Beginning At Home - Monday

‘Nice lady coming back to see you in about half an hour.’ Says negotiator S, as I come through the office door.

This isn’t what I want to hear. Nice ladies don’t come to see me, unless they are selling something I don’t want - or can’t afford.

‘What is she flogging?’ I ask, to a frown from S.

‘A dead horse, if she’s pitching to you.’ Interjects assistant manager T, with a grin.

‘It’s for a good cause.’ Continues S, ignoring T and fixing me with that devastating smile.

I soften a little, which with S is a little counterintuitive….

‘Some sort of begging letter, with a collecting tin most of the deadbeats who come in here will try and steal if we don’t chain it to the photocopier?’ I demand, sourly.

‘You are so jaundiced.’ Says S, with a beguiling pout.

‘It’ll come to you with time and a lot more disappointment.’ I tell her, shrugging off my coat and heading for the message book.

Apart from being a magnet for every lunatic in town and all the sad lonely people who have nobody to talk to during the day, my office seems to be the first port of call for anyone collecting for spurious good causes, from the big terminal ones, right through to well-meaning old women rescuing damaged Greek donkeys and stray cats that should have been spayed at birth.

‘Was she wearing a hi-viz jacket and a fake smile?’

I ask, distracted by several messages in the book that don’t bode well for some of the sales in my pipeline.

‘No she was quite normal.’ Counters S, as I see Bomber the surveyor has collected the keys for one of my high-end sales. He’ll down value the agreed price and no doubt ask for numerous independent contractors reports. Investigations almost guaranteed to spook the purchaser and make them think they are buying a dilapidated money pit, not a period home that has stood for a couple of hundred years quite happily.

‘What makes them think I have time to collect cash for free and hand out cheap lapel stickers to prove to passers by how worthy you are?’ I demand.

‘They are just to stop the charity-chuggers in the high street from bugging you.’ Suggests T.

‘Well it’s not working.’ I counter. ‘If those ill-dressed, failed students, expect me to sign a monthly direct-debt to save pit-ponies in Siberia, they’ve another think coming. They should get a proper job.’

‘Think they are volunteers.’ Says S, with a hint of annoyance.

They’re not. They are on commission, like me, and unless I sort out these sales taking forever while solicitors, lenders and surveyors try to screw then up, I won’t be getting any.

Agents do their bit for charity. Those with a more active social media stream than the clowns at head office, manage to raise their local profile quite well and buck the perceived image of estate agents being a bunch of sharks in cheap suits. I’ve done my fair share of sponsored walks and bike rides, but fatigue and a chaffed crotch gets you eventually.

‘The British are amongst the most generous charity supporters anywhere.’ States S. Not sure she has the figures to substantiate that claim. It is probably just a result of almost constant television nights where you are coerced into ringing a premium number to donate, while the tears are still falling after another heart-wrenching video-tape of a starving child and a devastated village. Perhaps I should take the collecting tin, after all. A good cause is a good cause and our image could do with a little polishing.

‘Here she comes.’ Announces S, nodding through the window. I spot a late-middle-aged lady, in sensible shoes, approaching like an ageing head girl from a private school. She’s sporting a tweed skirt and jacket combo.

‘You look like the man who makes the decisions.’ She announces in a plummy voice, flashing a lipstick-stained smile. I’m sensing a nut-job.

‘I’m here to tell you about the mistreatment of Korean puppies.’

Barking mad.

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Better The Devil You Know - Tuesday

‘Thought you might like to do a viewing later, boss.’ Says trainee F, with more artfulness than he usually employs.

I probably won’t enjoy it, as it happens. Despite what many think, the hard sell in estate agency is winning the property instruction in the first place. That’s where the competition is and the dark arts deployed. You can’t hard sell a viewing and subsequent purchase. And if you do, the potential buyer has eight weeks or more to change their mind, once lawyers, surveyors and lenders get involved.

‘And why did you think I might like to do that?’ I ask F.

He looks uncertain.

‘Tell him.’ Urges assistant manager T, with a mischievous grin.

