Old Rope - Tuesday

‘F**k me.’ Exclaims assistant manger T in an expletive that echoes round the, fortunately, empty office.

I nod towards the swear box and he spreads his arms in annoyance.

‘It’s the rules.’ I tell him pompously.

‘Since when did anyone play by the rules?’ Demands T.

‘He’s right,’ says negotiator S. ‘That bunch of shitesters who opened three months ago are still touting all our sole agencies, and their lying letters never have a fee disclaimer.’

She has a point, two very prominent ones as it happens, but the fact that there is no entry requirement to start an estate agency, and no minimum standard of education or compulsory qualification to start practising as a property purveyor, is something I’ve failed to change in more that two decades. 

‘You lot don’t have any rules, do you?’ Questions fat finance man M, with a jowly chuckle. ‘At least we are licensed and regulated.’

‘Only because you mis-sold so many crap insurance policies.’ Says T with an angry growl.

‘You all took the commission.’ Bats back M, with uncomfortable accuracy.

Once you are on to solid foods, nobody is completely innocent…

‘What is it you’ve seen?’ I ask T, returning to his original exclamation. I don’t need any more divisions in the office, and an argument about the merits of having an in-house mortgage and insurance advisor - and the escalating targets that come with them - isn’t going to improve our clunky camaraderie. With our masters wanting us to serve both seller and buyer, we already have more conflicts of interests than a crooked politician.

T points at the meagre pages of the local free paper he has spread before him, old school style, on his desk. Time was the shrunken publication ran to five times more print than the current emaciated model. The publisher used to regularly stuff us on incremental advertising rates with their near monopoly, but since the on-line advertising portals became king I no longer take the sales representative’s calls. Someone else has a hold of my balls, now.

‘See here,’ continues T jabbing an inky finger at the copy. ‘They’ve finally released prices on those retirement flats they’ve been building on the old school house site.’

‘How much?’ Asks S.

‘Have a guess.’ Suggests T.

This won’t end happily, I think as S calls out her first number and T laughs scornfully in her face.

The site in question sold to a well-known retirement home developer some eighteen months ago. A pretty detached Edwardian family home sat on the generous plot, within zimmer frame shuffling distance of the shops and doctor’s surgery. It was never going to house a family again. After a lengthy planning battle, several architect’s revisions and a rumoured large brown envelope for a planning officer, permission was granted for a big box to house twenty reduced floorspace flats for the wealthy but not healthy.

‘Higher.’ Goads T, as S raises her suggested starting price for the one bed ground floor, looking on to the road, base price unit.

‘You’re having a laugh.’ Says S with disgust. ‘They’re ripping off vulnerable people.’

‘They’ve made their money.’ Counters trainee F, eyes blazing. ‘How are people my age ever going to afford our own place? Let them get mugged.’

He doesn’t mean literally - at least I hope not. But I do question the wisdom of elderly folk who try to downsize to something more manageable in their dotage. They often end up paying way over the odds for a tiny unit with the illusion of safety provided by a cheap video entry phone and emergency pull-cords routed to a remote call centre. They don’t even have a 24hr, on-site manager, as they used to when the concept started. By the time the ambulance arrives, rigour-mortis has often set in.

‘More.’ Cries T gleefully as S raises her suggested price with obvious incredulity.

The figure is already laughable. My advice would to be wait until a few owners have died, then buy second hand. Beneficiaries are always keen for the cash.

‘That’s taking the piss.’ Says S when she finally reaches the unlikely number.

That’s the property market.

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Complaint's Box - Monday

I’ve not even shut the office door and it starts.

‘The bloke from number ten rang while you were out, thinks we’ve sold his house too quickly.’ Says assistant manager T, with a slump of his shoulders.

I’m guessing it’s not the Prime Minister. Two reasons: firstly the PM doesn’t own their place of residence, technically they’re just a pimped-up council house tenant. Secondly, no government in recent memory has had the hint of a joined-up housing approach, so property and any type of policy are not exactly bedfellows - unless it’s a cardboard box in a shop doorway.

