Cash Is My King - Friday

‘So this is your third viewing of the house.’ I say to the late-middle-aged couple I’m with, as we re-convene in the lounge after a lengthy inspection involving opening cupboards unnecessarily and an awkward moment in the vendor’s underwear drawer.

Of course I know it’s their third visit. I don’t spend precious time with people without qualifying them first. There are only so many hours in the day and literally millions of time-wasters out there. I blame Channel Four and its incessant property porn programming.

‘Yes.’ Acknowledges the husband grudgingly. ‘But we won’t be bounced into any quick decisions by anyone.’ Of course you won’t.

‘He’s always been cautious.’ Says the wife, with an apologetic grin.

Now I’m thinking how dull their sex life must be, rather than how soon I can get back to the office if they are not going to make a bid. Once you get past a third viewing and still don’t make an offer, the chances of a deal recede faster than Jude Law’s hairline.

This house will sell, that I know. The owners have listened to my advice on price, as they’re committed and not greedy. Other agents had tempted them with unrealistic valuations and an on-line outfit wanted the best part of £1,000 up-front with no motivation to do anything else, but the owners were experienced and sensible. If this pair don’t make a decision soon, I’ll find someone who will. But they are in a good position….

‘I understand you are cash buyers.’ I say as the couple prevaricate. It’s always best to double-check and our office idiot, trainee F, conducted the first two viewings.   

‘Yes.’ Says the husband smugly, adding. ‘You lot love that don’t you.’

Well, it’s better the offering pork bellies, or some smoke and mirrors digital virtual currency like Bitcoin, that I’m convinced will turn out to be some enormous Ponzi scheme when it finally unravels. Caveat Emptor.

‘Well if the money is in the bank and you are ready to sign a contract, unhindered by another sale, it puts you in a strong position.’ I say, by way of clarity. Although, some of the corporate estate agency chains would rather buyers used their mortgage services and pet conveyancing operations, as the secret profit kickbacks add value to every transaction.

‘Well it will be.’ Says the wife.

It’s not an audible alarm, but it might as well be. My heart sinks. Surely F has qualified this pair properly? We’ve spent hours with them already, plus  I picked them up from the station as they are obviously too stingy to cough for a taxi.

‘So, the money is not ready.’ I probe, as the husband scowls at his wife.

‘Once the sale goes through it will be.’ Says the husband curtly.

‘You’re selling another home?’ I ask, thinking if it’s not even under offer, I’ll probably enter orbit shortly.

‘It’s not a house.’

 Says the man, dismissively.

What then? Good god, is it a racehorse? A classic car, some pre-renaissance painting?

‘We’re selling a business.’ Enlightens the man. I’d have preferred them to be flogging Shergar - once they find him.

‘So not a cash purchase.’ I advance wearily.

‘It will be, once the deal goes through.’ Counters the man, peevishly.

Commercial business sales are infamously long-winded, as buyers and sellers argue over premises, stock and that notoriously hard to value, goodwill element. A buyer in a matrimonial sale would be, statistically, more likely to perform than this pair. I can find a better buyer for my client. I just can.

‘What time is your train?’ I ask flatly, as we head back towards the station.

‘Oh not for another couple of hours.’ Says the wife. ‘We were wondering if you could drop us off at one of your competitors, we’ve a viewing booked with them in fifteen minutes.’

‘Where’s F?’ I demand angrily when I get back to the office. I’m pretty sure the couple’s train will be diesel, or electric, but if not I’ve raised enough steam to power the Flying f***ing Scotsman.

‘Out to lunch.’ Says negotiator S, warily.

Permanently.

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Gardener's World - Monday

‘Got a valuation for you after lunch.’ Announces assistant manager T, as I come back to the office. I raise an inquisitive eyebrow.

‘What?’ Asks T.

‘You didn’t want to do it yourself?’

‘More your age demographic.’ Answers T. ‘Thought you’d have things in common, form a bond, get the business, that sort of thing.’

It’s a theory. I do try and send the right person for the right job wherever possible, matching the younger punters to our fresher-faced staff, the older clients who want experience and a few grey hairs to myself and the gay couples to the prettiest staff member of the same sex. Only, I can’t help feeling T is just being lazy again. You could put a sloth in a tractor and it would have more drive than T.

‘Where’s the valuation form?’ I ask.

‘On your desk.’ Says T.

‘Any chance of a cuppa?’ I say, heading for the aforementioned paperwork. There’s a silence that becomes uncomfortable as people find renewed interest in their computer screens. I pick up the valuation form, then head for the kitchen.

‘Anyone else?’ I shout, as I fill the kettle, while reading the detail T has garnered. A chorus of yes pleases echoes back at me. Terrific. When I first started in this job the junior did all the refreshment making, photocopying and envelope filling. My man of the people, don’t ask anyone to do anything you wouldn’t do schtick, is possibly being taken for granted.

‘I think I know this house.’ I announce, with the valuation form tucked under my arm, as I bring back a tray of steaming teas and coffees.’

‘They said they thought they might know you.’ Says T, grabbing his personalised mug.

‘They were about your age group.’ Adds negotiator S, taking her coffee, with a disarming smile.

‘Ageing well, like George Clooney?’ I ask hopefully.

‘Nah, just old.’ Says trainee F, with a chortle.

Leaflet drop for him later.

‘Think it’s the house on the corner, with the pampas grass outside.’ I muse, out loud, as I scan the form.

‘Hah!’ Exclaims, loose lettings lush B, from her desk. ‘You know what that means.’

‘What?’ Asks T, as I grimace.

‘That they’re a pair of swingers.’ Says B, with authority - and she should know.

‘Golfers?’ Quizzes F, with a frown.

‘Not exactly love,’ says B. ‘Although they do like a good bunker-up.’

I’ve known for some time, the rumour that those who plant pampas grass in their front garden might be swingers, I can only imagine the confusion it can cause with less well-informed gardeners, who keep getting unwanted callers offering services other than window cleaning and tree-trimming. 

‘So what is a swinger?’ Presses F, as the others giggle.

‘Well it’s nothing to do with those children’s play-things at the park.’ Says T, before adding with a frown. ‘At least I hope not.’

‘Wife swappers.’ Enlightens fat finance man M, joining the conversation.

‘Only not like your missus.’ Says T unhelpfully. ‘She just traded you in for a younger, thinner model.’

‘F••k off.’ Spits M. 

Think I’ll let him off the swear box for that one.

‘So not like the old TV programme on Channel Four?’ Asks F. 

‘That was more about exchanging lifestyles, love.’ Says S.

‘Not fluids.’ Adds T, with a smirk.

‘Yuck.’ Announces F, when he finally realises the implications. ‘But they were like my mother's age. People don’t still shag then do they?’

There’s a long, awkward silence, until F realises what he's said.

‘Umm, I didn’t mean like you boss,’ he stutters. ‘Anyway you are probably well past all that sort of thing anyway - didn’t you say you had National Trust membership?’

Once T and F have been dispatched on a leaflet drop round the crappiest part of town, the conversation continues.

‘It’s probably just a ridiculous rumour.’ I say, as I prepare for the appointment.

‘No. It’s true.’ Says B, authoritatively. 

‘I’m sure they are just regular nice people, who go to garden events and book clubs.’ I hypothesise.

‘Yeh, bush-trimming and Fifty Shades Of Grey.’ Says M, with an unpleasant chuckle.

If I do get the business, perhaps I’ll suggest an open house event….

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