Stop Pressing - Tuesday

‘Some reporter from the local paper rang while you were out,’ says negotiator S as I bustle through the office door. ‘ Wants some quotes about the property market.’

‘It’s f••ked.’ Suggests assistant manager T, with a sneer.

‘Swear box.’ Says S, admonishingly.

‘Alright, it’s screwed.’ Continues T. ‘ Too many people, not enough houses being built, overpriced new homes when they do sling them up and a load of Nimbys complain whenever someone wants to built on a bit of crappy common land that they use to let their dogs shit on, without scooping.’

‘Wow. Who pulled your chain?’ Asks S.

‘Every tosser and time-waster that comes though the door, pretty much.’ Concludes T, heading for the kitchen. And I thought I was the cynical one.

‘Did you tell the hack I can’t give quotes without running them by head office, any more?’ I ask, S.

‘Well I wasn’t sure if you would want to speak to them.’

‘The paper, or head office?’ I ask.

‘Either.’

To be honest I’m surprised the local rag is even printing still. When I first started they had a huge circulation and a vast property pull-out, every week. But since people started getting their news and property porn, for free on-line, the paper has been in terminal decline. As a wannabe writer I should be  saddened, but in truth they shafted me for years with over-inflated advertising rates and a virtual monopoly they rinsed relentlessly. I hoped that would all end with the rise of on-line platforms, but like a hooker who swapped pimps, I’m still getting used - just by another abuser.

‘You could tell him the rental market is still strong.’ Suggests B from her lettings desk.

‘Until the government meddle with it and start altering tenancies in favour of left-wing wasters who don’t like being evicted when they trash the property and spend the social money on fags and drugs, instead of the rent.’ Says T, popping his head round the corner. The kettle is starting to rumble but he’s already at boiling point.

‘Maybe you could suggest what the politicians could do to start solving the housing crisis.’ Says S, sweetly. She has more faith in me than I do.

‘They wouldn’t listen.’ Says fat finance man M, joining the conversation. ‘They are only interested in short-term posturing and legislating for idiots who whine when they’ve made a bad investment.’

‘Like an endowment mortgage?’ Asks S, pointedly.

‘That wasn’t my fault.’ Responds M, with a jowly pout.

‘Are you going to talk to the reporter?’ Asks T, returning to the office clutching a steaming mug. No sign of making one for anyone else.

‘What’s the point?’ I say, semi-rhetorically. ‘ By the time I’ve got a response from one of those jobsworths at head office, the paper would have gone bust. Either that, or any comments would have been so heavily redacted it will look like an affidavit from Richard Nixon.’

‘Who’s Richard Nixon?’ Asks trainee F. God I feel old, some days.

‘Like Donald Trump, only more credible.’ Says B.

‘Is that right?’ Asks F.

‘Pretty much.’

‘They could do with a few people like you on a housing committee.’ Persists S. They couldn’t. ’People with years of industry experience who could make them understand how the property market works.’

‘Those wastrels wouldn’t listen.’ Sneers T, slurping his tea loudly. ‘ And most of them are gone by the time the shit hits the fan. They are too busy fiddling with their expenses and their interns.’

‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’ I ask T. His head sinks.

‘The Richardsons’ chain broke when you were out, ‘says T flatly. ‘Bad survey, massive down-valuation and the first time-buyers at the bottom have decided to go backpacking instead.’

‘F••k!’

‘Is that a quote for the paper?’ Asks M, with a wobbly-bellied chuckle.

‘Swear box.’ Says S, nodding towards the over-used tin container.

‘Can it be saved?’ I ask desperately.

‘Old news,’ says T. ‘ Seems it happened last week and both solicitors involved neglected to tell us.’

Nobody would print the next bit.

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Old Rope - Tuesday

‘F**k me.’ Exclaims assistant manger T in an expletive that echoes round the, fortunately, empty office.

I nod towards the swear box and he spreads his arms in annoyance.

‘It’s the rules.’ I tell him pompously.

‘Since when did anyone play by the rules?’ Demands T.

‘He’s right,’ says negotiator S. ‘That bunch of shitesters who opened three months ago are still touting all our sole agencies, and their lying letters never have a fee disclaimer.’

She has a point, two very prominent ones as it happens, but the fact that there is no entry requirement to start an estate agency, and no minimum standard of education or compulsory qualification to start practising as a property purveyor, is something I’ve failed to change in more that two decades. 

