The Chain Of Fools - Wednesday

‘Mrs Pendergast was in to see you.’ Says negotiator S, by way of a greeting.

I visibly droop - not something I usually imagine where S is involved. She smiles sweetly at me and goes to get a cup of tea. God I’ll miss her when she eventually goes on maternity leave.

‘She’s coming back.’ Calls S, over a rolling kettle.

‘What for exactly?’ I say flatly.

‘She wants to know why the chain is taking so long to get to an exchange of contracts on her house.’

‘She’s not alone.’ I call back. ‘Where’s she gone in the meantime?’

‘Retail therapy.’ Says S, plonking a freshly-brewed mug of tea in front of me. I might need something stronger.

People - the sort who engage cut-price agents - think all you need to do is list a home and prepare an internet entry to sell a property. It’s why mug-punters are prepared to listen to ill-informed, untrained “agents” who mis-lead them on price, take an up-front fee, then become more elusive than a four-leaf clover, once the bank transfer has cleared.

‘Is her husband with her?’ I ask S, as I study the bloated file belonging to Mrs Pendergast’s house sale. The hand-hand-written notes are on to their second page and the dates encompass four months of sale time.

‘No he’s at the golf club apparently.’ Says S, with a shrug.

‘So he’ll just be bad-mouthing estate agents at the 19th hole and being persuaded to cancel the sale, as they’ve obviously undersold.’

‘But they haven’t.’ Counters S, with a frown.

‘Yes, but that’s what the twats in the silly trousers will be telling him. Nobody at that golf club expects their homes to drop in value.’

‘Well I hope she rinses the old fool for plenty at the shops.’ Says S.

‘Bit sexist.’ Contributes assistant manager T, from the sidelines.

‘How’s that sexist?’ Demands S.

That’s all I need, a gender-equality argument that nobody with a penis is going to win.

‘You’re suggesting a woman is dependent on a man to pay for frivolous purchases, just because she can’t handle the fact a property transaction is a nightmare.’ Says T, ignoring my, obviously too subtle, shake of the head warning him to desist.

Just as I’m preparing for a volatile argument about embedded patriarchal prejudices and how all the people in the office who shave more than their legs, need re-orientation training from the People Division, in walks a pouty-faced Mrs Pendergast, weighed down by several designer-label bags.

‘I’ve just about had enough.’ Huffs Mrs P, as she sits at my desk and waves away the offer of a crappy instant coffee. Spent enough, more like, I think glancing at the bags. Not much change out of £500, I’m guessing. That’s a couple of months golf club fees. Mr Pendergast won’t be happy.

‘Why does it take so long?’ Pleads Mrs P, after I’ve painstakingly taken her through the extensive file notes, telling her about the stalled mortgage offer, where a self-employed buyer is having trouble producing three years of accounts, the survey in Newcastle that demanded a wall-tie inspection and the first-time buyers waiting for a Help-To-buy loan to clear.

‘Anything else?’ Demands Mrs P, frostily. I can feel it coming. There’s a local authority that will remain nameless, taking up to eight weeks to produce local searches that are virtually worthless, but need to be provided.

‘We’re nearly there.’ I soothe. We are but the incompetents elsewhere have a way to go. Regrettably some of them - lawyers and on-line cowboys - will be paid irrespective of result, I get nothing if this sale goes down. That’s why I’m still working long after Mrs Pendergast thinks my job has been done. Here it comes.

‘Only Clive has been talking to some people at the club.’

That’s his handicap, right there. 

‘And they think we may have undersold, they say the market would have gone up in the time our sale has taken.’

‘Are you saying you would pay more for the flat you’re buying?’ I ask, slightly mischievously.

‘Good God no.’

Thought not.

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You Move Me - Monday

‘Can you help us? Our solicitor and agent are useless.’ Pleads the red-eyed woman sat at my desk.

It’s not the first time I’ve heard that particular request. They say moving home is the third most stressful life-event after death and divorce - and I’m not convinced death fully-qualifies as a life-event….

‘They’re a bunch of idle f***wits.’ Says the husband, to a scowl of disapproval from his tearful wife.

I’m tempted to raise the old adage that public and government contract-awarders alike tend to forget - you get what you pay for. This couple are my buyers, so my duty isn’t to them it’s to my vendors, the people paying my fee, but unless I sort this mess my clients won’t move and I won’t get paid.