‘Well… you know you say match staff to similar people for appointments.’ Says F, hesitantly.

‘Don’t worry it’s not a pair of poofters.’ Interjects mortgage man M, unpleasantly.

‘God you’re such a neanderthal throwback.’ Says negotiator S, scowling at M and tossing her hair back, distractingly.

I’m deflected from F, as I now need to point out to everyone that legislation, rightly, insists we don’t discriminate against people on race, religious, disability or sexuality grounds. Rather stuffy lecture delivered, I pause.

‘Yeh, yeh.’ Says M stalking back to his office and his copy of The Daily Mail. ‘But it doesn’t mean I have to like them, or those weirdos who want everyone to use the same toilets just because they can’t decide if it’s a dick between their legs, or not.’

Quite a lot of work to do on M. I wonder if I should apply to send him on that minority awareness course I went on? He probably could do with sitting in a circle of chairs empathising within a gender-neutral environment and sticking yellow post-it notes up whenever he thinks of a situation when his dated pre-dispositions and ingrained masculine prejudices, come to mind. He’d paper a whole, f***ing wall.

‘So why me?’ I continue, looking at F.

‘Similar age profile.’ Answers F.

‘Similar grey hair.’ Interjects B from her lettings’ desk.

‘Similar dress sense.’ Says S, with a laugh.

‘And similarly grumpy.’ Says T, completing my character assassination. 

As I walk up to the cheaply converted, once proud, Victorian house, I can see what they meant. The man I’m meeting looks like a tubbier version of me. Cheap crumpled suit, badly-knotted tie, wrinkled forehead and hair that I like to think of as, the stately silver fox look, but on this guy just looks like surrender.

‘You the estate agent?’ Asks the man warily. Yep, the man with a set of keys, a clipboard and a base model company car. You’ve got me, Sherlock. I eventually answer in the affirmative.

‘I was expecting someone younger.’ The man says flatly. Yes, and I was expecting someone looking a bit more like George Clooney, bucko. 

‘No offence.’ He continues. Plenty taken. ‘Only most of your lot are barely out of puberty, kids and shitesters most of them.’ He pauses and looks at my car. ‘And with flashier motors.’

‘God this is grim.’ Remarks the man, when we’ve both wheezed our way to the top floor penthouse. I make a mental note to change the description to attic flat, even before we start ducking to avoid the sloping roofline.

‘Why does everywhere smell of cabbage?’ He asks as we take a cursory look round the grotty studio flat, dodging stale takeaway cartons and trying not to make eye contact with the ladies’ underwear on the radiators.

‘I can’t live in somewhere like this.’ States the man wearily, over the monotonous drip of a leaking kitchen tap.

Should have thought of that before you shagged you secretary, I say internally. This guy is on the wrong end of divorce proceeding and the wife will be getting the family house. He better hope the younger woman likes three flights of stairs, dodging prams and bikes on poorly lit landings and listening to other people having more sex than she’ll be getting, through paper-thin walls.

‘Good day?’ Ask my wife, when I finally get home smelling stale and disappointed.

‘Love you.’ I tell her,  causing a momentary frown.

I can’t be doing with starting again.

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Driving Me Mad - Wednesday

‘Oh for crying out loud.’ Exclaims negotiator S. She doesn’t often bother the swear box, so something has got her agitated. I’ve thought of various methods, but we’ll draw a polite veil over those…

‘What is it?’ I enquire soothingly. We’re alone in the office and I’m showing what a caring and sharing manager I am by sitting in the front desk and facing the public. I know managers who hide in their office and stare forlornly at the profit and loss accounts, but I’m more of a front-line, man of the people kind of guy - plus I can’t fully understand the Excel spreadsheet. Dilapidations just make me think of elderly folk in sheltered accommodation having to sell at a loss and move on to a nursing home, at £1500 a week.

‘Mr Oates’ sale.’ Answers S glumly.