‘You lot don’t have any rules, do you?’ Questions fat finance man M, with a jowly chuckle. ‘At least we are licensed and regulated.’

‘Only because you mis-sold so many crap insurance policies.’ Says T with an angry growl.

‘You all took the commission.’ Bats back M, with uncomfortable accuracy.

Once you are on to solid foods, nobody is completely innocent…

‘What is it you’ve seen?’ I ask T, returning to his original exclamation. I don’t need any more divisions in the office, and an argument about the merits of having an in-house mortgage and insurance advisor - and the escalating targets that come with them - isn’t going to improve our clunky camaraderie. With our masters wanting us to serve both seller and buyer, we already have more conflicts of interests than a crooked politician.

T points at the meagre pages of the local free paper he has spread before him, old school style, on his desk. Time was the shrunken publication ran to five times more print than the current emaciated model. The publisher used to regularly stuff us on incremental advertising rates with their near monopoly, but since the on-line advertising portals became king I no longer take the sales representative’s calls. Someone else has a hold of my balls, now.

‘See here,’ continues T jabbing an inky finger at the copy. ‘They’ve finally released prices on those retirement flats they’ve been building on the old school house site.’

‘How much?’ Asks S.

‘Have a guess.’ Suggests T.

This won’t end happily, I think as S calls out her first number and T laughs scornfully in her face.

The site in question sold to a well-known retirement home developer some eighteen months ago. A pretty detached Edwardian family home sat on the generous plot, within zimmer frame shuffling distance of the shops and doctor’s surgery. It was never going to house a family again. After a lengthy planning battle, several architect’s revisions and a rumoured large brown envelope for a planning officer, permission was granted for a big box to house twenty reduced floorspace flats for the wealthy but not healthy.

‘Higher.’ Goads T, as S raises her suggested starting price for the one bed ground floor, looking on to the road, base price unit.

‘You’re having a laugh.’ Says S with disgust. ‘They’re ripping off vulnerable people.’

‘They’ve made their money.’ Counters trainee F, eyes blazing. ‘How are people my age ever going to afford our own place? Let them get mugged.’

He doesn’t mean literally - at least I hope not. But I do question the wisdom of elderly folk who try to downsize to something more manageable in their dotage. They often end up paying way over the odds for a tiny unit with the illusion of safety provided by a cheap video entry phone and emergency pull-cords routed to a remote call centre. They don’t even have a 24hr, on-site manager, as they used to when the concept started. By the time the ambulance arrives, rigour-mortis has often set in.

‘More.’ Cries T gleefully as S raises her suggested price with obvious incredulity.

The figure is already laughable. My advice would to be wait until a few owners have died, then buy second hand. Beneficiaries are always keen for the cash.

‘That’s taking the piss.’ Says S when she finally reaches the unlikely number.

That’s the property market.

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Sun Damage - Wednesday

‘Who’s that wizened old crone staring in the window?’ I hiss to negotiator, S as I try not to make eye contact with the elderly lady staring past the property pictures.

S look up from her screen surreptitiously, as I walk obliquely across the office racking my brain for recognition. The woman looks familiar, but then I see an awful lot of faces and to be honest I tend to remember the brick elevations more readily than the flesh and blood ones - particularly if the wearer has more sun damage than the pyramids and is about as ancient. 

‘Isn’t that Mrs….’ Falters S. She’s struggling and she’s brilliant with names. I can barely remember my own some days.

‘Could you give me a clue?’ I whisper desperately, as I see the woman peering even more avidly through the glass. She’s going to come in. I know she is.

‘Oh you know….’ Continues S

I don’t.

‘The couple from Waterside Gardens who moved to Spain a few years ago.’

‘The Greens?’ I ask hurriedly, as the woman outside moves hesitantly towards the door.

‘Close.’

‘Browns?’

‘Almost.’ Teases S.

‘For f•••s sake tell me.’ I growl as the mottled hand reaches for the door. The swear box is going to take another hit, but it’s worth it.

‘Black.’ Says S softly. ‘Mr and Mrs Black.’

The old lady comes in slowly. She looks like I do every quarterly award’s ceremony when that little shit H, my vertically-challenged rival branch manager, gets up on stage and waves the performance cup in my direction. Beaten.