‘Our agent just never answers the phone and the cowboy who came round and over-valued our house has just disappeared.’ Moans the woman. Cowboys tend to get shot, I think fleetingly, but in this case I suspect he’s just ridden off into a purple-hazed sunset.

‘And the outfit he recommended as solicitors seems to be staffed by an ever-changing bunch of schoolboys who don’t do their homework.’ Spits the husband.

‘Like dealing with a call-centre?’ I venture mischievously.

‘Precisely.’

No surprise there. Maybe next time employ a traditional estate agent and a proper, local lawyer?

‘So why couldn’t our lot do that?’ Asks the wife an hour later, after I’ve spoken to the whole chain, three sets of solicitors and a reluctant lender, agreed an expedited mortgage offer and a proposed completion date. Because you paid a cheap fee up-front and they have no incentive to do anything, other that look for the next mug-punter to sign up? I think angrily.

‘If we ever move agin I won’t be using an on-line load of idiots.’ Says the husband, offering me his hand as the couple leave. Great, I think, maybe come back and see me next time?

‘Oh we won’t be moving again.’ Interjects his wife. ‘Never!’

Not so great.

Maybe one day, if a UK Housing Minister stays in post longer than a few months, we’ll have a joined-up policy for the industry. But I suspect I’ll be long gone. Other countries demand a minimum standard of education to practice as an estate agent - or realtor - and a sound form of licensing and monitoring. We continue to think cheap is value for money and when engaging a future service, you don’t find out until it’s too late, you’ve been duped.

‘Mrs Simmonds on line three.’ Announces negotiator S, later in the day. She’ll be ringing to say how delighted she is I’ve achieved a full-price asking price on her flat after just a fortnight of intensive marketing, five viewings and two competing offers, I think a little smugly.

‘I’m not really happy with the amount of fee I’m paying you.’ Says Mrs Simmonds by way of a greeting. The wind coming out of my sails is almost audible.

‘You don’t seem do have done a lot for the money.’ She moans and a lengthy diatribe about skill-sets, expertise, exam qualifications and the job being far from over, spools through may head. I should introduce Mrs Simmonds to the couple I had in the office earlier. They left singing my praises and wanting to bear my children - but then again they didn’t pay me a bean…

‘I wonder if I’ve undersold it.’ Continues Mrs Simmonds, in the time-honoured whine of an owner who is unhappy if you sell too soon and quick to change agents if you take too long. I’m tempted to give her the number of the on-line outfit my new friends employed, but they probably wouldn’t answer the phone.

‘What did Mrs Simmonds want?’ Asks negotiator S, after I’ve convinced the woman she won’t be paying me a penny until I nurse the deal through to a successful moving day.

‘What do they all want?’ I snap back.

‘Something for nothing?’ Ventures S, with a beguiling smile.

There you go.

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Upload And Forget - Tuesday

‘Oh for f***s sake!’ Exclaims assistant manager T, as his phone handset hits the cradle damagingly.

‘What is it?’ Asks negotiator S, with a sympathetic smile.

‘Another w****r who is making a huge property mistake.’ Spits T, angrily.

‘You’re going to need to narrow it down a bit.’ Replies S with a giggle.

She has a point. Even the most seasoned of businesspeople have blinkers on when it comes to making sensible decisions on property matters. It’s a murky fog of greed, emotion and anxiety - no wonder you need a trusted professional to hold your hand.

‘Those f***-wits in the two bed flat I valued have only gone and given it to some on-line cowboys for an up-front fee.’ Reveals T, face turning puce.

‘That’s their look out then.’ Soothes S. ‘They’ll most likely be back in three months, chastened and out of pocket.’

‘They’ll be too embarrassed to see me again.’ Predicts T, probably accurately. ‘ It’ll end up on the market with those idiots down the road.’ T sweeps a derisory hand towards one of our competitors in town, a cheap-and-cheerful outfit - without the humour element.

‘I imagine you pointed out to them the folly of paying in advance for a future service?’ I say, semi-rhetorically.

‘Of course I cocking did.’ Snarls T.

‘Swear box is is waiting.’ I admonish, nodding towards the office expletive collector.

‘Put me down for a f***ing fiver then.’ Says T dismissively. ‘I’m fed-up with these myopic idiots.’

T has a point. As I try to tell the public and train my staff; if you buy a car, it’s pretty easy to see the distinction in price between a Mercedes and a Micra. But trying to compare a service - one you’ve yet to receive - on the basis of some promises from a profession that is hardly held in high esteem by the public, isn’t such an easy pitch.

