No Tea Or Kindness - Tuesday

‘We’re not giving it away.’ Echo the retired couple in unison. This pair have been together so long they even state the obvious in stereo. They’ve probably even defecate in tandem - thank goodness there’s a bathroom plus a downstairs cloakroom. Some things just have to be done in private.

I’m sat in their run-down living room, a space they insisted I describe as a drawing room on the sales particulars. I was sorely tempted to call it a lounge at the time but I’ve swallowed more pride than a Preston prostitute, so it became a dated term for a reception room - in a dated house.

The couple have been on the market for over a year and I must have spent hundreds of pounds on marketing their home. It’s a substantial 1930s family home on a quarter acre plot, in a sought after location. Well drawn covenants mean demolishing the house and erecting close-density units for maximum profit, remains unlikely - at least for now. I took the initial instruction to sell at a price that was bullish to the point of sporting horns, but the market has moved towards the intractable pair and now I have a good offer at a good price. Only this dilapidated duo are seemingly not for moving.

‘We know what you lot are like.’ Snipes the grey-haired wife as I try to tear my gaze away from her face, which has several antennae-like wiry hairs sprouting from the chin that could probably receive a deep-space message from Voyager 2.

‘Yes,’ agrees her husband shuffling his dentures back and forth with a nauseating clicking sound. ‘You just want your commission.’

No shit Sherlock, I think sourly. On a no-sale, no-fee basis, I’ve earned precisely nothing from the couple so far and the only cost they’ve incurred is the increasingly marginalised Energy Performance Certificate (EPC) and they’ve yet to cough for that. If they take the property off the market, something I’m half expecting now I’ve confronted them with the reality of moving, I’ll end up with that worthless piece of paper and a bad debt.

Agents Note: Dear posturing politicians, the general public have about as much interest in a rough and ready guesstimate of how energy efficient their future purchase might be as a eunuch does in Kitemarked condoms. If the home they fall in love with is 150 years old and has the insulation qualities of a colander they couldn’t give a toss which energy band it falls in, or how many polar bears slide off melting icebergs while they wait for a mortgage offer to come through. They just want the keys.

‘You see nothing on the market is a nice as ours.’ Continues the woman, staring wistfully at the faded family photographs on the dusty mantelpiece. That’s bollocks, but pointing it out isn’t going to make my negotiations any easier.

‘What we’d really like to do,’ begins her husband as I think, don’t say it, please don’t say it dementia denture man. But it spills forth as readily as his last two meals have, judging by the state of his jumper. ‘Pick ours up and put it somewhere else.’

‘Somewhere closer to town and the doctor’s surgery.’ Says his wife, warming to the theme.

‘On a bus route.’ Contributes her husband. ‘We’re not getting any younger.’

Neither am I matey, and you haven’t even offered me a cup of tea, let alone a biscuit - or any other any crumbs of comfort.

‘If we take it off the market, we won’t have to pay anything will we?’ Asks the wife, after fifteen fruitless - and beverage-free - minutes. One of them will have to come out feet-first before I get the survivor to sell. I remind then off the EPC and it’s cost. 

‘You kept that little bombshell quiet.’ Grumbles the husband. I didn’t, it’s in writing in the terms and conditions contract. 

‘It never used to be.’ Gripes the wife. No lady, not for the other four times you’ve been on and off the market without selling.

‘I am a pensioner you know.’ Complains the wife, as I leave empty-handed.

And so will I be before they move. 

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Let's Do The Timewarp - Wedneday

Stuck in traffic again. If I’m not gridlocked I’m dodging aggressive traffic wardens, determined to not rest until every town is a wasteland of boarded up units interspersed by charity shops and coffee outlets. I have idiot trainee F alongside me so there’s not a lot of intellectual stimulus and the local radio presenter – only allowed as an auditory intruder in case he can pre-warn me of any further traffic blockages – is vainly trying to plug some absurd competition to guess three celebrities from a trio of nano-second clips. The hook is tens of thousands of ‘life changing’ pounds that won’t even buy you a studio flat round here. God, I despair of humanity.

‘Who do you reckon they are then?’ Enthuses F, nodding at the radio. ‘We could ring in.’

‘You might as well try and guess the lottery numbers.’ I tell F wearily, spotting an opposition for sale board and bristling uncomfortably - even after all this time.

‘Yes but it’s a huge amount of money.’ Continues F. It’s not. I point out the cost of housing stock and then remind the fool that to call in you need to ring some pumped-up price phone number that is in all probability funding the ‘giveaway’. F looks crestfallen. He has to learn sooner or later.

Finally we move and I take a rabbit-run short cut through some 1930s housing stock. The roof tiles have been replaced, on some, with unsightly concrete interlocking pieces that will be throwing up survey problems in years to come, as they’ll be too heavy for the existing struts and purlins.

What sort of vintage do you think these are? I say, nodding towards the spec-development semis, while squinting at the unaccustomed sun and tugging out my sunglasses.

F frowns. I wait, then bump over several sleeping policeman. My back winces ahead of F’s pearl of wisdom. He hasn’t a clue.

‘It’s hard to tell.’ He eventually ventures.

‘Look for styling cues.’ I tell him, seeing, through my tinted vision, bay windows, tile hung elevations and cast iron guttering.

‘Uhm, are they like original Ray-Bans?’ F finally asks.

Think I’ve mentioned no minimum qualification for estate agents before...

‘That development.’ I say to F as we pass a mock Tudor cul-de-sac of identikit executive homes, all with double garages but still not enough parking for the two teenagers, four car families, now living there.

‘They’re kind of modern’ Ventures F timidly. They were when I first started in estate agency, I think gloomily. Now the Energy Performance Certificate assessor will pick holes in the loft insulation levels, the lack of cavity wall filling, then condemn the wheezing boilers with crappy energy ratings and no condensers.

‘They’re 1980s.’ I tell F, as I swing back out on to the main road then use my local knowledge to dodge more road works, darting down a road containing some rare 1950s bungalows.

‘These.’ I say to F, as we exit past the temporary traffic lights and I get a rare shiver of pleasure as I spot the van we had been following still stuck on red, some three hundred yards back. No sign of any workmen, needless to say.

‘Well these are old.’ Posits F staring at the last bungalow on a corner plot that might just take a planning application for in-fill, if it wasn’t for the tricky access back on to the main road.

‘How old?’ I press. ‘Pre or post war?’

F shrugs then asks.

‘Is that the Falklands war?’

‘Here we are.’ I tell F as we turn onto a sprawling housing development with virtually no architectural merit. The gardens are open-plan as will be the downstairs accommodation. Crazy paving paths and matching chimneybreasts are hardly complemented by huge, single-glazed, picture windows that drip with condensation nine months of the year.

‘These are cool.’ Enthuses F as I take a sideways glance at the imbecile and almost mount the kerb.

‘The energy assessor might think so, but that’s for a different reason.’ I carp.

‘1960s like Mad Men, you mean?’ Asks F after I’ve tired of waiting. I nod and he looks at me hesitantly. Eventually he speaks.

‘Is that, like when you were born?’

I preferred it when he was wrong.

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