.’
It’s a backhanded compliment at best, but I like a challenge and a cappuccino, so I pick up the baton.
‘Why’s he worse than normal?’ I quiz as I grab my clipboard and a set of details, after lunch.
‘You know the type,’ reports T. ‘Earning more money than is good for them. Bullying manner, thinks they can buy anything they want.’
‘Slutty girlfriend in-tow?’ Asks mortgage man M salaciously.
‘Almost certainly.’ Responds T to disapproving tutting noises from buxom negotiator S.
‘There’s no justice.’ Gripes M. waddling away, unpleasant friction noises emanating from between his lardy legs.
‘This looks overpriced.’ Announces the expensively clothed city boy when he unbends from a bulky Porsche of some description. It’s an ugly car and I’m in an ugly mood. You can’t often pick and chose buyers, but given the opportunity and more than one punter, you can influence an owner. Steer them in the right direction. The old boy in the rundown home I’m about to show listened to my advice on price and didn’t quibble on the fee. I’ve a duty of care to him I intend to uphold. Plus I already hate this pompous prat.
‘It looks like it needs a shed load of work.’ Gripes the overpaid man odiously, sneering towards the peeling windows and scruffy front garden.
‘It’s reflected in the price.’ I bat back neutrally, trying to mask my antipathy.
‘Yeh you would say that wouldn’t you.’ He sneers, as not for the first time I ponder punching someone in a spectacular resignation that would make me a local legend – at least for a day. Of course I don’t. That only happens in movies, where mortgages and Job Centre interviews don’t impact on a good story.
‘I’m so sorry about that man.’ I tell the wrinkly owner, when I go back inside, once the German monstrosity - with the obnoxious Englishman inside - has screeched off down the street in a cloud of burn rubber.
‘Don’t worry about it son.’ Responds the old boy generously. I warm to him all over again. He’s the sort of guy you’d like for a grandfather, plus he’s ancient enough to call me “son”. I just hope he’s not a paedophile.
With no time restraints I join the lonely man for a cup of greasy tea as we discuss how rude the last viewer had been. Openly and audibly criticising the décor and condition, as if the owner hadn’t been sat there in his worn and saggy seat.
‘That’s the way of the world now.’ Opines the elderly gent ruefully. In another culture he’s be sat on a mountaintop, sought out by youthful apprentices for his wisdom and knowledge. Here people piss in his garden and deposit empty Carling cans in the shrubbery.
‘If he makes an offer any less than the asking price, we should reject it.’ I advise confidently.
‘Don’t worry, we will.’ Agrees the man with a gummy grin. ‘I’ve met his type before.’ He seems to be enjoying himself; despite the fact all his relatives are either dead - or waiting for him to be.
‘Don’t know how you put up with the likes of him.’ Chuckles the old man as I say my goodbyes and promise to bring a better buyer next time - fingers crossed behind my back.
I’m not wise beyond my years yet, but I know more than the bank-balance-blinded prick in the Porsche does. He’s clearly never failed – yet. It’ll happen of course. Self-awareness only truly comes with setback and sorrow. Then again, regrets harbour like herpes, never truly go away, and are apt to flair up unexpectedly.
The ointment helps.
8 comments:
Almost 300,000 confirmed views SA, congratulations!
J. McGreavey - Melbourne
Bleeding heart EAs! You lie through your teeth every single day. You can't stand someone who's honest or even worse a good negotiator. Go back to you pram.
BTw - any reason why you didn;t reply to my Tweet about how the asking prices compared to 2007? Of course there is.
Feeling the love from Melbourne, not so much from Mr Davis. Oh well one less Christmas card to buy.
S.A.
"Jobathon's" got a point though.
I don't see the same sympathy directed outside of that ever-shrinking population of people who can afford to move or sell their houses. There's generations of people under forty, well enough paid but entirely unlikey to own any kind of house until the prices fall.
Your industry is not in not quite so hermetically sealed those bankers and Kirsty Allsop have been opining in their ineradicable self-interest.
You have been, how can I put this, slightly complicit in the Zimbabwification of the housing market for 15 years.... Fair?
How much did that old bloke even pay for the house I wonder? £30?
Still, that porsche bloke does sound like a twat.
Well done with the 300 000 anyway! Well deserved.
Jobathan hates estate agents so decides to search for estate agent's blogs on the internet! Makes sense!
Henry Garden
I have no love of EAs - mostly unqualified, loud mouthed, shiny suited wide boys. However, I have been around long enough to realise that EAs are the sympton not the cause. The cause is the British obsession with the property market as a one way street to wealth and one-upmanship. Whilst EAs in other countries are not "cherished" they are rarely despised.
As for "Jonathan Davis BA MBA FCII AIFP FPFS" - financial planners are not much better given all the kickback stuffed miselling scandals over the years. Anyone who who choose to use that many letters after their name already has me franticly gesticulating with my hand!
yes, that's right | 'use' the letters. I didn't study for 19 years acquiring them? After Uni! Why anonymous? AFraid of your comments attributable to you? Why?
EAs are despised because they lie everytime they think.
Third time lucky trying to post this. Apologies if its three of the same/similar in a row. Jonathan Davis is a fruitcake. Only an asshole with an inflated sense of his own importance puts BA after their name. There's a rule among actual clever people that you don't put any letters after your name until you get to D.Phil, FRCS. or equivalents. This blog is about people Davis, which you would have understood if you had more than the people skills of a three wheeled shopping trolley. Now get back get in your cellar and shut up until 5Live need you to froth incoherently again.
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