‘Mrs Black.’ I exclaim effusively, moving over hand outstretched. ‘How lovely to see you.’

It’s not. I sold her house in Waterside Gardens against my better judgement. I wanted the commission but knew - like many - she’d tire of sunshine and sangria after a few months and want to buy her old home back for the same money she sold it for. Just rent it and get the folly out of your system old people. At least you’d have a fall back position when you become ill and realise the much-maligned NHS does have some merits - and a few more people with English as a first language. A few…

‘I wasn’t sure you’d recognise me.’ Says the old duck, falteringly.

‘Of course, I did.’ I lie, sensing S’s disapproval but not daring to catch her eye.

I’m hoping against hope Mrs Black is on a brief visit and not wanting to wind back the clock. They lose tens of thousand on ill-researched Spanish properties with dodgy drains and title, then can’t understand why the UK’s under-supplied market has moved on.

‘Mr Black not joining us today?’ I enquire jauntily and as soon as I say it, I regret it.

The old woman’s face crumbles. Shit he’s dead, I think, mind racing. Still, at least he doesn’t have to hear their old home would cost £75,000 more now. And that his widow could never afford it.

‘That was awkward wasn’t it?’ I say to S, after I’ve resorted to the communal box of tissues kept for when sales fall-through, and done my best Samaritans’ counselling session with poor old Mrs Black, before ushering her out the door.

Seems the locals didn’t speak much English, the rats were as big as cats and the plumbing wasn’t all they were used to. Oh, and of course Mr Black inconveniently died.

‘Will she be able to afford to buy here again?’ Asks S concernedly.

‘Half the size for more money.’ I predict glumly. ‘And that’s if she can ever shift a damp Costa Del Sol town house with crippling service charges and a pongy pool.’

‘Why do they do it?’ Muses S as I pass her a mug of tea I’ve made. I’m nothing if not democratic - except when it comes to leaflet drops on rainy days.

‘Grass is always greener.’ I tell S.

‘Not in Spain surely?’ She replies, with a twinkle in her eye.

‘Metaphorically speaking.’ I bat back, pleased she’s as sharp as she is - and still not pregnant.

‘Anything happening?’ Asks assistant manger T, breezing back from lunch.

Same old, same old.

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Back To Black - Wednesday

‘Here they come again.’ Warns negotiator S, as she looks across the high street. Everybody cranes their necks through the window display, to try and narrow it down a bit. You get plenty of wastrels and nutters through an estate agent’s door and it’s only worse in the summer, when you prop the door open because the cheap air conditioning the bean counter specified has pissed legionnaire’s disease riddled water, through the ceiling tiles again.

‘F**k no.’ Groans assistant manager T.

‘Swear box.’ Says S, indicating my one nod to charity collection after that disastrous bike ride a few years ago. A pedal where my group got lost, ended up with blistered feet, one suspected hernia and more sore bottoms than a Fifty Shades Of Grey convention.

Every estate agent has their regular time wasters, the perpetual lookers who always find fault with each new instruction you offer them and always say they’d move, if only they could find something as nice as their own home. In the end you realise they’ll only leave their existing house feet first in a box, but it doesn’t stop them pestering you.

‘They’re never going to buy anything are they?’ Says trainee F, with unusual insight.

Not unless some Russian oligarch with a sat nav failure decides to buy their house for several million.’ Chuckles T.

‘Even then they’d grumble about our fee.’ I say flatly.

‘You didn’t really do much for your money.’ Mimics S, to giggles all round.

Obsession about housing and prices has become as much a British pastime as talking about the weather. It’s not helped by endless variations of televised property porn presented by photogenic hosts. Hosts with about as much estate agency experience as those on-line outfits, sat in a large bedrooms staffed by spotty computer nerds with no social skills, but an in-depth knowledge of programming code.

‘Everybody wants to buy at Macclesfield money and sell at Mayfair prices.’ I announce, rather proudly.

‘You’ve been working on that one.’Says T, with a shake of his head. I have, but then these pearls of wisdom don’t just come out of a cracker.

‘You should write some of those down.’ Suggests S, with a winning smile.

If only she knew, but then again, probably best not…

‘Perhaps they are thinking of renting their house?’ Says T with a mischievous nod towards B, our loose lettings lady.

‘They can piss off.’ Snaps B grumpily. ‘I’ve got enough loony landlords to fill a coach trip to Bedlam.’

