Rights And Wrongs - Friday

‘This is a pretty crap area really isn’t it?’ States trainee F as I weave the company car in and out of ageing Fords and Vauxhalls parked half on the kerb, half on what’s left of the grass. I hesitate to point out to him that this may be crumbling ex-local authority housing stock but the prices are still way out of his reach.

We’re on our way to measure up a voluntary repossession, the keys and instructions from the lender nestling in my briefcase. At least I know the outgoing owners will be long gone this time, it’s when they are still inside it gets messy. A scruffy brace of teenagers, hoods raised, look at us menacingly as I slow to walking pace to ease between a huge flatbed 4 x 4 and a rusty Citroen Saxo with more differing coloured panels than Joseph’s Technicolor Dreamcoat.

‘How come some houses have all new windows and roof tiles and some are all rundown?’ Asks F pertinently, as I spot the 1950s built semi in question. As if to underscore F’s question, the house we’re about to enter is scruffy, with the exception of a low-level picket fence to the front and a naff-looking windmill, while the adjoining home has updated UPVC and tiling.

‘The next door place is still owned by the council.’ I tell F as we clamber out of the car and I feel several pairs of eyes watching from behind net curtains. The dislike is almost palpable. At least if they key the car it’s not my long-term problem.

‘So they are actually in better nick than the one’s people bought?’ Questions F, brow furrowed.

‘Often.’ I tell him. ‘The people with mortgages can’t afford the upkeep.’

F shrugs and stands aside for me, his bovine brain clearly working on another question more rickety than the gate he’s just opened.

The house is typical of the era. Open-plan front garden, no garage, hence the on-street parking issues. To the side, is a narrow, wire-fence-bounded walk-through to a concrete shed, once for coal, more often full of bikes and rusty prams now.  We stop outside the front door. A door I now open with the shiny new set of keys, as I wonder if the ex-tenant, now ex-owner, regrets exercising their options.

‘So this was, like, one of those right-to-buy jobs then?’ Asks F uncertainly, as we check out, first the cramped under stairs cloakroom, with the temperature of a morgue, then the through lounge/diner to the rear kitchen, fitted with a cheap-looking DIY kitchen units, not quite level. A tap drips mournfully as I glance at the 100-foot garden, wildly overgrown, with the odd discarded push-along toy rising from the grass like some avant-garde entry at the Chelsea flower show.

‘Yes.’ I tell F as I unpack my clipboard and begin scribbling my notes on autopilot. I know the floor plan by heart and could probably guess the measurements it wasn’t for fear of prosecution under that pesky Property Mis-Description Act.

‘It was a mixed blessing.’ I tell F as I continue to jot down the home’s particulars and wonder how I’ll get a decent picture without using PhotoShop.

‘So they all just turned a big profit then moved on?’ Asks F, as we make the upstairs landing and I see the cramped third bedroom and undersized bathroom, and then check out the two bigger bedrooms, both with cheap louver-fronted fitted wardrobes, circa 1970.

‘Those that didn’t run out of money and couldn’t make the payments.’ I tell F.

‘It was that women who invaded the Falklands that done it, was it?’ Says F, throwing me briefly, until I realise he’s talking about Margaret Thatcher. Sometimes I feel really old. Ignoring F’s tenuous grasp on history, I tell him that, as with most things in property, there are winners and losers - and no easy solutions.

‘So this place will be cheap then?’ Concludes F when we are back out by the gate and I’ve taken several snaps, none of which will hide the obvious without artifice and a risk of prosecution. I tell him my suggested number and he almost chokes.

If I’m right, he won’t be buying.

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Building The Pressure - Monday

Out in the car with trainee F. Ostensibly, he is here to learn but he reeks of sow’s ear. We’ve just measured-up a new instruction and taken some photos. The pictures had better be good because the home is on for £20k more than I’d have liked, after a rival agent tried to prise the business away telling the vendor she was about to place it on the market too cheaply. The signed sole agency saved me but the compromise was a higher price – at least for now.

‘It won’t sell for that money will it?’ Asks F, indicating the digital camera in the foot-well.

‘No,’ I tell him with as much certainty as anyone can muster where property is concerned. ‘And even if some nutter does offer over the odds, their surveyor will downvalue it.’

‘We deal with a lot of time wasters don’t we?’ States F rhetorically as I glance at the dashboard clock, see we have thirty minutes to spare, and indicate left.

‘This isn’t the way back to the office.’ Says F showing the sort of local knowledge estate agents major on – even borderline retards.

‘Little detour.’ I tell him swinging into a bumpy, yet to be top-coated road, with the sort of raised drainage ironmongery beloved of shock absorber retailers and scrap metal thieves everywhere.

I pull up by the freshly minted marketing board of a new build showhome. The photoshop-doctored picture shows the sort of attractive mixed race couple, with two children, who only exist in advertising agencies minds and who certainly can’t afford these prices. Not without a bank of Mum and Dad handout. The garage has been converted with the help of some sliding patio doors into a sales office, and as I ease out of the car, with a shooting pain down the leg, flags are fluttering overhead like sparse applause.

‘Are we going in?’ Asks F incredulously as he follows me, spaniel-like.

‘Why not?’ I reply. ‘Market research.’ I pitched for the sales on site, some months ago, but the medium sized developer decided to sell direct. Something that still rankles.

‘But you hate time-wasters.’ Persists F as I march past the only other car in the car park, an ageing Honda Accord, which is doubtless the sales lady’s motor.

‘Do what I say not what I do.’ I tell F as I spot the owner of the car through the glass. She’s reading a book.

‘Can I help you?’ Asks the woman as we slide the door back and a gust of wind sends her leaflets fluttering across the cheap Ikea desk. It’s a closed question as expected, and she is also as predicted. A fifty-something fading glamour model who has had some work done. Fake blonde hair to match the fake fruit in the bowl and the unreal asking prices. There’s probably some botox involved too.

‘So you’re estate agents.’ Echoes the woman with a look of disappointment I see most days. She only just stops herself from picking up her paperback. ‘I thought you were probably selling something, or a gay couple.’ She continues, stifling an unseemly yawn.

F and I exchange uneasy glances neither wishing to articulate, out loud, our thoughts. Probably for the best.

‘This is alright.’ Enthuses F as we walk round the show unit. The saleswoman didn’t bother to come with us, once we promised to take our shoes off to protect the cheaply sourced foam-backed carpeting. Doors have been removed from the kitchen and lounge to give the illusion of space and some prissy designer has colour co-ordinated the throw cushions and curtains. The furniture looks to be three-quarter size.

‘They’re too much money.’ I tell F authoritatively. Builders always want a premium for their product and I priced these 15% less than the developer is asking. The first sale always sets the benchmark for new developments and nobody has exchanged contracts on one yet. The sold subject to contract stickers in a couple of windows, almost certainly Harry Potterish works of fiction.

‘Not buying?’ Asks the woman ruefully as we leave.

No, but I’ll be back.

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