Dry Patch - Tuesday

'Got any comparables?' Asks Bomber the surveyor in his weasely voice. Of course I have. Not that you’ll take any notice of the similar homes to the one you are about to value, I’ve sold.

‘How recent are these?’ Ask the destructive building surveyor, as he looks with barely-disguised distain at the property particulars. ‘Only the market is slipping.’ In the background I can see T, my assistant manager, dancing up and down like some palsy-afflicted medieval madman, as he flicks twin v-signs at Bomber’s back, face contorted in hate.

‘All up to date.’ I answer. ‘And the price we’ve agreed on the house you are valuing is very realistic.’ Bomber chuckles unpleasantly. ‘They all say that.’

‘Just be kind.’ I plead.

‘I’ve go to protect the lender’s interest.’ Says Bomber sourly. ‘They’ll be the first to try and sue me if the house is repossessed and they take a loss on the loan.’

As the door closes behind Bomber, T reaches in to his pocket and pulls out a £2 coin. ‘Wanker.’ He exclaims fiercely, walking across to the office swear box and paying his dues.

‘Will he down-value the sale price?’ Asks trainee F, to sour laughs all round.

Of course he will. Surveyors like Bomber are so afraid of their own shadow they’d rather wreck a perfectly sound sale than risk retrospective action. Every town has one.

‘Bean-counter on line two.’ Announces negotiator S, with an apologetic shrug as she takes the call.

Christ straight from one tosser to another, I think grimly, as I move to my office to talk to my boss.

‘How is the month looking?’ Quizzes the bean-counter. I can picture him hunched over his computer screen, squinting at the spreadsheets like some porn-raddled pervert. Only he gets off on numbers, not vital statistics.

‘Going to be a tough one.’ I predict warily. The little figure-fiddler was chasing me for last-minute contracts in December, now he want fresh invoices in January. He can’t have it both ways - only of course that’s what he wants.

‘I’ve been looking at your office conversion rates.’ Whines the bean-counter. What else have you got to do? I want to shout. You’ve never sold a house in your life and you are only in position on the basis of flogging discredited endowment policies, in a past life. I offer the usual platitudes.

‘How was it?’ Asks T, when I return to the main office. I slump in the seat, just as S places a fresh cup of tea in front of me, with a sympathetic smile. God she’s good.

‘He want me to conjure up contracts, when we bled the pipeline dry at the end of last year.’ I say gloomily. ‘He seems to think I’m Harry Houdini.’

The silence bounces round the office, then pings back off the metal filing cabinets. F is looking at me quizzically. Please don’t. ‘So boss, who exactly is Harry Houdini?’ God I feel old.

‘That muppet in One Direction.’ Says mortgage man M, waddling past and chuckling.

‘The one that went out with that tart from X Factor who keeps changing her name?’ Asks T.

‘Sharon Osbourne?’ Say F, hesitantly.

I need a drink. Dry January, is officially f***ed.

‘You reckon the market is really on the slide?’ Asks T, as we sit quietly and speculate on what Bomber is finding on the sale he’s currently wrecking. It’s not looking great. The UK housing environment is predicated on the usual suspects of demand, supply and affordability - dictated by lending criteria and interest rates - but the other great driver, is confidence. Once that falters big slides can happen.

‘If it gets tougher the bean-counter won’t factor that in to our targets.’ Says T ruefully.

‘Did anyone see that You Tube clip of Japanese workers being forced to crawl on their hands and knees along a city centre road, because they missed their sales’ objectives?’ I ask. Everyone looks at me blankly.

‘We wouldn’t have to do that up the high street, would we?’ Questions F.

Not physically, but there will be plenty of metaphorical crawls of contrition if we don’t make the numbers.

I’m thinking, Moist January. 

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Help To Cry - Tuesday

‘Seen this guys?’ Questions fat finance fiddler M, as he sways into the centre of the office, waving his laptop.

There’s a long, indifferent silence. If it’s the McDonald’s website again and a Happy Meal offer for morbidly obese chubsters who blame genes, not intake, I’m not interested.

‘What is it?’ Asks negotiator S, eventually. She’s far too nice for this industry.

M spins his laptop, an action that causes the hint of an exhausted wheeze, and shows us a banner headline followed by the sort of facts and figures, interspersed by indecipherable graphs, that still make me shiver nearly forty years after my last math’s lesson.

‘Over 23,000 mortgage products to choose from currently.’ M replies, with a podgy grin. ‘That’s why you lot need to keep wheeling the confused and desperate in to me.’