I grimace. This one has been running for nearly five months and if anyone tells you estate agents don’t work for their money you should read the file notes on this protracted sale. Destructive surveys, lapsed mortgage offers, wall-tie failures, antagonistic vendors and twitchy first time buyers at the bottom of the chain. The lawyers involved seem indifferent, or incompetent, and half the agents are numpties with no training and more grasp of a Koppaberg than the conveyancing system.

‘What is it this time?’ I ask S. My bean counter boss has been asking why we haven’t invoiced this sale, for the last two months. With, no sale no fee, you keep bending and spreading to accommodate like a loose-limbed rent boy, all in the hope you’ll get your money eventually.

‘They’re finally all ready to exchange,’ answers S. ‘And now they’re arguing about completion dates.’

This isn’t uncommon. Over protracted sales’ periods, antipathy can build up between the parties, and if it isn’t removing all the light fitting and toilet roll holders on the last day, it’s cutting off noses to spite faces and risking all that packing and prospecting for suitable schools, by intransigence over the moving date.

‘Who is the most vulnerable?’ I ask S, after she’s reminded me of the chain details and the personalities involved. It’s brutal, but if pressure needs to be exerted, I need to find the weakest link. It should be a job for the solicitors involved to sort out the completion dates, but at least two of the individuals involved will only answer to letters and as they charge by the missive and take weeks to reply, I can’t risk the wait.

‘What did he say?’ I ask S, after we’ve discussed the best person to try and persuade to be flexible and spoken to all, bar one, of the agents involved in the chain. The on-line outfit just had an answering service and in truth I’d have more chance of speaking to the mad woman, who pushes the empty pram round town, than those clowns. And people think they are saving money…

‘He said if they don’t move on his date, he’s going to pull the plug on the whole deal and put the price up £20,000, as another agent has told him he’s selling too cheaply now.’ Replies S, head in hands.

Oh, for some paltry professional standards in the much-maligned industry. There are more cowboys in this business than the whole of Texas. I’d plead for some minimum entry standards and exam qualifications. But all the time people entrust their home sale to call-centres, with a couple of chancers fronting a tacky television advert and local property experts who cross three counties with a digital camera and a sandwich box their mum packed, we are going nowhere. Fast.

‘Try the first time buyers.’ I urge S after several more heated and protracted conversations. The two diffident solicitors, as predicted, have refused to take her calls.

‘I think if I pressurise them any more they'll not only be forgetting the purchase, but the wedding too.’ Suggest S flatly.

There are enough reasons for first purchasers to balk at buying, without some surly old sod at the top of the chain digging their heals in because the proposed moving date clashes with a golfing match.

Sadly, it’s par for the course.

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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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Love Me Do - Wednesday

‘I think you are going to like this one.’ I enthuse, as I pause by the front door of a penthouse flat I was delighted to be instructed to sell, only two weeks ago.

The husband looks at me with a half-concealed sneer. He clearly doesn’t like estate agents. He’s not alone. But then I half-sneered when I saw him pull up in his high-end German car, reeking of privilege and self-satisfaction. I’m just hoping I hid my contempt slightly better than he has.

‘Is this still available?’ Asks the man as his wife visually winces at his abruptness. ‘Only we’ve been mucked about by you lot enough, already.’

Now I’m really starting to dislike him. I try not to stereotype but it’s a weakness in all of us and the property industry doesn’t exactly get good press. I’m hoping to change minds - but not his. I still remember who pays the bill.

‘Yes, it’s available.’ I answer, as I open the door and hit the light switch for the hall. It’s the worst part of the flat and I need to make it seem bright and airy. ‘Although,’ I add. ‘I expect it to sell quickly.’

‘You would say that wouldn’t you?’ Snipes the man as he steps inside with his wife. I don’t mind, I won’t be selling to him. But then you rarely sell too the male - unless it’s a a gay couple.

I really took a liking to the owners of this top floor home -  a penthouse is always a bit of a stretch as a term, but when you are marketing it helps. They trusted and valued my opinion, left the keys with me as they are often out of town and didn’t quibble madly on the commission. In fact the wife said quite graciously, when given my suggested asking price: ‘Get us within £25,000 of that and we’ll be delighted.’ I love a challenge.