‘He’s an idiot.’ Pronounces negotiator S as trainee F walks in from the kitchen. F hesitates and looks a little hurt.

‘She’s talking about the vendor of number ten.’ Enlightens T. ‘They think we’ve sold their house too quickly, too cheaply and will doubtless want a cut to the commission.’

‘Or withdraw from the sale and put the price up.’ Adds S.

It’s not a new dilemma. There’s a sweet-spot for selling a property new to the market. Just enough viewings to convince the owner we’ve done our job exposing the home to the market, a few who turn their nose up at the decor, location and price, then a buyer who tries a chip on the asking price, which we negotiate up to an acceptable figure. Job done.

But of course it’s not. As any agent, or seasoned house mover will tell you, the hard work often starts after terms are agreed. The delays, the quibbling, the inept surveyors, solicitors, lenders and a fragile connection of fickle buyers and sellers all roped together in a transaction chain that can founder at any given moment in the next eight weeks - or more. That’s when we earn out money. No sale no fee.

‘What did you manage to agree with him?’ I ask T apprehensively. He’s the assistant manger, well versed in these type of problems, plus I’ve coached him more productively and diligently than the procession of charlatans in trouser suits, with tick-box computer programmes and digital post-it note sessions, they’ve had in the training department recently.

‘Told him you’d ring him back when you got in.’ Says T, without a hint of shame.

Perhaps, I’m not as good as I think? Maybe a powder-blue flared set of strides - with room for a big arse - and a matching colour, bias-cut jacket, with just a hint of retro eighties-style shoulder pads…..

‘What?’ Asks T as I scowl at him. Surely he could have dealt with the problem when it was fresh? Convince the owner the job isn’t even half done, that we now need to nurse the transaction to a successful conclusion. Maybe, list the number of people who’d had details of his home, the comparable sales of other homes like his, in the area. The fact that we’d obtained a price he said he’d be happy with only a week ago. The even more pertinent fact that he is now in a position to secure the home he’s hoping to move to.

If you want something doing, do it yourself. It’s a phrase I lived with for years, until my mental and physical health started to take a hit, trying to do everything in the office single-handedly. Not trusting colleagues to do the job to my standards. As the body ages and the spirit weakens I’ve learned to relinquish control. T doesn’t seem to have noticed.

‘Just thought you’d prefer to explain.’ Says T petulantly, after I’ve suggested he could have dealt with the thorny problem. Not any more, I think sourly, as I steel myself for the difficult conversation. Repetition might work for classical musicians, but I just cramp up now.

No doubt the owner will cite the thousands of pounds of commission he now owes us, without a thought as to how much more work needs to be done before he finally opens that door with his new set of keys, and decides where first to shag his partner - I’d advise against the stairs until the carpets are down….

Never the less, someone is going to get f***ed.

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Learning Curves - Thursday

‘Want to hear the latest rumour?’ Asks assistant manager T as I enter the office.

Not if it involves vapid celebrities, profiled in some journalistic-ability-free magazine airheads read at the hairdressers, I don’t. If I wanted to see overblown tits on a Caribbean beach, I’d rather it was me on holiday, taking a selfie. 

‘Is it relevant to the business?’ I ask T flatly.

‘Of course.’ He fires back, with a hint of irritation. Well he did waste ten minutes, earlier today, discussing some C-list celebrity and her latest flesh-revealing turn on some ghastly fly-on-the-wall television programme. I’m all for diversity in scheduling but I do sometimes yearn for a simpler time, when everyone sat down to watch the Generation Game, even if I could never remember what tat was on the conveyer belt.

‘A new agent is supposed to be opening in town.’ Says T, with a half-concealed sneer.

‘Where abouts?’ Queries big mortgage man M, as he saunters across the office, floorboards creaking.

T reveals the location, a tertiary position at best, one where numerous retail mis-adventures have foundered on poorly written business plans, plus the mistaken believe that just because your friends buy overpriced pushchairs and you love babies, a shop selling kids’ clothing will survive.