‘Didn’t think you could tuck them up with endowment mortgages any more.’ Says assistant manager T, sarcastically.

M scowls at T. ‘That was along time ago,’ he says defensively. ‘And anyway products are much more sophisticated nowadays.’

‘People still don’t understand them though.’ Ventures trainee F. He’s right, but not the best advocate as he still hasn’t grasped how to work the franking machine, without clearing our complete credit balance on one mis-stamped envelope to Spain. If only I could post him somewhere….

‘What you mean,’ argues T. ‘Is there are more ways to confuse vulnerable borrowers and flog them insurance policies they don’t need, that won’t pay out if they are actually terminally ill.’

‘That’s a very jaundiced view.’ Snaps back M. ‘And you might not want that repeated at the next sales managers’ meeting. Particularly with your level of introductions.’

There’s an uncomfortable silence, one I feel I need to fill. But then I’m more aligned with T, than M. I hate flogging mortgage and insurance products, I’m here to sell my clients’ homes at the best possible price. But sometimes you have to swallow your pride, particularly as individual targets leave you more exposed than a flasher on a breezy beach.

‘We are a team.’ I say, unconvincingly, as loose lettings’ lush B, totters through the door on inappropriate heels. She ignores us all and heads for the kitchen, where I hear a kettle filled with enough water for one.

‘It’s not the product range that causes young people a problem.’ Says S, with raised eyebrows in the direction of B and her solo beverage. ‘It’s the fact that people will never be able to save up enough for the deposit, if they are paying rent at the same time.’

‘Exactly.’ Agrees T. ‘And that government Help to Buy scheme was a shambles. You save, they are supposed to add to your pot and it turns out you can’t use the funds for the 10% deposit. It’s a joke’

T is spot on. The hastily launched proposals, like most Government plans for UK housing in the last two decades, were clumsy and without detail. But as ever, by the time the schemes were called in to question, the clowns who launched them were long gone and lunching in the city on a lucrative consultancy deal, with a featherbedded pension. Come the revolution….

‘All you need to worry about is getting them in front of me.’ Says M, with a queasy smile. ‘I can do the rest.’

‘Yeh, but I’m nor sure I’d want any friend of mine taking on a thirty-five year mortgage.’ Counters T.

‘Or my granny being coerced into an equity release plan on her house.’ Adds S.

‘Yes, but I’d like my own flat with an en-suite and a gym in the basement.’ Says F, with a glassy-eyed stare.

‘That’s more like the attitude we need.’ Concludes M triumphantly.

‘They not need any financial advice?’ Quizzes M, later.

I’ve just seen new clients to the door. They’ve verified my draft particulars, signed up on a sole agency, entrusted me with the sale of their home and I really want them to do well. I don’t want them hurriedly stitched up, they can go to A & E on a Saturday night for that.

‘Got their own financial advisor.’ I tell M, fingers crossed under the desk.

A man needs some integrity.

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Tea And Comfort - Monday

‘You alright?’ I ask trainee F, as he walks across the office looking morose. It’s a specific enquiry, generally he’s not alright. After all, if your mother has paid for an expensive private education she has some expectation her son shouldn’t end up struggling in a much-denigrated job, that requires zero qualifications but a whole lot of common sense. Sadly several years of being abused by sixth formers behind the bike sheds, and harangued by sadistic teachers in the classroom, gave him neither.

‘Not really.’ Answers F, with that puppy dog look. As Human Resources take a dim view of stuffing superfluous staff in a bag and taking them to the canal, I decide to mentor instead.

‘Cough.’ I tell him and his eyes fill with fear again, he starts to clear his throat and I immediately regret not being half-way to the litter-strewn waterway.

‘I mean, tell me what’s the matter.’ I instruct the dullard, hastily. For a moment I think he’s going to cry. I hate it when staff do that. They need to man up, it’s a tough business. I do my silent sobbing - after a bad week - when everyone has left the office, so as not to take my disappointment home.

‘Why do people hate us so much?’ F eventually asks softly.

‘Have you got a pen and paper?’ I ask sarcastically, only to see him start towards the stationery cupboard. God, if I come round again I’m going to pay more attention at school. I stop F from embarrassing himself further and sit him down in my office with a cup of tea and the remaining biscuits I’ve hidden from M, our gluttonous mortgage man.