Bedrooms visited, I can already feel good vibes from the wife of the viewing pair. He’s more reserved, trying to remain aloof and disinterested for when the negotiations start, but she’s starting to visibly salivate. And I know they are in a good position, I’ve checked their status and they can proceed immediately, cash in the bank. I decide to try a trial close.

‘What would you do with the master bedroom?’ I ask her, seemingly innocently.

‘Oh nothing, I love the colour scheme as it is.’ She gushes back. Gotcha. Now it’s just down to how much, I think, the old excitement flooding back. It’s easy to forget how much of a buzz you can get from selling homes, with the day-to-day grind from suspect surveyors, lazy lawyers and barely competent banks. But it’s the best feeling ever - well almost….

I’ve left the two prime rooms until last. It’s a technique I prefer, build the interest then give them the reveal. A stunning recently re-fitted top-end kitchen and a panoramic view from the living room, with a full width glass-balustraded balcony. All facing the right way to catch the sunshine. 

‘Oh my God. I love it.’ Cries the woman. I’m guessing she doesn’t get much more excited than this and judging by her sour-faced husband I can understand why. Still, he won’t be making the decision - just writing the cheque.

I’ve done my homework and I have the local knowledge and experience that no just-opened outfit, or some remote on-line call centre with more naive investors than homes to sell, can offer. The flat has a share in the freehold of the block, the management is in house and service charges are sensible. It’s the best you’ll get while leasehold - the second class tenure - still holds sway.

‘What will they take off the price?’ Presses the man when I know I have them. £25,000, but you’re not getting it,bucko.

‘You’ve got us the full price?’ Exclaims the owner when I report in. ‘We’d have taken less.’

‘That’s what you are paying me for.’ I reply, a little smugly. We’re not all the same.

‘We’ll tell all our friends.’ The husband says, as he hangs up, audibly smiling.

Yes. Don’t keep it a secret.

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Sale Agreed - Friday

‘Sold to that man!’ Exclaims trainee F with a flourish, thumping the phone down and turning to the office with a grin like a scary clown.

‘Exchanged contracts already has it?’ Says assistant manager T with raised eyebrows.

’Didn’t know there was an auction on today.’ Contributes negotiator S, with an alluring grin.

‘Have they signed an irrevocable pre-contract agreement, with a ten percent non-returnable deposit subject only to a second viewing?’ I add flatly.

‘Errr, No.’ Says F looking crestfallen, scanning the room. ‘No to all of those.’

‘Then it’s not sold then is it?’ Says T, shaking his head.

‘It’s a sale agreed, though.’ Adds S softly, with a kind smile towards F. ‘So that’s a good start.’

‘That’s about all it is.’ Snipes T, before I can.

‘Well done.’ I tell F, the voice of experience nagging at me to be less enthusiastic.

One in three sales fall through. There’s a long way to go, but you have to keep pouring into the top of the sales funnel.

‘They were a nightmare couple.’ Continues S, still smiling at F. That’s probably enough, I think, as she adds.

‘You did well to get them to pay a price our vendors accepted.’

F hesitates and an alarm bell starts ringing shrilly in my head - at least I hope it’s just in my head. The tinnitus has been getting increasingly obtrusive and sometimes I wonder if the noises I hear in my head are actually real….

‘They did pay what we agreed they’d have to?’ I ask, shaking my head like a breaststroker - the type with swimmers’ ear, not the creepy version Human Resources keep running courses about.

‘Yes.’ Answers F hesitantly. ‘Only they insisted we put a sold board up straight away.’

‘Or what?’ Growls T. Once again, just before I can. I wonder if he’s after my chair? He can have it if he wants. Like me, it’s old and cranky with a bad back.

‘Or they won’t go ahead.’ Replies F apologetically.

‘It’s not  up to you though is it?’ I say to F curtly.

‘I know, I told them we’d have to ask our clients.’ Replies F. ‘But they say they’d already agreed it with them. Said they have a gentleman’s agreement.’