‘They’d need a change of use from A1 to A2 planning status.’ I tell T. He looks at me blankly, designer frames catching the light. I’ve urged him to sit some Estate Agency exams, to learn about the legal, financial and construction process but he hasn’t seen the point up to now. And to be truthful, who can blame him when nobody feels it necessary? After all, whoever the new agent in town is won’t need qualifications either.

‘It’s a terrible position. ‘ I tell the team, having informed them a planning notice, for change of use, will have to be posted outside the empty unit in question. Nobody has spotted if there’s one up already, so I guess it will be up to be to swing by and check on my next outside appointment. They’ll miss me when I’m gone. Probably….

‘I’ve heard it might be some sort of hybrid set-up.’ Continues T earnestly. ‘Part on-line estate agent, part traditional.’

‘Fat chance.’ I snap back, just as M waddles back from the kitchen. No, of course he hasn’t made anyone else a drink, he’s a financial consultant. A morbidly obese one.

‘Why so?’ Questions negotiators S earnestly.

‘Because you can’t practice estate agency like a call centre.’ I tell her frostily. She should know my views on this by now. I studied and struggled with my industry exams and even now, after several decades, I come across problems and situations my knowledge is tested by. 

Property is a complicated business, and if you retain me as your agent you are buying my skill-set, both negotiating and professional. The problem is, you only realise the quality of agent you have after the buying event. Once you’ve instructed them to sell your home.

‘You don’t think on-line agents will ever catch on then?’ Asks trainee F, mouth slightly ajar.

He could work for one, I think uncharitably, that way nobody need see his face. But on reflection, F with all his faults, is already way better than any bucket shop outfit whose naive investors think selling homes only entails placing an on-line listing on the Internet. That’s the easy bit, the problems start after that.

‘On-line agents and cheap fee outfits have been the next big thing for the past fifteen years.’ I tell my team decisively. ‘And here we are, still conducting viewings, holding keys, re-negotiating sales after surveys and cajoling lazy lawyers.’

‘Problem is the public don’t see that.’ Counters T, accurately. ‘They think it’s money for old rope, one upload onto the portal and we get thousand of pounds.’

‘That’s why we need to stress the points of difference, ‘ I urge. ‘Let people know they get what they pay for and that they only pay when we get them a result.’

The conversation dries up.

Not sure anyone is listening.

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Love Me Do - Wednesday

‘I think you are going to like this one.’ I enthuse, as I pause by the front door of a penthouse flat I was delighted to be instructed to sell, only two weeks ago.

The husband looks at me with a half-concealed sneer. He clearly doesn’t like estate agents. He’s not alone. But then I half-sneered when I saw him pull up in his high-end German car, reeking of privilege and self-satisfaction. I’m just hoping I hid my contempt slightly better than he has.

‘Is this still available?’ Asks the man as his wife visually winces at his abruptness. ‘Only we’ve been mucked about by you lot enough, already.’

Now I’m really starting to dislike him. I try not to stereotype but it’s a weakness in all of us and the property industry doesn’t exactly get good press. I’m hoping to change minds - but not his. I still remember who pays the bill.

‘Yes, it’s available.’ I answer, as I open the door and hit the light switch for the hall. It’s the worst part of the flat and I need to make it seem bright and airy. ‘Although,’ I add. ‘I expect it to sell quickly.’

‘You would say that wouldn’t you?’ Snipes the man as he steps inside with his wife. I don’t mind, I won’t be selling to him. But then you rarely sell too the male - unless it’s a a gay couple.

I really took a liking to the owners of this top floor home -  a penthouse is always a bit of a stretch as a term, but when you are marketing it helps. They trusted and valued my opinion, left the keys with me as they are often out of town and didn’t quibble madly on the commission. In fact the wife said quite graciously, when given my suggested asking price: ‘Get us within £25,000 of that and we’ll be delighted.’ I love a challenge.