F has been verbally abused by a vendor after bringing them the bad news that their buyer is looking to reduce the agreed price on their home sale, following a critical survey. The buyer in turn has shouted at hapless F when he told them, as instructed, that they could go and whistle for a £10,000 price chop on the back of an out of town surveyor, with little local knowledge, scaring them in to thinking a few thermal movement cracks and a bullish sale price meant they should renege on their agreement.

This is all standard fare for the UK housing market, although conveyancing rules in Scotland leave less leeway for backing out of agreed transactions. But even north of the border, the system is as flawed as cubic zirconium at a cheap jewellers. Delays and misunderstanding contribute to sales falling through, exacerbated by dilatory lawyers, incompetent local authorities, centralised lenders with little understanding of process and in this case, surveyors petrified of their own shadow and scared of being sued under their professional indemnity insurance.

‘It can be sorted.’ I tell F gently and I ask him to get hold of the buyers’ survey report, if he can. The surveyor won’t like it but as the buyers paid for it, tough luck. Patient, non-confrontational negotiation, and an understanding of the transaction means I’m confident I can keep F’s sale together. He just needs to watch and maybe, learn.

‘How did you manage that?’ Asks F in wonderment, after an afternoon of fractious phone calls, compromise and counter-compromise ends in re-negotiated sale letters being issued to both buyer and seller and their respective legal representatives. A local builder is going to reassure the buyers about the non-structural cracking and I’ve managed to get our vendors a reduction on their purchase from a seller keen not to lose their sale and start all over again, putting their move abroad back several months, at least. You won’t get that from an on-line agent, come call-centre.

‘They still don’t like us though, do they?’ Quizzes F.

‘Of course not.’ I tell him. ‘It’s a confrontational and emotive business moving house. Everybody needs a whipping boy.’

F looks at me, alarmed.

‘Not like at your school.’ I reassure him. ‘Metaphorically.’

He nods blankly, so I wave my tannin-stained mug at him. ‘Cup of tea, please?’

‘Sure boss.’ Answers F, face lighting up.

I like to spread a little happiness occasionally.

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Have a great Independence Day American readers.

Complaint's Box - Monday

I’ve not even shut the office door and it starts.

‘The bloke from number ten rang while you were out, thinks we’ve sold his house too quickly.’ Says assistant manager T, with a slump of his shoulders.

I’m guessing it’s not the Prime Minister. Two reasons: firstly the PM doesn’t own their place of residence, technically they’re just a pimped-up council house tenant. Secondly, no government in recent memory has had the hint of a joined-up housing approach, so property and any type of policy are not exactly bedfellows - unless it’s a cardboard box in a shop doorway.

‘He’s an idiot.’ Pronounces negotiator S as trainee F walks in from the kitchen. F hesitates and looks a little hurt.

‘She’s talking about the vendor of number ten.’ Enlightens T. ‘They think we’ve sold their house too quickly, too cheaply and will doubtless want a cut to the commission.’

‘Or withdraw from the sale and put the price up.’ Adds S.

It’s not a new dilemma. There’s a sweet-spot for selling a property new to the market. Just enough viewings to convince the owner we’ve done our job exposing the home to the market, a few who turn their nose up at the decor, location and price, then a buyer who tries a chip on the asking price, which we negotiate up to an acceptable figure. Job done.

But of course it’s not. As any agent, or seasoned house mover will tell you, the hard work often starts after terms are agreed. The delays, the quibbling, the inept surveyors, solicitors, lenders and a fragile connection of fickle buyers and sellers all roped together in a transaction chain that can founder at any given moment in the next eight weeks - or more. That’s when we earn out money. No sale no fee.

‘What did you manage to agree with him?’ I ask T apprehensively. He’s the assistant manger, well versed in these type of problems, plus I’ve coached him more productively and diligently than the procession of charlatans in trouser suits, with tick-box computer programmes and digital post-it note sessions, they’ve had in the training department recently.

‘Told him you’d ring him back when you got in.’ Says T, without a hint of shame.

Perhaps, I’m not as good as I think? Maybe a powder-blue flared set of strides - with room for a big arse - and a matching colour, bias-cut jacket, with just a hint of retro eighties-style shoulder pads…..

‘What?’ Asks T as I scowl at him. Surely he could have dealt with the problem when it was fresh? Convince the owner the job isn’t even half done, that we now need to nurse the transaction to a successful conclusion. Maybe, list the number of people who’d had details of his home, the comparable sales of other homes like his, in the area. The fact that we’d obtained a price he said he’d be happy with only a week ago. The even more pertinent fact that he is now in a position to secure the home he’s hoping to move to.