‘Is Bedlam that new development on the green field site they made all the fuss about?’ Questions F to groans.

Although, plenty of people were mad about it when the planning went through on appeal.

‘Perhaps they won’t come in.’ Says T unconvincingly, as the couple in question hesitate on the far side of the street and I pray for an ill-judged crossing attempt and a runaway juggernaut. ‘No they’re coming in.’ I say ruefully. I just thank God I managed to move the coffee machine from the front office to the kitchen. Start providing free beverages for these people and you’ll be tucking them in with a blanket and a hot chocolate every night, when you close.

‘Morning Mr and Mrs Godfrey.’ Says S with Oscar-winning sincerity, as the pair arrive with, sadly, no sign of any heavy goods vehicle brake failures.

‘Do you have anything new for us?’ Asks Mrs Godfrey with a condescending look. I nod towards them. I must have valued their home at least four times over they years and I know, in the unlikely event of the idiots ever actually placing their tired semi-detached house on the market, they’d opt for the most outlandish asking price and the cheapest fee. Not me. Never me.

‘Have you thought any more about placing your own house on the market? It would put you in a better buying position.’ Coaxes S, after she’s taken them through several perfectly acceptable replacements for their own home.

‘You find us something better than ours first.’ Says Mr Godfrey dismissively.

‘I doubt they will dear.’ Adds his wife. ‘What we’d really like to do….’

Yes, is pick your house up and move it.

F**k off.

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Hungry For News - Tuesday

‘Anyone seen my paper?’ I ask testily, back from a valuation appointment with a couple who’d been completely misled on value by one of the less scrupulous agents in town. It still irks when people respond to their baser instincts - greed in this case, fuelled by a semi-plausible spiv in a suit - and overprice their homes. But then never underestimate the power of price flattery when owners want to sell their homes.

‘No.’ Answers assistant manager T. Before adding. ‘Just off to get some lunch.’ He exits the office, as I think, when I was his age and aspiring to become a branch manager, I grabbed a sandwich at my desk rather than prancing round the men’s clothes shops for nearly an hour. So T hasn’t pinched my paper. Not this time.

I read the message book and grind my teeth when I see “Bomber” our local demolition surveyor will be carrying out a full survey on a pretty terraced cottage I agreed a sale on, three weeks ago. The house has stood for over a hundred years, but by the time he’s finished dismantling it in a twenty page report, the buyers will imagine it has less structural stability than a tottering tower of Jenga bricks. Might as well put the For Sale board back up now.

‘Did you see Bomber is doing 12 Coronation Terrace?’ Asks negotiator S with a wan smile.

‘I’m surprised he comes out during daylight hours.’ I growl.

‘Because people are out to hurt him?’ Asks S naively.

‘No.’ I snap. ‘ Because he’s afraid of his own shadow. I don’t think that bastard has ever valued up a sale in his whole career.’

‘Why does he do it?’ Says S.

‘Because you can’t get sued if nobody ever buys the home you valued.’ I tell her angrily. It’s not exactly true, but I’m not in the mood to show equanimity - particularly as some sod has taken my newspaper again.

My wife would say I’ve changed over the years I’ve been selling homes. I’ve certainly changed my newspaper pick. I started out with a  low-brow tabloid I’d rather not name, then as the years took their toll and the grey hairs flourished, I went from a down-market medium to a right of centre, mildly racist - in retrospect - paper, through to my current choice. Something a bit more nuanced and balanced, or at least I think so at the moment. I just hope I don’t get to the retirement flat and Daily Telegraph stage while I’m still compos mentis.

B our loose lettings lush sashays into the office. If her skirts get any shorter you’ll be able to see what she had for lunch.

‘You seen my paper?’ I ask frostily, as she sits behind her desk and starts to apply fresh lip gloss.

Nobody bar me still buys a daily paper, like a growing number they prefer to read the news on-line for free, but someone has to pay for the content. In this case me, which is why I’d like to find the paper where I left it - on my desk.

‘Why what’s in it?’ Asks B nonchalantly, starting to file her nails now, despite my frequent requests not to saw her cuticles in public.

‘I don’t know what’s in it.’ I bark. ‘All I’ve done so far is pay for the bloody thing.’

‘Swear box.’ Says S coyly.

‘Oh for f**ks sake.’

‘Twice.’