Bedrooms visited, I can already feel good vibes from the wife of the viewing pair. He’s more reserved, trying to remain aloof and disinterested for when the negotiations start, but she’s starting to visibly salivate. And I know they are in a good position, I’ve checked their status and they can proceed immediately, cash in the bank. I decide to try a trial close.

‘What would you do with the master bedroom?’ I ask her, seemingly innocently.

‘Oh nothing, I love the colour scheme as it is.’ She gushes back. Gotcha. Now it’s just down to how much, I think, the old excitement flooding back. It’s easy to forget how much of a buzz you can get from selling homes, with the day-to-day grind from suspect surveyors, lazy lawyers and barely competent banks. But it’s the best feeling ever - well almost….

I’ve left the two prime rooms until last. It’s a technique I prefer, build the interest then give them the reveal. A stunning recently re-fitted top-end kitchen and a panoramic view from the living room, with a full width glass-balustraded balcony. All facing the right way to catch the sunshine. 

‘Oh my God. I love it.’ Cries the woman. I’m guessing she doesn’t get much more excited than this and judging by her sour-faced husband I can understand why. Still, he won’t be making the decision - just writing the cheque.

I’ve done my homework and I have the local knowledge and experience that no just-opened outfit, or some remote on-line call centre with more naive investors than homes to sell, can offer. The flat has a share in the freehold of the block, the management is in house and service charges are sensible. It’s the best you’ll get while leasehold - the second class tenure - still holds sway.

‘What will they take off the price?’ Presses the man when I know I have them. £25,000, but you’re not getting it,bucko.

‘You’ve got us the full price?’ Exclaims the owner when I report in. ‘We’d have taken less.’

‘That’s what you are paying me for.’ I reply, a little smugly. We’re not all the same.

‘We’ll tell all our friends.’ The husband says, as he hangs up, audibly smiling.

Yes. Don’t keep it a secret.

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Enfranchise Me - Thursday

‘Fancy a valuation later?’ Asks assistant manager T as I return to the office. I’m immediately on my guard. T wouldn’t give away an easy instruction on a new property, so I’m sensing a curve ball. I sometimes wonder if pooling commission in the office is the best method. It’s less divisive and means fewer bust-ups over who won the business/sold the home, but it can benefit the lazy ones.

‘Where is it?’ I ask. T looks more sheepish than a Welsh shearer and negotiator S just looks down at her keyboard - which must be difficult with those huge breasts.

‘It’s somewhere naff, isn’t it?’ I say tersely.

‘Not exactly.’ Counters T unconvincingly.

‘Cough.’ I instruct. T tells me and I groan inwardly.

Now, you’d think any new home to sell on your books would be welcome and in general that’s true. You can’t sell it if you haven’t got it and a shortage of units to sell is the perpetual problem for most agents - until the market really turns. But T has just named a crumbling block of flats, with a short lease and a notoriously difficult absentee freeholder. Leasehold is a secondary form of tenure endured primarily by Londoners and flat owners. Only they don’t own their flats, they lease them for 99 years or more and in theory have to give them back at the end of the term.

‘You know they’ve got short leases don’t you?’ I tell, rather than ask, T.

‘Yeh, but they can use the legislation to extend.’ Counters T.

He’s right. Leasehold Reform laws offer a route for lessees to compel freeholders to extend their lease, or sell the freehold to a collective of residents, but it’s arcane, complicated and expensive. Particularly with a reluctant landlord intent on milking the building for all the income he can extract.

‘Isn’t that the block where there’s a huge hole in the sinking fund?’ Asks S. She’s right, the maintenance has been neglected and rumour has it a new flat roof is required at a six figure sum. A sum to be divided between the luckless owners.

‘And you won’t get a mortgage any more if there’s less that fifty years to run on the lease.’ Adds financial services man M, as he waddles towards the kitchen. ‘Cash buyers only.’ He adds, as I hear the kettle being filled with just enough water for one.