If you want something doing, do it yourself. It’s a phrase I lived with for years, until my mental and physical health started to take a hit, trying to do everything in the office single-handedly. Not trusting colleagues to do the job to my standards. As the body ages and the spirit weakens I’ve learned to relinquish control. T doesn’t seem to have noticed.

‘Just thought you’d prefer to explain.’ Says T petulantly, after I’ve suggested he could have dealt with the thorny problem. Not any more, I think sourly, as I steel myself for the difficult conversation. Repetition might work for classical musicians, but I just cramp up now.

No doubt the owner will cite the thousands of pounds of commission he now owes us, without a thought as to how much more work needs to be done before he finally opens that door with his new set of keys, and decides where first to shag his partner - I’d advise against the stairs until the carpets are down….

Never the less, someone is going to get f***ed.

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Recipe For Trouble - Tuesday

‘Great news boss.’ Enthuses trainee F as I bowl through the door, glad to get out of the rain. Now I’m wary as well as wet. Experience tells me great news isn’t always as cheering as the term might suggest, plus it’s F providing the information - a man who thought a vendor was a drinks dispenser, when he started the job.

‘Is it really great news?’ I ask S my negotiator. F looks a little hurt but then he wounds me daily.

‘It depends.’ Fences S cautiously.

‘Because?’ I query, shedding drops of water like a spindly greyhound - only slower obviously and with just two legs of course, minus a tail and…. oh never mind.

‘Because it’s an offer on number 19 The Avenue.’ Answers S with a lop-sided smile. There’s no way anyone would compare her to a dog. Not in my earshot anyway.

‘I thought you’d be pleased.’ Says F, hurt look spreading across his face. ‘That depends.’ I reply, removing my raincoat and stalking to the offer sheet. I’m doubly disappointed.

‘There’s nothing on here.’ I tell F frostily.

‘I’ve only just received it.’ He counters. I look at S.

‘He has.’

‘Always write it down.’ I snipe, head beginning to throb. I might have a cold coming. The number of people who’ve sneezed in my car, in their homes, in a lift this week it would be a miracle if I escape without major sniffles.

‘Tell me it’s not the full asking price?’ I say to F and his emerging smile vanishes faster than a free bar at a wedding.

‘It is.’ He responds quizzically.

‘I was about to tell him.’ Adds S with a shrug of her shoulders. Not sure if she realises how distracting that action is but now is not the place to enlighten her - although they are a heavy burden…

‘I don’t get it.’ States F petulantly. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘I am.’ I tell him, realising belatedly I’ve been a little harsh. ‘But The Avenue only came on the market two days ago.’

‘So the owners will think we’ve done a good job, won’t they?’ Questions F. God, he has a lot to learn about human nature.

I battled hard to win over the sellers of No 19. First fending off at least three other agents, all promising the couple outlandishly high prices and rock-bottom fees. Then, convincing them I would ensure their sale was handled professionally and that setting a slightly full, but realistic price, was the way to get their proposed job move to happen with the minimum of disruption. You’d think they’d be delighted that someone wanted their home so swiftly - you would…

‘What did they offer?’ I ask F, knowing the answer already.

‘Well,’ he responds with a self-satisfied grin. ‘They were going to offer £5,000 less than the asking price but I persuaded then they’d need to pay the full money.’

S drops her head and stares at a file on her desk. I’m on my own.

What F has failed to appreciate is people’s desire to feel they’ve fought to strike a deal. The psychological need to meet in the middle when negotiating, or at least the illusion of it. That sort of thing cements a deal, fosters commitment between the parties and helps people to move - and me to get paid. This is too soon.

‘What would you have done then?’ Asks F petulantly.

‘Assuming you qualified the buyers, checked their finances and ability to proceed.’ I say, noticing his facial response isn’t confirming that need. ‘Then I’d probably have engineered a lower offer to start with.’

‘But you always say we act for the vendors not the buyers.’

‘No strictly true if I’m doing their finance and insurance.’ Interjects mortgage man M unhelpfully.

‘That’s true.’ I acknowledge, ignoring M.

‘Then that’s what I’ve done?’ Counters F.

As gently as possible, I tell F I’d have ensured the vendors received their asking price - just not so quickly.

‘You need to let a deal cook a little.’ I tell him

‘I don’t get it sometimes.’ Replies F downheartedly.

Neither did the buyers. 

Last thing the owners withdrew from the market with the words: 

‘We’re selling too cheap.’

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