A simultaneous groan rings round the office.

‘What?’ Asks F naively.

‘How long have you got?’ Says T.

One thing I’ve learnt over nearly three decades of deals and disappointments, is a gentleman’s agreement is about as reliable as a colander for a condom. People renege on their promises without the slightest thought to the consequences. The reasons one in three sales falter are as broad as Kim

Kardashian’s backside. Human frailties; with changes of mind, marital circumstance, schooling and employment are almost limitless. Then the professional pitfalls contribute, with bad surveys, lazy lawyers, intransigent lenders, short leases, disputed rights of way, the list is endless. Multiply those potential deal-breakers by the number of people in a  property chain and you can see why I don’t want the sold board up before the buyers at least start spending some money.

‘They want the board up. Tell them we want the survey done first.’ Suggests T. It’s a line I’ve used, but he’s first again. I like to think I’ve taught him something.

‘I’m not sure they’d like that.’ Says F weakly.

‘Who the hell do you think you’re working for?’ I add quickly, before T trumps me again.

‘I’m not doing the buyers’ finance am I?’ Asks fat mortgage man M as he sways past.

‘No.’ Answers F.

‘Then you’re acting for the vendors.’ Concludes M. Succinctly summing up the conflict of interest arranging funds for buyers has caused in the industry, ever since the banks and insurance companies started buying estate agencies.

‘How can it hurt?’ Persists F.

Because it puts off other potential buyers. Punters who at least can be readied as a back up, if the “my word is my bond” buyers do what 33% of people who utter that dreaded phrase eventually do. I tell F and he agrees  to speak to the vendors for instruction.

Sold - subject to contract - board up already.

I’m not exactly counting chickens.

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Open All Hours - Thursday

I’m alone in the office with just imbecilic trainee F for company, as we cover the lunch shift. It’s not a lunch hour; such as you might get working in public service, or a heavily unionised environment. Here you grab some sustenance on the run, in between appointments. Spend too much time scoffing rather than selling and one of the, far too many for every town, opposition agents will be gobbling up your commission opportunities. It’s dog eat dog out there…

F takes a call from an abrupt, just short of rude, man wanting property in a road his wallet won’t stretch to. F frowns as he holsters the phone. I watch the rudimentary cogs grinding in his skull. You can almost hear the base material on base material friction.

You’ve been doing this for, like, ages.’ Announces F eventually, with not the most flattering of openings. I nod warily, as he continues. ‘So, did people always hate estate agents?’

‘Pretty much.’ I tell him, remembering my first sale as if it were yesterday and the fact that the buyer thought they’d paid too much and the seller thought we’d sold too cheaply - and not justified our commission.

‘What you have to understand,’ I tell F wondering if it’s worth the effort enlightening him when I’m trying to engineer a second written warning from a reluctant Human Resources department, who do take lunch hours but don’t like Industrial tribunals. ‘Is property is adversarial,’ I continue. ‘Each party is looking to stiff the other. Add in idiotic surveyors, incompetent solicitors, nervous lenders and a chain longer than on the Titanic’s anchor and you can see why people hate the process.’

‘Yes but why hate us?’ Asks F naively.

‘Because we’re the conduit.’ I tell him, instantly regretting it.

F’s face screws up painfully. Finally he asks.

‘Isn’t that some sort of internet scam?’

Still no entry exam for estate agency.

‘Anything happening?’ Asks fat mortgage man M as he waddles back into the office, face buried in something greasy from Greggs the bakers. He doesn’t need an hour to consume more calories than I eat in a day. I tell him the stark truth.

‘No leads for me then?’ Complains M, spitting flakes on to the carpet, that – unless I do it again - won’t be vacuumed for another 48 hours, after the bean counter’s cleaning cut backs.

‘You could chase up some of your back catalogue of non-written business.’ I suggest sourly. M looks at me with distain. He wants fresh meat – and two veg all wrapped in pastry, if he can get it. He certainly doesn’t see keen on foraging for scraps.