‘Is it even worth having on our register?’ Asks S after some protracted discussion on the inequities of leasehold and the number of rogue freeholders we’ve dealt with over the years.The shitesters who have separate building companies under a hidden ownership, that always get the overinflated maintenance work needed on the building. Not to mention the slyly written leases that have inflation-busting rises in ground rent designed to milk lessees until they are dry. And it’s usually the elderly.

‘We’re hoping to move into one of those nice new retirement flats.’ Says the ancient husband as I sit in the run-down block, later. Endearingly the old couple are holding hands and looking at me earnestly, as they perch on the saggy sofa.

Out of the frying pan into the fire, I think glumly. Assuming anyone will buy there cobwebby home, they’ll sell low and buy high at an overpriced retirement block and the extortionate maintenance charges will still be with them. I’m getting a stair lift and staying put, when my time comes.

‘I don’t understand.’ Says the wife, eyes rheumy and watering, after I’ve explained how lenders won’t advance funds until the lease on their flat is extended, or the freehold owned by the residents.

Neither do I grandma.

‘But we can’t afford to pay him any more.’ Says the husband angrily. ‘There’s already a huge bill coming for the communal boiler.’

Shit, I didn’t know that. I only just stop myself from looking at my watch - a cardinal sin. And I assume the impoverished pair don’t even know about the roof replacement.

They’ll be staying - until the undertaker comes.

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Room For Improvement - Wednesday

‘This looks a right dump.’ Says assistant manager T gloomily, as we pull up outside a boarded-up mid-terrace house, in the less salubrious part of town.

‘They don’t exactly hoover the carpets before they go.’ I tell him sarcastically.

‘I’ve got no sympathy.’ Replies T. ‘If you don’t make the payments what do they expect? They’re not exactly Greece.’

I glance at the newly minted set of keys lying in the car’s coin tray. The house we’re about to enter is a voluntary repossession - not that the word voluntary ever seems appropriate when the lender snatches back someone’s home. The keys arrived in the post along with our instructions to market the house once two independent valuations have been carried out. Carried out by sports jacket wearing surveyors who live at home with their mothers and have to ask us what the house is worth, before they put their professional opinion in writing.

‘At least the locksmith has done the hard work.’ Speculates T, nodding towards the flaky paint front door, where a new brass lock barrel is shiny incongruously against the general neglect of the front elevation.

‘Did you remember the torch?’ I ask T, as I clamber out and feel my sciatic nerve ping like a racquet string popping.

‘Yup.’ Answers T nonchalantly.

The boarded windows are to keep squatters out but it’s a safe bet all the services will have been disconnected. We’ll be stumbling around in near darkness with God only knows what littering the floor. I should get danger money. Instead I get commission.

‘More keys than a jailor here.’ Says T, as he tries to open the door while I glance at the paperwork. It might be a digital age but those lenders still like lopping down rain forests.

‘Got it.’ Mumbles T as he frees the door and pushes inwards. A sickly waft of fetid air rises in our faces.

‘Food left in the fridge?’ Asks T, features creased in distaste.

‘That or another dead body.’

T fumbles for the torch switch, as he kicks away the junk mail piled high against the door sill. Nothing happens. Preparation! I want to scream, but according to my wife I’m more OCD than the mumbling man who pushes a shopping trolly round town, matching plastic bags arranged meticulously down each side. He probably used to be an estate agent….

‘Did you check the batteries were working?’ I demand tetchily.

‘They were last time.’ Counters T petulantly.

One more dead man in an empty home might not be noticed, I think fleetingly. Before heading back to the car to get my own torch from the glove box.

‘I though someone was supposed to have cleared this place.’ Says T disdainfully. The smell is getting stronger and we’ve not made the kitchen yet. Boxes of junk are piled against the walls and several black plastic bin liners are spilling content that would look at home on an Mumbai rubbish tip.

Then something suddenly moves in my peripheral vision.

‘Ayeee. What the f**k was that?’ ScreamsT, like a schoolgirl.

