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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Call Me - Wednesday

‘I’ve booked you a valuation this afternoon.’ Announces negotiator S, with that devastating smile. If the estate agency career ever goes pear-shaped she could make a passable living doing toothpaste adverts, either that or some sort of pay-as-you-go webcam based business…

‘Details,’ I prompt rubbing my hands with glee, like some latter-day Ebenezer Scrooge. ‘Details.’

‘All on the market appraisal form.’ Answers S a little smugly. She’s been well trained and will have all the information I need to get a competitive advantage. You might not need any qualifications to be an estate agent, but I’ve spent years learning my craft - and have the qualifications too.

‘Who am I up against?’ I quiz. Knowing that knowledge is power.

‘That’s just the thing answers S hesitantly. ‘Two of the usual suspects. Cheap fee Charlie and the corporate over-valuers.’

‘And?’ I ask, sensing there is one.

‘And one of those ridiculous, fee up-front, on-line outfits.’

Assistant manager T groans and says. ‘Rather you than me boss. They’ll be cheapskates who can’t see past the pound signs.’

T has a point. The on-line operators - most in the industry baulk at calling them estate agents as they don’t have a high street presence and little local knowledge - hence the call-centre tag, tend to attract the industry-naive sellers. They get the money up-front, unlike the traditional model where you only pay for a successful sale and completion, then have no incentive to continue promoting the home, or negotiating hard through the protracted sales’ process.

‘I don’t know why people fall for it.’ Says S. ‘The people they send out have no idea of the local market, tend to get the price horribly high, then disappear like mist on a May morning.’

‘Well it’s con isn’t it.’ States T, semi-rhetorically. ‘Mug them at the start for the money, tie them in to some slapdash battery-farm solicitors firm operating from a barn in Wales, then rely on the small print when they start to complain.’

T isn’t entirely wrong. The backlash against the several high-profile operators who advertise on television, funded by vast amounts of, less than savvy, investors’ start-up money, has begun. And if the market hardens, the directors who have, allegedly, been heavily offloading shares, will need those Spanish holiday homes to run to.

My clients don’t pay me, unless I negotiate a successful sale at a price they are happy with. It may be several thousand pounds, but it’s a results-based fee. If I screw up, if they, or their buyers change their mind. If one of dozens of reasons that can scupper a sale comes about - why one-in-three deals fail - they pay nothing. Nada. Not a sausage. 

‘Ah but the internet agent is £1500 cheaper than you.’ Says the potential vendor when I’m sitting in their pokey one-bed flat, later.

‘And they said our place was worth £15,000 more,’ chips in his girlfriend.

Like an incompetent Victorian canal-digger, I’m shoving water uphill again.

‘Where was the man from?’ I ask.

The couple look a bit sheepish.

‘Erm, a couple of hours drive. away.’ Admits the girl, finally.

‘So not exactly a local property expert.’ I tell them, unnecessarily. 

‘But he’s cheap.’ Persists her boyfriend.

Not if he doesn’t sell it and you’ve paid £850 you’ll never get back, I want to scream.

Successive government and a revolving door’s worth of UK Ministers have failed to get to grips with the housing crisis, but even those flawed policies look like a genius’s insight compared to the lack of understanding of the estate agent’s role and the need to ensure some level of minimum competence and perhaps some exams and licensing. I’ll be long gone before that is resolved.

‘We hear what you are saying.’ Says the boyfriend, as he shows me to the door. You don’t.

‘It’s just we’re saving so much money with the on-line lot.’ You’re not.

‘Can we call you if it doesn’t work out?’ Asks the girlfriend. No need. I’ll be contacting you much more regularly than the call-centre will.

Did you get it?’ Asks S, on my return.

I will.

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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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Tinderbox - Thursday

‘Here comes the postman with the hots for you.’ Teases assistant manager T, as he peers up a rain-swept high street.

B our loose lettings lush, looks up hopefully, but of course T is referring to S, my nubile negotiator and pretty much the best thing in our window.

‘He’s just friendly.’ Counters S with a hint of a rising blush.

‘He’d like to be.’ Chuckles T, as he tracks the mailman’s progress.

‘Thought he’d be more your bag.’ Contributes fat mortgage man M, nodding towards B. I’m not sure if he meant the weak pun, financial services staff have a charisma removal as soon as they sit their exams.

‘She prefers them younger.’ Says T, to a scowl from B, a look not enhanced when he adds: ‘That way she can help them with their homework.’

That’s the problem when it goes quiet in the office. Idle hands, latent keyboards and silent phones leads to unnecessary frivolity. It’s why I always have a planned leaflet drop up my sleeve. You can’t have people enjoying themselves at work…

‘What happened to the postman’s bike?’ Asks trainee F innocently and momentarily I glance across at B. Fortunately she’s filing her nails again. I’ve told her, but if she wants to inhale powdered cuticle, that will probably surface in some study as a pre-cancerous trigger at some stage, that’s her look out.

‘Health and safety.’ Replies T with a shake of his head. ‘Some dyke in the post office human resources department probably didn’t like anyone getting their leg over.’

‘That’s sexist.’ Snaps S. ‘And a lazy generalisation of personnel people.’

She’s feisty this morning. Definitely some cobbled together claims of buyers waiting handouts, for nearby letterboxes, later.

‘What do you think?’ Asks S, looking at me earnestly.

