My Back Yard - Friday

I see the earnest-looking woman making a bee-line towards me, even as I navigate past the less pressurised lunchtime shoppers. I’ve already dodged the wino in the empty shop unit doorway, and swerved the Big Issue salesman, who in truth has almost given up pestering me with his entreaties. I’ve told him at least once that I already help the homeless. It didn’t go down well.

There was a time when my wife used to lovingly pack me sandwiches, so I could keep going through the working day - after all many people want to view homes in their own lunch hour. But she tired of making them, just as I tired of eating them and I now welcome the chance to stretch my legs and walk to the shop for a meal deal. Of course I have the dilemma of the healthy eating - taste-free range - or something with flavour and big numbers on those nutrition information panels. Fortunately my close eyesight is failing, in line with my resolve.

My resolve to dodge street surveys and charity-chuggers trying to sign me up on a direct debit to support abandoned donkeys in Greece, hasn’t faltered though.  I can sidestep faster than a rugby wingback, even with my battered back, so I’m already dummying left, before zig-zagging right past the bloke in the disabled scooter, as the woman with the leaflets comes closer.

‘Excuse me sir.’ She calls stridently, before showing surprising agility and sidestepping to block my path. ‘I know you don’t I?’

This isn’t great. Telling a past client I haven’t recognised to push off, isn’t going to foster repeat business and if they are a buyer, or tenant, I might still be jeopardising office revenue. Reluctantly I stop.

‘Aren’t we near neighbours?’ Presses the woman waving a black and white, home-printed leaflet, in my face.

We might be, my wife tends to know the names and occupations of people in our road, I prefer not to intermingle. You never know when you might be repossessing their house. Fist name terms don’t always go well, when the locksmith is drilling through the front door and the kids are sobbing on the lawn….

The woman confirms her address - next road down - and smiles triumphantly.

‘Then you are just the sort of person who will want to support this.’ She says, handing me her leaflet. I scan the piece of clumsily edited A4 and my heart sinks. It’s an objection to a big new development, planned for a green space not far from my home. The stern-faced woman is looking at me challengingly. She’s a NIMBY - not in my back yard - protestor. They are all late middle-aged and have the glassy-eyes zest of converts, without any of the naive charm.

‘This is a scandal.’ She continues, blocking my path completely. ‘ There’ll be no green fields left in this area if they get away with building this monstrosity.’ I know all about the proposed development - it’s my job - and I’m conflicted. People need homes to live in, my two sons will need sensibly priced homes themselves. But I also know if planning is granted, the landowner will become a multi-millionaire overnight, and the prices will be astronomical too. Paradoxically, the social housing element the planners will insist on, also conflicts me. There are some people you’d rather not live in the same school catchment area.

‘We’ve put all the links on our leaflet and a draft objection letter template,’ Continues the woman, forcibly handing me the leaflet. ‘And it has the email  addresses’s of the local councillors, so we can make our feelings known’ She’s presuming she knows my feelings. Big mistake. Better not let her know I sell houses for a living. I’m hoping she’s unaware, or surely she wouldn't have stopped me?

‘I trust we can count on your support.’ Says the woman forcibly, as I make to leave. ‘We can’t let these people ruin our lifestyle.’

I know the developer won’t use an agent to sell the homes. I know they won’t put in sufficient flood prevention and the schools are already overflowing. I also know the prices will be unaffordable to most.

It’s objectionable.

-------

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.

-------

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…?

--------

Take Away Service - Wednesday

‘Argh, for pity's sake what’s that stink?’ Asks trainee F as I manage to force the heavily boarded entrance open, shoving against a tidal wave of junk mail acting as a paperweight doorstop.

‘You get used to it.’ I fib, trying not to gag as I peer into the murky depths of the hall.

‘It smells like something has died?’ Says F, clutching at his nose with that faded linen handkerchief his mother taught him to use. Not pleasant. Equally unpleasant is this repossession we’re entering, one that has had squatters living inside during several months of extended legal battles. They’re gone - at least I hope they are or the cloying aroma might just be a decomposing smackhead - but the messy part is still to be done.

‘I’ll turn a light on.’ Suggests F fumbling at a grubby switch plate underneath an electricity junction box that looks as though it’s been tampered with, judging by the trailing wiring.

‘Good luck with that.’ I tell him, reaching for my heavy duty torch and waiting for the lifeless click. It comes and after a long pause, so does F’s response.

‘The power’s not on.’

I should be given charity status for keeping him off the streets.

Repossessions (foreclosures to my cousins in the USA) are never fun, they wax and wane with the market conditions, but they are a constant no matter what prices are doing. People always fall into financial difficulties when they borrow heavily over a 25 year plus period. Divorce, redundancy, illness are all drivers in supplying estate agents with a steady flow of instructions to sell. Every cloud has a silver lining…

With a satisfyingly weighty clunk my Maglite torch sends a bright lighthouse-like beam down the cluttered hallway. Half filled bin bags slump like decapitated Guy Fawkes dummies across the threadbare carpet and a collection of nearly empty beer and spirits bottles, lie scattered along the length of my field of vision.

‘Shit.’ Exclaims F Incredulously.

‘Stepped in some?’ I ask, shining the torch at his feet.

‘God no.’ Replies F, peering down quizzically. ‘At least I hope not.’

‘Early days yet.’ I tell him, moving cautiously towards the first internal door.

If the power is off, it’s a fair bet the water is too. I’m minded to send F into the bathroom first.

‘How do people live like this?’ Asks F as I spin the beam back and forth across the cluttered lounge. The bay window is heavily boarded with just one struggling beam of daylight attempting to send a shard of watery sunshine into the room, via a knot hole in the cheap shuttering.

‘Some blame the government, some pin it on illegal immigrants, some on greedy bankers.’ I tell him. ‘It depends which newspaper you read.’

‘All of them here.’ Responds F sweeping his hand across a pile of backdated newsprint on the sagging sofa.

‘More bedding than intellectual stimulus.’ I tell him, glancing warily at the stain-covered carpet. Any sign of spent needles again and we’re both out of here. They don’t pay me enough to perform another high-stakes game of hopscotch through a dance floor made from syringes. 

‘I’ve never seen anything like this.’ Pronounces F as we make our way into the kitchen, where natural light is filtering through a broken fanlight above the padlocked back door. I have.

The work surfaces are cluttered with the detritus of a hundred oily takeaways. Foil trays, pizza boxes, chips cultivating interesting bacterial growth bedeck the area. The remnants of the only cooking performed are perched alongside the fridge. A bent spoon and more foil paper along with dozens of blackened corpse-like spent matches next to a three-quarter burnt candle. Incongruously it looks like one of those church types - but we’re a long way from God here.

‘I wonder what’s in here?’ Speculates F stretching out a bony hand.

‘Don’t!’ I scream in anguish . ‘Never open the fridge.’

Too late.

‘I need to go home for a shower.’ Splutters F as we take in fresh air and I ring to arrange a house clearance. He’s learnt something today.

 It’s a dirty job - but someone’s got to do it.

----------

Clean up with the ebook on Amazon. All formats:

UK Readers: http://amzn.to/ttGZ4j

US Readers: http://amzn.to/vXpFJf