Heart pounding, I sweep the beam towards the abrupt movement, just in time to see a unfeasibly long curled tail skittering out the door.

‘Tell me that wasn’t a rat.’ Says T, designer glasses flashing in the half-light.

‘Well I don’t think they left their pet gerbil behind.’ I answer with a shiver. We’re going to need pest control again. I wonder if I can strike a deal and get them to terminate the cheap-fee agent that opened last year, at the same time?

‘Smell is definitely coming from the fridge.’ I tell T as he flings open the back door and some welcome light illuminates what is left of the kitchen. All the cabinets have been torn from the wall, leaving just two copper pipes with taps balancing on the end above where the sink used to be.

‘Why don’t they leave the white goods in the garden like the other chavs round here.’ Snipes T. Nodding towards the offending fridge. He’s yet to be made redundant. But he’ll learn.

Think it was once, a bag of prawns.

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Charity Begins - Monday

Hurrying across the park I spot the aggressive begging group. I need a quick detour, even though I haven’t go time for the “cup of tea” they expect me to believe they’ll be buying with any cash extorted from passers by.

I’ve done the charity bike rides and the sponsored walks - even estate agents need some good publicity - but I’m starting to tire of the excessive demands for my hard-earned  income. It won’t be long before one of these be-whiskered drunks - probably the one that popular opinion has it is a woman - starts to quiz me for my bank details and expects me to sign a direct debit form.

‘Oi can see you city boy.’ Yells one of the group, gesticulating lewdly in my direction. I’m rather pleased with the boy moniker. It’s one only appended nowadays by pensioners and the chronically myopic, but the universally accepted tosser motion I can do without.

‘Yeh. How about helping the homeless you capitalist bastard!’ Screams a high-pitched voice. That’ll be the woman then, unless the cold nights sleeping in our office doorway have affected the collective testosterone. 

I continue my circuitous route around the group, offering another universally recognised sign. A wide-armed, hand wobbling gesture to convey a shortage of money. It’s not that convincing, but probably wiser then the single digit riposte I nearly deployed. The nights are dark and I still need to get to the car park every evening.

‘We knows where you work.’ Hollers a third drunk throatily. And I know where you sleep, I think sourly. I’ve swept enough human detritus into the gutter over they years - and I’m not just talking  metaphorically.

‘You alright?’ Asks negotiator S with a look of concern, as I scurry through the door.

‘Yes, just being hassled by the unlicensed bandits.’ I tell her briskly.

‘The new lettings agency?’ 

No. That’s a whole other story. I enlighten her.

‘Oh it’s not their fault.’ Says S.

 It probably is.

‘They’ve just had a few bad breaks.’ She continues, as I shrug off my coat. Try having three sales fall-through on a Friday morning, I think uncharitably. Then daytime drinking is understandable.

‘They are all scumbags.’ Insists fat mortgage man M, waddling towards his office. ‘I’m damned if I’m feeding them.’ I know, but open goals are never as satisfying.

‘Look, if I thought they’d spend it on food or even the dogs they all seem to have, I’d give them some money.’ I tell S, her look of disapproval unsettling me. M’s disdainful dismissal of the rough sleepers even made me bridle. It’s not easy fluctuating between left of centre, right of centre and completely off centre.

‘You shouldn’t help them out it just makes things worse.’ States B from her lettings desk. ‘Anyway,’ continues B. ‘You may have repossessed some of their homes, so you’ve probably done enough already.’

I don’t actually repossess them. It’s the lender with the power of the courts and a pretty scary bailiff behind them, but I’m there along with the locksmith.

‘They should get a job.’ Suggests assistant manager T, joining the conversation. ‘And maybe try living off commission if they really want something to drown their sorrows over.’ S looks at me with a frown. 

What? It’s not as if I decided to flog off all the social housing at a discount, make the planning process so labyrinthian it takes years and not build enough homes for a burgeoning population.