‘These cretins don’t seem to understand getting a sale through to completion is massively more than just listing a home on a property portal.’ Says T, dejectedly.

‘They’ll find out.’ Soothes S.

‘Not until it’s too late.’ Grumbles T.

He’s right again. Most high street agents offer a no-sale, no-fee, arrangement. The hard work often begins after a sale has been agreed, with lender and title problems, protracted chains to negotiate and a several month sale process to navigate. This is when an experienced and qualified estate agent earns their corn.They have to, otherwise they don’t get paid.

‘Why do people do it?’ Wails T.

‘Because they think they are saving a thousand pounds or two.’ Says S.

‘More often than not, they under-sell if the market isn’t tested property.’ Replies T. ‘And that’s before the sale has to be rescued multiple times ahead of an exchange of contracts.’

‘They probably signed up for the on-line cowboys’ call-centre conveyancing service too.’ Says S, not helping matters.

This is another area yet to be fully understood by a naive public. A cheap shirt, you pretty much know is going to fall apart after a wash or two - a cheap solicitor will leave you even more exposed.

Obviously some people will have a successful experience with an on-line estate agent, but in my view it’s the digital equivalent of putting a postcard advertising your house in a newsagent’s window. Just for £1,000 - not £2.50 a fortnight.

‘Did they pay the money in advance, or take the deferred payment  option?’ I ask T. Some outfits, dodge the thorny issue of folk not wanting to pay ahead of delivery, by signing the seller up on a pay-later scheme. I wouldn’t advise my worst enemy to do that.

‘Paid now.’ Says T. ‘ I mean, it’s like shelling out for an over-priced hooker and finding she doesn’t come.’

‘And neither do you.’ Adds loose lettings lush B, unhelpfully. 

It’s not. Although…..

‘Make a note to call them once a fortnight until they are ready to use us.’ I instruct T. ‘They’ll probably be talking to you more often than some faceless, so called local property expert, who lives fifty miles away.’

‘They don’t deserve me.’ Snipes T.

They do.

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False Bonhomie - Wednesday

‘Anyone want to go and collect a set of keys from that lot over the road?’ I ask, nodding towards one of our, less loved, competitors. Not that there’s a lot of love lost towards any rival outfit trying to take money out of your bank account. Unless that rumour of B, our looses lettings lush, shagging the assistant manager of the cut-price fee cowboys, after the last annual Estate Agents’ Dinner, is true…

‘Rather not.’ Says S, with a winning smile.

I look at T, my own assistant manager, who is so laid back he wouldn’t shag anyone - unless they did all the work.

‘Got a viewing in a minute.’ He says, unconvincingly. I could check the system to see if he’s lying, but I get enough conflict with those outside the office, without bringing it indoors.

I look hesitantly at F, our dozy trainee. He seems to gently chewing, in that bovine manner that indicates a lower form of intelligence. He can’t be chomping on gum again, because he’s on a final warning. F eventually feels the weight of my gaze.

‘What?’ He asks, looking up gormlessly. At least he’s confirmed there’s no chewing gum in his mouth. I look at him and, not for the first time, wonder what I was thinking of when I recruited him? Best of a bad lot, probably..

‘He was asking if you could collect a set of keys from those tossers across the road.’ Says S helpfully.

F looks out the window and focuses on a middle-aged couple about to cross to our side. His face creases up.

‘Never mind.’ I bark. ‘I’ll go.’

There’s an uneasy truce between estate agents at the best of times. It’s witnessed on Friday night’s, when traditionally most firms adjourn to the pub to disseminate sales and to bray as loudly as they can towards the opposition huddle, about what a great week they’ve had. There’s more bullshit flying around than a fight at a stud farm, but some of it sticks.

The gritted-teeth politeness tends to continue at business functions and the aforementioned annual Estate Agents’ Dinner, where several score of property pugilists wrap themselves in alcohol and diner jackets and try not to start fights until they’re in the car park.

The fragile truce is strained to Lebanon levels, when you enter a rival’s office to relive them of keys to a home they’ve failed to sell, prior to you taking up the marketing. You feel as uncomfortable as most men - apart from the crossdressers - do when they make their furtive annual trip to the M & S lingerie section each Christmas. ‘Well, she’s about you size actually, Miss….’