‘Bunch of piss-heads coming up the road.’ Says M nodding his chubby face towards the window and doubtless hoping to change the focus away from his non-performance. M only pulls his weight when he gets on the scales.

‘I don’t know how people can afford to get drunk during the day.’ I pontificate, knowing the answer is probably, ironically, in lettings’ lush B’s copy of the Daily Mail on her desk.

‘You might want to lock the door.’ Suggests M retreating to his office, leaving an aroma laced with processed onions.

It wouldn’t be the first time a bunch of drunkards came into the office to abuse an easy target. I dodged the flying chair last time, but I’m not as agile as I used to be.

Before I can decide, the group of Neanderthals are glaring through the glass making rigorous jerking gestures with cupped forefinger and thumb, while one of their number bangs on the window. The last two times I called the police we were closing for the day before the squad car arrived. I’m guessing there are more than a few constables who can’t get on the housing ladder.

The door spills open and the boldest, drunkest, low-life leers in and grunts.

‘You f***ers are the reason we can’t get no place to live.’

Not the fact you aren’t working and are spending all your benefits on cheap cider then, I ache to say - if it wasn’t for the fear of anaesthetic and more emergency surgery.

The spit will come off the carpet in a couple of days.

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Behind The Green Door

‘That twat from number 21 was on the phone when you were out.’ Announces assistant manager T before I’ve taken my coat off.

‘The repossession?’ I query, feeling another problem growing along with the incipient ulcer bubbling away in my stomach.

‘Yes, he doesn’t seem to understand it’s not his house any more.’ Grumbles T.

‘Give him a break.’ Counters negotiator S, looking at me for the support her bra is struggling to give. ‘He’s lost everything.’

‘Should have kept up the monthly money then.’ Says T callously.

‘Or taken out some payment protection insurance with me.’ Adds moribund mortgage man M to looks of disbelieve.

‘It never pays out.’ Snaps S, turning her ire on M.

‘Pays pretty good commission, or used to.’ Chuckles M, his jowls vibrating like jelly on the Circle Line.

‘What does he want?’ I ask T, trying to avoid a full blown internal argument when I can take my pick from half a dozen public spats, daily.

‘To speak to someone in higher authority.’ Says T his eyebrows rising towards the heavens where I’ve found nothing but a thinning ozone layer, to date.

I’ve detested repossessions since my first round of snatch-backs in the late eighties. A certain, there but for the grace of a God, feeling has dogged me on every appointment with bailiff and locksmith. The, I’m only following orders and if I didn’t do it someone else would, line wears a bit thin when you’ve pasted scores of goods and chattels notices on newly secured front doors, giving the ex-owners 28 days to remove their remaining possessions before the house clearance lads turn up with a skip and a steam-cleaner.

‘Couldn’t you sort it then?’ I ask T wearily.

‘Idiot says he needs several hours there.’ Replies T. ‘I told him we can’t wait around that long while he loads bin-liners. There’s sod-all worth keeping there anyway.’

‘It’s probably sentimental value.’ Suggests S with a rather magnificent pout. Don’t go there, says the internal voice admonishingly – it’s someone else’s property.

‘He says we can leave him with the new key and he’ll drop it back.’ Continues T, before adding sneeringly. ‘As if we’re that stupid.’

It’s not unheard of for evicted non-payers to break back into homes after the court order has been executed. I’m guessing the lender wouldn’t take too kindly to more lengthy legal proceedings if we hold the door open while a squatter takes up residence, no matter how altruistic the intent. The corporate department wouldn’t be too pleased either. They nurture cosy reciprocal agreements with banks and building societies involving much mutual back-scratching and long expenses paid lunches. I take the number, appropriately enough a mobile one, and ring the man. If hate could pass across the airwaves I’d be long dead. I agree to stay for an hour maximum.

‘F***ing parasite.’ Will have to pass for a thank-you.

‘You lot love this. It’s an easy sale.’ Snarls the dishevelled ex-owner later, as he and his tattooed partner lug bags of threadbare clothes, some forlorn looking children’s toys and a few ropey electrical appliances on to the front lawn. Their man with a van hasn’t arrived and it looks like rain judging by the blackening sky.