And I haven’t personally been responsible for impregnating females and fathering the best part of the 750,000 births per year, statisticians say the UK has. In fact, the beggar offering the wanker gesture was closer to the truth.

‘Well I won’t be renting anything to those types.’ States B firmly.

‘They need somewhere to live.’ Says S passionately.

‘Other than our office doorway.’ I add, wishing immediately I hadn’t.

S scowls at me and I shrug and walk towards the message book, change jangling in my suit pocket in a copper, zinc and nickel chiming admonishment. 

‘Can you help me with a pound for my bus fare home?’ Asks a scruffy girl as I cross the park later.

Well, what would you have done…?

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Stairway To Nowhere - Wednesday

‘What’s this shared ownership all about?’ Asks trainee F as I bustle through the office door hoping for a cuppa, rather than a tricky explanation.

‘It’s a bloody nonsense.’ Answers tubby finance flogger M as he balloons past munching something sweet.

‘I don’t think it is necessarily,’ counters S my negotiator. ‘They have to do something to help people get onto the housing ladder.’

‘Maybe,’ muses M showering her desk with sugary particles. ‘But not by making them pay top dollar for only 65% of the equity.’

M has a point, I think, as I set about explaining the schemes - often a condition of granting new planning permission - which offer buyers the chance to purchase a percentage of a new home then rent the remaining portion. M’s gripe is based around the difficulty in getting lenders to provide finance, the reduced opportunities to flog pricey insurance products and the fact that more often than not, the headline price for only a chunk of the new home’s equity, is very top heavy.

‘So,’ muses F painfully slowly as I eye the kitchen and wonder if I can sneak in there and make a cup of tea just for myself. ‘You end up paying nearly full price but you only own part of it.’

‘Pretty much.’ Concludes M with a sneer, before adding unnecessarily. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’

M does his best to perpetuate the public perception of property people.

‘It’s not that simple.’ I counter weakly. Truth is no estate agent likes trying to value a shared equity home for re-sale. It’s complicated by the occupier not owning 100 % of the bricks and mortar. They have to agree a split with the authority that owns the remaining share upon which they have been paying rent. If they have the capital, they can buy out portions of that share - or indeed the whole amount - in a process known as stair-casing,. Usually they can’t afford to.

‘However you stack it.’ Continues M, warming to his theme. ‘Some mug punter has paid 90% of the real value for only about 50% of the equity. They usually end in tears.’

‘And it’s wrong.’ Says S earnestly. ‘The whole point is to try and get people on lower wages to gain access to decent housing.’

You’ve got to love her - only it’s frowned upon in working hours…

‘It seems a good idea though.’ Persists F. ‘You know, for people like me who don’t earn much.’

‘If you sold a bit more you’d get more commission.’ Snipes B from her lettings desk. The hangovers are getting rougher and rougher. I decide to ignore her. If I wanted a shouting match followed by tears, I’d have it in my own time.

‘It is as good idea.’ Argues S, eyes shining zealously. ‘It’s just been highjacked by greedy developers conning vulnerable people.’

‘They are a nightmare to try and re-sell.’ I tell the group cautiously. I’ve never managed to get a consensus between all the interested parties.

‘So they can’t sell on if they want to upgrade?’ Quizzes F.

‘Not easily.’ I concede.

‘Not ever in my experience.’ Carps M.

‘So you wouldn’t recommend I try and see if I’m eligible?’ Asks F flatly. 

‘You’ll need a decent employers reference.’ Says M woundingly. F looks at me and I don’t exactly administer first aid.

‘I’d wait until you have a decent deposit.’ I tell F neutrally. ‘Then buy a conventional way.’

‘That might be for ever.’ Answers F, eyes blinking rapidly.

If I wanted to work for The Samaritans I’d volunteer for their switchboard - at least someone might make me a cup of tea.

‘Anyone who buys on a shared equity should remember the old adage.’ Says M. ‘Caveat Emptor.’