I can see them  watching me through the window even as I move to their side of the street. If looks could kill no amount of adherence to my old Green Cross Code would save me from a nasty accident. Pausing as long as I can, to scan their window display and to try not to fret further at the sight of two homes I tried to list, still on display and still 20% over-priced, I bustle through the door. False smile pasted on.

The manager looks at me as if a large unwanted turd has just popped back around the u-bend.

‘Alright?’ He says, more by way of a challenge than an enquiry into my wellbeing.

I can feel his staff looking at me, almost physically.  There can’t have been this much tension in the air since the last time the founder members of One Direction were together in one room.

‘I’m here for the keys to number twenty-three. Mr and Mrs Stephenson.’ I tell him flatly.

‘You’re welcome.’ Sneers the shitester in a suit, nodding towards a minion, who scuttles off to the key safe. ‘They are pair of wasters.’

Only because you misled them on price and spent the next twelve weeks trying to get them to reduce by £25,000, I think sourly. I obviously don’t say that. There’s a facade to be maintained, not to mention some expensive dentistry to be protected.

Still smiling.

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Dodge City - Friday

‘Bloody cowboys.’ I tell the empty car as I crawl through the traffic to work. This is a long way from a frontier town but a certain lawlessness abounds when it comes to the plethora of “for sale” boards I’m looking at on the main road. There’s a shoddy one and two bedroom timber-framed development, tossed up by a nationally known developer who shall remain nameless, behind the brick wall. So in theory the collection of close-to-rogue traders flouting the planning laws might have properties to sell the other side of the boundary, but half of them are just getting some free advertising.

‘I should ring the planning office.’ I chunter in tandem with the inane local radio presenter who is asking people to phone in with stories about their first love. Either call would be an embarrassment. An unwilling recipient not really interested in my fervour just about covers both tales.

‘You alright?’ asks assistant manger T as I skulk into the office still seething. He finally seems to be reading body language.

‘Sodding forestry commission’s worth of boards on the London Road again.’ I tell him angrily. ‘And you can bet half the pirates don’t have anything for sale or let over the wall.’ I add superfluously. It’s a trick as old as my career. The practice ranks alongside deliberately over-valuing property to mislead owners and shut out the more reputable, circumspect practitioners.

‘Don’t know why we don’t just whack a few of our boards up there too.’ Suggests T, not for the first time. ‘If you can’t beat them join them. It would improve our board conversion rate.’ He adds.

‘It’s cheating and it’s illegal.’ I tell him lamely.

‘The council don’t give a toss.’ Counters T. ‘What happened when you called them last time?’

Nothing happened, I think gloomily. But then they weren’t that keen on a caller’s number withheld, anonymous phone call. A form needed to be completed apparently and even if it’s not strictly the Wild West, sometimes you need to keep your head down if the bullets start flying.

‘So you can’t just put boards up, like, anywhere?’ Asks trainee F cautiously. The last time I snapped at him for a cretin-like question he sulked for a day or two and I thought I might have to attend another People Division training day. Nobody is empathising with me lady, so perhaps the staff need to toughen up if they want to last a couple of decades selling houses. Turns out most of them didn’t want to.

Reluctantly, and in words of limited syllables, I explain to F about the Town and Country Planning Act, plus deemed consent on for sale/letting boards on residential property. Advertisements must be no larger than 0.5 square metres and placed within one metre of the subject home’s curtilage. I lose him at Planning Act and decide not to bother explaining curtilage.

‘I don’t know why you get so aerated about it.’ Chides T as I wait in the kitchen for the kettle to catch up with me. If he says, take a chill pill; he’ll be wearing the kettle contents. Bur sadly he’s right. The industry still has no minimum standards of qualification. So the fact I studied and know about property law, construction methods and where you are allowed to place for sale boards, counts for nothing. I should just buy a Stetson hat and get some of those pointy boots.

‘I could round up some of my mates and we could pull them all down tonight.’ Suggests F earnestly after the morning meeting and when my tea and temper have cooled.

It’s tempting but with all the CCTV camera coverage he’d probably be spotted and we’d be the one’s who were actually prosecuted - for damage to private property. I tell him the pitfalls, but he’s nothing if not persistent, suggesting some form of knitwear on the head and dark clothing. It’s tempting, if only to level up the playing field a bit, but another turf war I can do without. To be honest, I just want to get High come Noon most days - although…

Damn it, can’t find my balaclava anywhere.

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