Stamp Of Disapproval - Tuesday

‘So basically the Chancellor is trying to shaft grannies.’ Pronounces assistant manager T, with an image I’d rather not have.

‘I saw a website about that.’ Say trainee F, not exactly helpfully.

‘You are disgusting.’ Snaps negotiator S, eyes blazing. F looks crestfallen, then adds quietly.

‘It was about taxes on property…’

S looks embarrassed, her flushed cheeks quite fetching, as I think about how inept legislators can screw up the housing market with ill-thought out, clunky attempts to control market forces, yet not come up with a coherent construction policy for the last three decades.

The latest law with unintended consequences, is a hurried amendment to stamp duty, the iniquitous tax that penalises people for moving home. In a clumsy attempt to stop disgruntled pension holders - who were screwed over by another chancellor’s raid on their retirement funds - from buying second homes to let, for some meagre income in their dotage.

No doubt the puffed-up pontificators in Parliament thought it a great vote-winner to add a 3% levy for second home buyers, on top of the already punitive taxes for changing your home. Now they are hauling small fry in to the tax net; like separated couples with a home, each starting a new relationship, and two generation families trying to secure a property with a granny annexe, to avoid the £40,000 a year charges to put your aged parent in to a rest home. Meanwhile the big fish have off-shore tax avoidance schemes.

That won’t help us sell Mr and Mrs Hall’s home.’ Says S, trying to move on from her assumption that all males spend their spare time looking at dodgy websites. Most of them are blocked on our system, anyway…

S is referring to a pricey mistake, made by the aforementioned Halls, when they bought a sprawling home with separate annexe to accommodate Mr Hall’s ageing mother, last year. These moves need to be thought out in full - then probably discarded - as in my experience, using Mum’s money to buy a property you couldn’t normally aspire to, without actually waiting for her to die, often ends in tears.

‘The family aren’t going to like the fact the place will be harder to sell now.’ Suggests T. As we all nod in agreement, or at least I think we do. F tends to nod randomly anyway, the soundtrack in his head is something I’d rather not listen to.

Mrs Hall wanted to kill her mother-in-law after four weeks, then she did actually die there months later. The other beneficiaries, promptly fell out with their brother as their share of the inheritance was tied up in a sprawling house with, effectively, sitting tenants. An extra 3% on the price for prospective buyers isn’t exactly going to speed the process.

‘The thing with homes with a Granny Annexe,’ pontificates T. ‘Is when you haven’t got any on your books you get a stream of people wanting one. Then when you do get instructed to sell one, nobody is interested.’

‘Even less, if they have to pay a stupid tax on top.’ Adds S.

Nobody said the property market was easy. Too many people, restrictive planning controls and not enough homes being built, against a backdrop of Green Belt campaigners and not in my back yard complainers, who invariably, already have their own home and want to pull up the drawbridge. You’d think there would be a joined-up UK housing policy. You’d think…..

‘Surely they’ll have to change the rules.’ Says S, applying reason where none has been found to date.

Maybe they will, maybe they won’t. By the time you read this, perhaps common sense will have prevailed, but I wouldn’t bet your house on it.

“Oh for f**s sake.’ Exclaims T, later.

‘What now?’ I ask, as he slams his phone down angrily.

‘Another buy-to-let purchaser wants to pull out of a deal because the tax has changed.’ Answers T. I predicted this outcome when the meddling was announced. If only I could nail the lottery numbers with such accuracy. A few million and I’d be out of here.

Home free. Tax free.

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Head Above Water - Friday

‘This is the one with the swimming pool right?’ asks trainee F excitedly as we head across town, en-route to a valuation. I answer in the affirmative, as an old woman pushes the Pelican crossing button and the bloody lights change instantaneously. I’m half tempted to keep going but I spot a camera mounted on top of the pole and screech to a halt.

‘Must be cool having a pool.’ Enthuses F as the grey haired woman makes painfully slow progress across the road and an irrational hatred of the shuffling figure rises like reflux in my throat. I’d be happy enough to meet her beneficiaries when they squabble over her house sale. And in reality infirmity and a weak bladder waits for all of us if we can mange to keep negotiating busy roads for long enough.

‘Pools are a mixed blessing, and are certainly cool if you can’t afford to heat them.’ I tell F as I accelerate away, anxious eye on the car clock now. I hate being late.

‘But they must add value right?’ Quizzes F. He’s only along to hold tape measure and camera and to make me look intelligent. I’m already regretting it.

Like homes with a granny annexe, properties with pools are often asked for when you don’t have one. When you do, buyers fade faster than a British summer. Outdoor pools, especially when they’re too big for the plot and too close to the building can actually detract from a sale. Add in fears about young children falling in plus expensive maintenance and filling in, rather than jumping in, becomes a better option.

‘They don’t always add value.’ I tell F in order to pass the time, as jerking off isn’t an option with company - and a company car. The cheap velour seats don’t take spillages kindly, as the incontinent Granny wanting retirement flats and a catheter I had in the back a month ago proved

I explain the economics of installing and running a pool as we head into the suburbs. Chemicals, a pool man, filters that need changing and expensive filtration units that tend to blow when they get overworked by insects, squirrels, suicidal family pets and on one memorable occasion, a horse.

Owners are convinced a rectangular chlorine-laced waterhole is going to fetch them a premium on price. A bit like the delusional earth-huggers who install ranks of ugly solar panels on their roofs only to find the feed-in tariff has changed and the firm that fitted them has gone bust when the units fail. And don’t even start me on damp-proofing companies where each successive buyer needs a fresh treatment from a different outfit, as the guarantee is about as worthwhile as a politician’s election promise.

‘What about indoor pools then?’ Quizzes F, as I see the turning and move onto an un-adopted road that the buyers’ solicitor will make a time-wasting fuss about.

‘Better,’ I tell him tired of giving free advice now even before I start again in earnest. ‘At least you can use it all the year round and lock the door so the grandchildren don’t fall in when you’re watching Song Of Praise.’

F thinks about this as I pull up outside the subject property, one that looks to be on a smaller than average plot. I get a sinking feeling, even as F frowns and asks: ‘What is Songs Of Praise exactly?’

‘I hope I’m wrong.’ I tell F as I clamber out of the car, shooting pain down my leg like a hit from a Taser gun. ‘But I get the feeling it’ll be one of those gardens with more pool than lawn. Truth is, I think pools are like having a boat. The best two days of ownership are when you get it and when you sell it.’ He screws his facile face up and I brace myself.

‘So, how do you sell a pool without selling the rest of the property?’ F asks haltingly.

‘It was an analogy.’ I snap, noticing a curtain twitching at our arrival.

‘Like a crossword?’

I give him two.

His mother really should demand a refund on the school fees she splashed out.

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