Does she mean about the lesbians in HR, or the postman’s missing bicycle? It’s tough being in management these days. I have to keep abreast of quicksand-shifting legislation and I don’t do touchy-feely. At least not without a reprimand and another re-education course…

‘I think you shouldn’t make sweeping generalisations about people’s sexuality.’ I say rather pompously.

‘Or their mode of transport.’ Adds M with a rumbustious chortle.

‘God knows what it was like in this industry when you two started.’ Says S with a shake of her head.

I look at M and he gazes back at me.

‘You really don’t want to know.’ I eventually tell her, just as the postman arrives.

‘Morning love.’ Says the man breezily, ignoring B and making a beeline towards S’s desk.

She nods a little frostily. Not sure love is an acceptable greeting any longer, in a world where you have to be careful not to discriminate against peoples’ pet porcupines, in case they get - ahem - prickly.

‘Not much in your dangly bag today.’ Says T pointedly, as I fleetingly wonder if maybe the postie has spent time with B, after all.

‘Bit quiet at the depot.’ Replies the man, invading S’s personal space for longer than I’d like.

‘Did you need a signature or something?’ I demand.

‘No, just shooting the breeze,’ Replies the letter-lugger, with a yellowy-toothed smile.

‘That was a bit abrupt.’ Chides S after the postman has gone, looking rather crestfallen. God, you can’t win.

‘Those guys’ days are numbered anyway.’ Says M, with a hint of a belch. ‘It’ll be all email, and instant messaging before long.’

‘Or parcels in the DX.’ Adds T, referring to the private document exchange service beloved of solicitors and estate agents.

‘Change doesn’t come as fast as you think.’ I tell my team, glancing at the stack of A4 leaflets waiting to be hand delivered later.

‘That’s true,’ agrees T. ‘Or everybody would use those ridiculous on-line agents.’ 

The communal laugh-in rumbles around the office for longer than it should. But then if people think selling a home is just placing an digital listing, they will probably get the agent they deserve.

My phone pings with incoming messages. If it’s offspring they’ll want something costly, wife ditto, but it’s the bean counter boss bothering me with new technology.

I swipe left.

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Forecast Folly - Monday

‘So, predictions for the property market in the year to come?’ I ask, after delivering my morning meeting. There’s a group look of bemusement from my slightly overweight and overwrought team. They were probably expecting a quiet start to the new year, with just a bit of disinterested grazing on the remaining chocolates in the tin the board man gave us, but now I’ve challenged them.

And why not challenge them? I’m going to be challenged by the cranked-up office targets the bean counter boss has lumbered me with. He’s made assumptions on what prices and activity will do during the next twelve months. They might as well stick their fingers in the air too.

‘Rental market will be busy again.’ Volunteers B, our loose lettings lush. She’s filing her nails again, something I’m thinking of sending the way of eating at your desk and smoking in the office, if she continues to inflict powdered cuticle flakes in my direction.

‘You think?’ Challenges assistant manager T.

‘Yes, of course. Owner occupiers are going the way of the dinosaur with prices the way they are.’ Crows B. ‘You’ll all be under me soon.’ It’s not a pleasant image.

‘Rubbish,’ says T. ‘ It’s still cheaper to buy in the long run and renting is just dead money.’

‘That’s a cliche.’ Spits B.

Yes, but cliches are usually founded in truth.

‘What do you predict?’ I ask negotiator S.

She tilts her head alluringly.

‘Well,’ she begins. ‘If supply stays as restricted as it has been and with demand not slackening, prices will only go one way.’

‘Yes.’ Agrees fat mortgage man M, with an unpleasant grin. ‘And if you shovel those naive first time buyers my way, I can source cheap money and some tasty insurance products.’ God I yearn for simpler times, when we just acted for the vendor of a property and didn’t have conflicted loyalties.

‘What do you think will happen if interest rates climb several points?’ I ask, remembering the time when my mortgage payments were levied at 15% and I was one missed payment away from having an unpleasant man in a cheap business suit repossess my house. In retrospect, I stubbornly kept paying a crippling amount only to avoid the humiliation of a rival putting their For Sale board up at my, just vacated, home.

‘Interest rates can go up?’ Asks trainee F to muted laughter. I think he’s joking but you can never tell with him, plus he’s only ever known an environment where rates are low single figures and pensioners constantly complain about poor returns on savings.

‘You’ve seen a few property crashes.’ Says S.

‘Not that many.’ I counter sharply.

‘Yes but you know what I mean,’ persists S. ‘Do you think it will happen again?’

I’ve been expecting it for some time. I just don’t want to voice it too loudly. Historically all the markers suggest a big price correction is overdue, but maybe a once in a generation change is taking place. Maybe the old figures and multiples don’t apply in a world of cheap money, not enough new homes being built and a burgeoning population. Maybe.

‘It could.’ I venture to a sniff of distain from M. ‘But with out targets for the coming year we’d better hope it’s not in the next twelve months, or nobody will getting a bonus.’

‘It won’t.’States M firmly. ‘Too many vested interests in finance and Government. There’s more chance of on-line estate agents catching on.’

Everyone laughs. Now apart from the great solar roof panel con, I can’t think of a more over-hyped, under used development in the property market for years, than on-line estate agents. An oxymoron if ever there was one. It’s a local knowledge and expertise business , always will be. Good luck to any investors in an industry I still don’t fully understand after half a working lifetime, if they think they can make it work from a glorified call centre. 

‘How’s the week looking so far?’ Asks the bean counter when he rings late in the day.

‘Promising.’ I tell him, fingers crossed.

Probably.

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