‘You know you are selling this way too cheap.’ Says the heavily inked woman. I tell her the asking price has been set after two independent surveyors’ valuations, but she’s far from convinced. Granted three others in the road are on the market for twenty grand more, but they won’t be selling in a hurry.

‘I’m never buying again.’ Spits the man as I look at my watch surreptitiously. No you won’t be mate, but not for the reasons you’re thinking. His credit score will read like a Greek budget report.

‘I don’t know how you can do your job.’ Sneers the woman, eyes colder than a dead fish. ‘You are all part of the conspiracy.’

I’m not that sophisticated lady I ache to say. I’m just trying to keep a roof over my own family. But sometimes you need to know when to stay silent.

‘Good day?’ Asks my wife. I just shake my head and open a beer.

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Barking Mad - Monday

‘Could you do a viewing after lunch? We’re double booked.’ Asks assistant manager T as I hurry through the office door. The affirmative answer slips out before I’ve slipped my jacket off and I immediately realise I’ve been done. Years of experience negated by a simple distraction tactic. It’s why middle-aged men with long no-claims records drive in to the car in front, when women on the pavement disrobe in the sunshine.

‘Where is it?’ I question suspiciously, moving towards the office diary. T coughs the information and I’m sure I hear a titter from S my buxom negotiator, but I may be confused. Her blouse hints at weather better than we’ve been experiencing of late.

‘So why can’t F do it?’ I ask, looking at my trainee’s vacant desk, mirroring his expression most days.

‘He’s got a funeral to go to remember?’ Says T.

‘How many grandmothers have died now?’ I gripe uncharitably. ‘Most families only have two.’

‘It’s an granny-in-law type thing, I think.’ Answers T uncertainly. ‘You know what his tribe are like.’

I do. The mad mother is on her third husband and another divorce looks on the cards. F has had more unfamiliar males come into his room at night than a novice monk with a religious bent. Still, separations -even sticky ones - are good for business.

I glance at the address in the diary and let out the sort of low, pained moan F would no doubt be familiar with - only with the lights on this time.

‘The Collins’ house.’ I say dejectedly.

‘I think it was.’ Lies T, a smirk barely suppressed.

I can’t turn down a viewing. That would set an unacceptable example. Viewings mean offers. Statistically, in a good market it takes about ten viewing to agree a sale. In a difficult market it rises to as much as thirty, but the numbers still need to be crunched. I’d just rather it wasn’t in a house where the Doberman likes to shag your leg.

‘Can’t they go any other time?’ I ask plaintively.

‘No.’ Says T. ‘They’re only in town for the day. Want to find something before they go home.’ It’s a great buying signal, one I can’t afford to ignore, even though people who make a decision to purchase a property in haste invariably pull out of the deal. There’s at least a six-week cooling off period while solicitors, surveyors and lenders contrive to scupper the process. I still need to go though.

‘Did you ask if they were going to be in?’ I say to T. Sometimes a viewing is more productive without the owners breathing down your neck and certainly without an oversexed canine spunking down your trousers.

‘Nope. They’ll be there.’ Answers T, before adding slyly. ‘I just wish I could be. But I’ve got a market appraisal.’

‘Be gentle with Fenton.’ Says S laughing.

‘And don’t lead him on.’ Adds loose lettings lush B unhelpfully. Dogs and casual sexual encounters too easy a target for me to bite back on, I ignore the jibe.

‘The dog isn’t called Fenton, anyway.’ I say wearily, referring to the You Tube sensation we all watched a few months ago, where an exasperated owner screamed in vain as his dog chased a herd of deer onto a road. Once they get over-excited nothing stops these animals. Certainly not an estate agent wishing to remain polite but equally keen not to have another dry cleaning bill. We had the: “What do you do if a Doberman makes love to your upper thigh?” discussion last time the mutt goosed a staff member. The answer was, nothing - until he’s finished. They particularly like those soft leather casual shoes, popular with the older generation. Bringing an unfortunate connotation to Hush Puppies I’m fairly sure the manufacturer didn’t think of.

