New vs Old - Tuesday

Still on our sunshine break in Palma, we head back to the Airbnb apartment. It was a leap in to the unknown, a bit like the first time I downloaded the Uber app and unwittingly brought a nice chap named Mohammed to our door, when I just wanted to see what the trip cost might be. He was very nice about it and didn't seem to swear much - not in English anyway…

As it turned out the apartment’s description and views were as published. They don’t seem to have a property mis-description act in Spain, or overzealous trading standards officers as far as I can ascertain. The new computerised business model, seems to work for both rental properties and taxis. I’m not so convinced it will work for on-line estate agents though - that’s still a very personal, hands-on experience.

‘Look the other way.’ Shouts my wife, grabbing my arm again like an angry lollipop lady at a school crossing.

‘I blame Napoleon.’ I mutter unconvincingly, as I turn my head and spot two lanes of fast moving Seats and Fiats. ‘If he hadn’t changed the side of the track horse and carts travelled we’d be able to drive on the proper side of the road in Europe and America.’

‘Ridiculous.’ Pronounces my wife, as she leads me across the road, straight towards the Teutonically clinical property premises, near our destination.

‘Are there any Engel and Volkers in Britain?’ Asks my wife, indicating the pristine white fascia of the German-owned estate agency operation.

‘Don’t think so,’ I mutter looking though the window enviously. ‘Some towns are still rebuilding after there blitz.’

‘That’s racist.’ Snaps my wife.

‘Try telling people in Plymouth.’ I respond.

I’ve unwittingly stopped outside the window again, gazing in at the desks devoid of detritus. Still no coffee mugs, no sales files, no half-eaten sandwiches. Just clear space, eye-bleedingly bright 4k retina display screens and one of those aluminium track pads I still can’t get to grips with. I nod self-consciously to the aryan man in the front desk. He blanks me completely and an absurd desire to sing a dubiously correct song from my schooldays, about two world wars and one world cup, overwhelms me.

‘The thing is folks don’t understand property is a people business.’ I opine to my wife, as we head towards our accommodation.

‘Hmm.’ She answers disinterestedly.

‘You see firms flinging money at unproven schemes like on-line agency, when they don’t realise you need local knowledge and experience, not a call centre in Rhyl staffed by schoolboys who flunked their GCSEs.’

‘We’re not going on a rant are we?’ She queries.

‘I thought the tapas tour might be more fun.’ I quip back.

She doesn’t laugh. Not so much now, anyway.

‘I’ve seen agents come and go, some of the kids now have never seen a property recession.’ I continue, warming to my theme as we halt outside another handbag shop.

‘Just a moment.’ Says my wife, dreamily.

‘You wait,’ I continue as she scans the overpriced cow-product. ‘A downturn will cull all these johnny-come-latelys and you won’t have anything left of the call-centre agents, other than purple faces….’

‘Is that supposed to be funny?’ She asks.

You’ll have to wait and see.

The truth is property downturns are as inevitable as corrupt politicians. Japan has been in a slump for several decades and America has seen mass foreclosure both sides of the millennium. A brutal Darwinian culling swept the high street in the two property collapses I’ve lived through and there’s not much doubt the same will happen again. Only, it will include spotty oiks on Welsh switchboards and ill-advised investors in unproven business models, next time.

‘What about Century 21?’ Quizzes my wife as we pass another property purveyor.

‘Never caught on in the UK.’ I tell her with some satisfaction.

‘But it is expensive to use an agent.’ She fires back. Should I mention those fees are paying for the super-sized jug of sangria we consumed at lunch time? Best not, the sofa bed doesn’t look too comfy.

‘Fundamentally, with all the variables moving entails, people like the certainty of no-sale, no fee.’ I conclude, as we arrive.

Mostly.

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Buenos Dias - Thursday

‘Where are you going?’ Asks my wife as I gravitate towards a shopfront across the street.

She knows, without needing to ask. Like a pitiful self-harming junkie, I can’t leave it alone even on holiday.

‘Just going to look in the window.’ I tell her, before glancing the wrong way and nearly stepping in front of a pre-pubescent boy on a Vespa. The dark-eyed lad shouts something incomprehensible, in Spanish - I’m guessing not a compliment - and swerves between two parked cars before disappearing.

Sheepishly, I cross with a bit more care towards the brightly lit window.

‘Really. Another one?’ Asks my wife, beside me now with that look of resigned acceptance I’ve seen before.

‘You’ve looked in enough shoe shops to bore Imelda Marcos.’ I tell her unchivalrously then decide not to mention the umpteen trinket outlets we’ve been in. How many scented candle and naff fridge magnet shops can one city support?

I’m gazing in the window now, scanning the quality of the photos, the prices in Euros and even the pointless Energy Performance ratings that nobody needs when you have temperatures that rarely dip into single figure celsius, and an infinity pool.

‘They are all the same.’ Opines my wife. It’s tempting to draw a comparison to handbag shops and perfumery outlets, but I can’t afford a divorce at my time of life. I’ve seen too many men kiss goodbye to a four bed detached and half their pension, to rock the boat. Middle aged blokes, dyeing their remaining hair, joining Tinder and living in a rented studio flat, isn’t a good look.

‘I don’t know why you do it.’ Continues my wife chidingly. ‘It’s not as if you like other estate agents.’

She has a point. I detest most other practitioners. They are either undercutting me on fee and service, or overvaluing to please gullible owners. It must happen in Palma too, just with better looking players and warmer weather. 

‘I’ll be along there.’ Says my wife, pointing to a row of shops with expensive-looking dresses in the windows. Seems like I’ll be paying for my obsession, one way or another.

I turn back to the window and look at the two smart-casually dressed agents, inside. The male is almost prettier than the female. They are both gazing listlessly at massive Apple iMac screens with the sort of resolution that makes you believe you are actually on the terrace, with a glass of sangria in hand.

The woman, or part-time supermodel if the property career doesn’t work out, catches my eye then looks away. She’s made a quick judgment. One I try not to make in my own office, as I’ve sold many homes over the course of my career, to scruffy-looking oiks who haven’t shaved for a couple of days and are dressed like a loser. In this case, she might be right. I’m a time-waster.

‘So what did you learn?’ Asks my wife when I’ve caught up and noticed, with relief, she isn’t carrying any glossily branded bags. We’re looking for somewhere to have a coffee.

‘They’re no different to us.’ I tell her half-heartedly. ‘Just better-looking, with superior lighting conditions for the photos.’

‘Do they have to be qualified to be an estate agent?’ She asks pointedly. She knows how to push my buttons after all these years. I studied after work for a year and sat four three hour papers. Yet nobody has asked about my exams - ever.

‘Well, the rest of the world does, pretty much.’ I tell her curtly. She nods, then points to what looks like a delicatessen ‘Over there might do cappuccino.’

I start to cross and nearly get wiped out by a trio of tourists on those ridiculous Segway machines.

‘You’re out of your element, aren’t you dear.’ States my wife rhetorically, tugging my arm and leading me across the street like an errant schoolboy.

‘I don’t believe it.’ I bellow, as we reach our destination. They sell coffee, and cake. They also have more Apple Mac machines and pretty women. And in the window, property pictures and prices.

‘This is different.’ Announces my wife, gleefully.

It will never catch on.

Will it?

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