With all the hand-holding consumer regulation and little Latin taught at school, the phrase Buyer Beware isn’t always recognised. F looks confused and M pounces.

‘You don’t know what Caveat Emptor is, do you?’ He mocks cruelly. I look at F, just for once I hope the dullard paid attention in class. He hesitates and the office falls silent. Finally he’s ready.

‘Is it one of those Pokemon characters?’

About 50% is missing.

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Sleight Of Hand - Friday

‘Guess who I just saw moving out? Asks assistant manager T as he hurries back into the office, face like thunder. The choices are wider than I’d like, with upwards of twenty other estate agents working my area. T needs to narrow it down a bit.

‘Give us a clue.’ I tell T, conscious that everyone else in the office is listening. Sales people get paid predominantly on commission and want to know who is taking: food from your mouth, rental payments from your landlord, credit card fees from your lender...

‘You hated them.’ Says T earnestly.

‘You’ll need to narrow it down for him love.’ Suggests B from her lettings enclave. She can be cutting, but it’s normally third party damage rather than self-harm – although the excessive drinking and serial shagging is pretty destructive.

‘Have a look in there.’ Instructs T, grabbing the viewing book, flicking back through the pages then plonking it on the desk in front of me. I glance down at the smudged entries, unable to stop myself from getting angry over the largely empty column where the vendor feedback should have been noted. I recognise one wobbly entry though.

‘Not number thirty-three?’ I ask, hackles rising as I read my note stating the viewers I took round on the soggy Saturday in question, were having a second viewing direct with the owners on the Sunday.

‘The very same.’ Answers T smugly. ‘And the removal van is outside now, bold as you like.’ I scowl and feel the frown lines deepen further. Any longer in this business and I’ll need decorator’s filler rather than that scent-free “man cream” my wife bought me and I refuse to wear.

‘But they took it off the market and said they weren’t selling any longer.’ Says negotiator S naively. She’s still got a lot to learn, some of it I can help with but the more tactile lessons are off-limits.

‘Not selling with us you mean.’ Counters T sarcastically.

I knew something didn’t smell right - and not just the daughter’s hamster cage. The viewers had been almost evangelical in their praise for the house when I showed them round, suit dampened, hair dripping. All the buying signals were there, plus a second viewing direct with the owners on the Sunday. Then, after the weekend, the viewers told me rather curtly they’d found something else and asked to be taken off the mailing list.

‘We need to find out who has bought that house.’ I say sternly.

‘Pretty sure no other agent had it on their books.’ States T. With property portals easy to access, agents no longer have to fraudulently register as buyers on the opposition mailing lists, we just point and click to see who has what.

‘Maybe they’ve rented it out.’ Suggests B with a disinterested shrug.

‘Were any competitors offering it?’ Asks S, just ahead of me.

‘How should I know?’ Snaps B. The opposition awareness has passed B by, unlike the gin bottle and at least one rumoured STD.

‘Finally stopped raining.’ I say cheerily as I wonder up the drive of number thirty-one, leaflet in hand. The owner is fortuitously in the garden raking, or spiking, or hoeing the lawn. I never did have very green fingers - apart from that time I tugged another agent’s long-standing for sale board out of the ground, after dark.

‘Oh they’ve moved. Sold it to a lovely couple.’ Says the horticulturist to my seemingly innocent enquiry about next door.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Answers the man to my next question. ‘A black BMW on a new plate. Do you know them?’

In passing.

‘So the vendors have cheated us out of the commission.’ Says S incredulously, back at the office.

‘It happens.’ I tell her, adding. ‘Only with open Land Registry access it’s easier to catch them than it used to be.’

‘You’ve had it before?’ Questions S. ‘What do you do?’

‘Try the reasonable approach and ask for the money, then get my Magistrates’ suit out.’ 

‘Well?’ Asks T after my brief phone call, everyone watching.

‘Said they can’t pay, as they sold cheaply with no agent’s fee to settle.’

‘Bastard.’ Says T angrily. ‘What did you say?’

‘See you in court.’

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