An agent has to adapt to make owners feel comfortable and although I’d love to suggest Mrs Collins just shuts the Doberman in the garden while I conduct the viewing -or wanks the hound off before I arrive - I have a feeling it might cause offence.

Guess I’ll just get used again.

---------------

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On The Job Training - Thursday

Trainee F comes to my open office door seeming troubled. I feel the same way. I just try and avoid the gormless look.

‘How can I help?’ I ask, automatically framing an open question after years of schooling.

F frowns and I see he’s clutching a buff sales file. I click off the internet site I’m allowed to browse by the internal filters and beckon him in.

I’ve given F his own sale to monitor. Often the hardest part of a deal reaching fruition comes after the first flush of enthusiasm between buyer and seller, when the solicitors, surveyors and lenders get involved. Add in the dreaded chain of third parties you have no control over and it’s little wonder one in three sales are destined to fail.

‘I’m not really sure what’s going on.’ Falters F, in a candid admission of his career progress so far, but it’s the sale progress he’s referring to. The skilled agent will nurse your sale obsessively, checking the chain, chivvying professionals and amateurs alike, negotiating and re-negotiating problems until a successful exchange of contracts. In this case I’ve entrusted F to a fairly straightforward transaction. After all it’s not always the chief pilot at the controls and everyone has to learn. I just can’t afford too many bumpy landings.

‘There’s some sort of hold up in the chain.’ Stutters F uncertainly. I take the file, trying hard not to snatch it and scan his spindly longhand notes. It might as well be a doctor’s prescription. I ask for more detail.

‘Something about a septic tank and a….’ F stumbles. ‘An easement, maybe?’

I beckon him to sit down. This might take a while.

‘So,’ says F after a brief history of rights of way and private drainage systems. ‘What you’re saying is they don’t have like proper sewerage and stuff.’

‘Not mains service.’ I tell him warily. ‘It’s not uncommon in older more rural properties.’

‘Like one of those listing buildings?’ Suggests F brightening.

My quip about structural problems is wasted on the dolt. Sometimes I genuinely fear for his future children. Amazingly, judging by the parade of dippy girlfriends, he seems to have no problem getting laid. And he excels at screwing up...

‘So it must be like really ancient, this house.’ Continues F, oblivious to my body language.

‘Not necessarily.’ I reply, sensing another asinine aphorism.

‘Probably built before the war, I’m guessing.’ Ventures F, with a silly grin.

I now desperately want to ask which war the idiot is referring to? If he mentions either Gulf conflict, I’ll fire off my own Exocet. He already thinks I fought in the Falklands campaign after a joke about old comrades in an overflying Chinook spiralled out of control. The truth is I was in my first selling job when the naval flotilla set sail for the South Atlantic. It’s been a battle ever since.

‘I suggest you speak to the solicitor involved, or their secretary.’ I tell F, referring to the chain diagram on the inside cover of the file. One carrying surprisingly good detail if you could read F’s handwriting. His face falls.

‘I don’t really like speaking to lawyers.’ He says as I think you and me both pal. They’re a supercilious, condescending bunch of tossers at the best of times. But I’ll still have lunch with them if there’s a good probate department.

‘They treat you like you’re an idiot if you ring up and ask what’s happening.’ Continues F gloomily. Some open goals are just too easy, so I move on.

‘Be sure of your facts, ask politely for an update and tell them if they can’t help, you’ll report that back to their clients.’ I advise.  F grimaces, as I add. ‘Just don’t ring on a Friday afternoon when they’re trying to get completions through.’

‘How come it’s all so complicated and people say we don’t do anything for the money?’ Queries F as he gathers up the file reluctantly. It’s his most salient question so far.

‘We’re like swans.’ I tell him, immediately regretting the analogy.

His guesses involving long necks and hissy fits left me floundering and far from serene.

Guess I’ll just have to keep paddling.