Then the penny drops. F, my cerebrally-challenged trainee isn’t around, but the last thing he read was probably his school timetable. M, our man-mountain of a financial advisor isn’t in his office. I look uneasily towards the gents’ toilet. S follows my gaze, as B files back and forth like a hyperactive violin player.

‘I think he’s in there again.’ Suggests S gently.

‘How long?’ I ask flatly.

‘Don’t think I’ve seen him for twenty minutes, come to think of it.’ She replies with an apologetic shrug.

Terrific. I like to grab a sandwich while reading my paper, but the thought the newsprint has been absorbing the earthy aroma of an overweight finance fiddler while he empties his bowels, isn’t pleasant.

I’ve lost my appetite. 

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Your Call Is Important To Us - Saturday

‘I’m doing it. I’m doing it you automated arsehole!’

‘Hey what’s with the swearing?’ Asks my wife coming into the room with a pained look on her face. I could have an adult, level-headed discussion as to whether or not arsehole is actually a swear word, but I’m rather pre-occupied.

‘She’s asking again.’ I shout, feeling my blood pressure rising and getting that ringing in the ears which seems to last longer and longer, despite not having stood too close to a giant set of Marshall speakers for a decade or two.

‘Asking what?’ Says my wife placidly. Nothing inflames my ire more, when I’m trying to have a first-class rant, than someone speaking to me calmly - automated or not.

‘The f***ing taped bimbo.’ I shout in a voice an octave higher than my optimum pitch. She looks at me chidingly. ‘Yes. that was a swear word.’ I concede. ‘But these bastards are doing my head in.’

‘Do you want me to continue the call?’ Asks my wife condescendingly. That doesn’t help. Doesn’t help at all.

‘I’m pushing option one, when she says.’ I scream, hammering the phone’s keyboard like a psychotic woodpecker. ‘But nothing bloody well happens.’ 

‘Language.’

‘Bloody isn’t a proper swearword.’ I counter, before she winds my spring any tighter. It probably is, but all reason left me about five minutes into the call, and I’ve yet to speak to a human being.

‘Have you tried the other phone?’ Suggests my wife, disappearing briefly then bringing me the wireless handset, the one that drops the signal randomly, just to add to my woes. I look at the old wired handset in my palm, then prod the hash key wildly over and over. I read somewhere if you keep pushing one button - can’t remember which one - you bypass the queuing system and get to speak to someone with a pulse.

The renewal notice for my house and contents, with a well known insurance company, came through today. Four pages of decipherable gibberish guaranteed to sap your will to live after two paragraphs. The only pertinent bit was the figure they would take from my debit card. No need to call us we’ll renew automatically for you said the missive helpfully.

Now I’ve helped flog worthless endowment policies, discredited payment protection plans, life cover and even piggin’ pet cover. The one thing I’ve learnt, apart from the tasty introducer’s commission you can generate, is that loyalty is for fools. The actuaries rely on your inertia and impenetrable documentation. The existing customer pays a mug punters premium, while the new client is wooed like a Premiership footballer at a night club.

‘So we don’t make a claim, and insure cars with these charlatans and they stuff the premium up fifteen percent.’ I told my wife witheringly before the call commenced. ‘It’s probably all the flooding.’ She answered wetly. Consequently, I was on a mission. The first blast of taped Vivaldi and the red-rag to a bull message that my call might be taped to help improve the customer experience suffered, the push button hell started.

‘Good morning Katy speaking. May I have your policy number?’ Asks a unusually Anglo-Saxon sounding voice. That throws me momentarily. I eventually parrot the number, after searching wildly for the information before my wife prods a finger at the string of digits in tiny print - the reading glasses are stalking me relentlessly. Then it’s my full name, address, postcode, date of birth, shoe size and preferred sexual position - for security purposes…

Estate agents get plentiful complaints, so I know being rude to a real person doesn’t help anyone’s cause. Controlled, polite yet with a faintly menacing undertone, is what I’m aiming for as I voice my displeasure.

‘I can apply a manual discount,’ says Katy pleasantly. ‘But the machine just generates the initial renewal.’ I bet it does.

‘This recognises your loyalty and no claims record.’ Continues Katy warmly, before reeling off a multi-paragraphed script of disclaimers and warnings that she must know nobody listens to.

End result: £40 less - and cheaper than two years ago.

Consider this a service - no need to ring me.

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