Barn Dance - Sunday

‘Wow what’s this worth?’ Asks my wife’s friend in stunned admiration. We’re on a long weekend break with the friend and her husband, plus another couple, all of whom know I’m an estate agent but have still agreed to share a vast barn conversion with us.

You either love or hate barn conversions, there’s no middle ground. I’m staring at the soaring trussed roof, two vast original beams spanning the width, one with the original builder’s name burnt into the wood, date of construction in the mid nineteenth century. It’s a fair bet the more recent timber-framed homes, built for humans not livestock, won’t last as long as this sturdy structure - although you could probably fit a dozen starter homes in the space.

‘Well ?’Asks my wife’s friend again, as I realise everyone has dropped their bags and are looking at me expectantly. Not many people want to holiday with an estate agent, but everyone wants to know property values from you. I can only imagine doctors are quizzed on fellow travellers’ bodily growths, and how best to remove a vacuum cleaner nozzle from a penis without visiting A & E, in the same way. I can only imagine…

‘It’s not an easy one to value.’ I begin to a chorus of scorn.

‘You would say that wouldn’t you?’ Scoffs one of the men. ‘Probably want to knock it out cheap to a contact and pocket half the difference.’ It’s only the fact that he’s half-smiling and we’ve paid up-front for three nights, that stops me from grabbing a farming implement from the wall and knocking him into the stalls.

The fact is, one-off homes, are hard to value. It’s why you see guide prices, or offers in the region of, in agents’ advertising. Sometimes the only way to find a property’s value is to test the market, with maximum exposure. A trick those snobs who think they’ve kept some mysterious allure about their home by shifting it ‘off-market’ to some cash-in-hand oligarch with a red-trouser-wearing buying agent in tow, miss completely. They probably deserve each other.

Reluctantly I give the two couples my guesstimate. Predictably, one set think much higher, the other way lower - pretty much a mirror image of every seller and buyer. Then the home-proud owner arrives to demonstrate how everything works.

‘We’ve designed it all to be eco-friendly and energy efficient.’ Gushes the woman excitedly. Paid over the odds for untried technology then, I think, as I spot the colour- coded waste bins that mean I’ll be expected to sort through and separate tea leaves from leftover animal parts later in the weekend – or not. 

The specification is impressive and the vast open plan living area with galleried landing is fantastic for three day parties like this is planed to be, but actually living there 24/7, trying to get away from cooking smells or noisy children, would pose a few logistical problems.

‘Wouldn’t you love to live somewhere like this?’ Asks my wife, as I kneel in supplication before the wood burning stove that has refused to light, despite me shoving in almost a box full of distinctly un-eco firelighters I smuggled in as contraband. I’m not getting any more splinters from chopping kindling again. Axes just make me mad.

‘It’s an illusion, ‘ I tell my wife bluntly, as someone else’s Daily Mail goes up in flames. A pleasing accelerator for the suspiciously green looking logs.

‘These place are just not that practical and it’s a thirty minute drive through cow shit to find a Tesco Express.’

‘Mr Grumpy.’ She says spinning.

Mr Practical I think, turning to see the newspaper sputtering to ash with no sign of the wood taking.

‘There are no radiators.’ Proclaims my wife, shivering and looking at the unlit log burner accusingly. That will be under-floor heating. It’s environmentally friendly but f***ing freezing. 

‘How does the hot water work?’ Asks someone else’s wife later, appearing in a dressing gown as I open the second bottle before the sun has reached the pig sheds.

‘It’s solar powered.’ I tell her trying not to look at the towelling-free gap at thigh level. ‘You might need to wait for it to heat up.’

‘How long?’

I’m guessing about May.  

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View To A Kill - Wednesday

My mobile rings as I battle the traffic to get back to the office. Needless to say I haven’t remembered to stuff the ugly bluetooth earpiece device in the side of my head – I’m still not convinced it doesn’t irradiate the few brain cells that haven’t been permanently damaged by this job.

‘Really?’ I ask the empty car, as I see the office number flashing insistently. There was a time in the late eighties when I thought it was the height of cool to have a brick-like cellular phone clamped to the centre consol of my Ford Orion Ghia, now I detest the 24/7 availability mobile communications provide. I check the traffic and scan for any police cars. Can I risk a sneaky conversation, or should I try and double park to take the call?

‘Yes?’ I say curtly as I make sure I’m not about to plough into a woman with pushchair on a pedestrian crossing. Estate agents already get enough bad publicity.

‘Where are you boss?’ Asks trainee F via a crackling connection. In the car you cretin crosses my mind but sarcasm doesn’t travel well over the airwaves, plus I’m not sure if cretin is an allowable term of endearment for staff any longer. There must be a memo somewhere.

‘Can you do a quick add-on viewing at Mrs Brown’s house?’ Asks F after I’ve given him my location – still moving slowly but in full control of the car officer. My mind whirs in time with the nagging sound from under the bonnet, possibly a water pump I’ve been told. But the prospect of sitting in the grubby main dealer’s service area drinking molten-plastic-laced instant coffee and reading back copies of the local property paper while some oik in overalls takes an hour to tell me the part isn’t in stock, just makes me want to weep.

I can’t for the life of me remember who Mrs Brown is. I know every property but the names elude me after all this time. I ask for the address and another dilemma presents itself. We need a viewing rather urgently on Mrs Brown’s home. Nobody has looked in over a month of marketing. One of the main gripes about agents once they have the home to sell is lack of contact. I urge staff to call clients once a week – the rather racily titled, but actually none too pleasurable, vendor contact – only after four weeks of excuses and no punters the calls become uncomfortable. There’s only so many times you can promise another advert and say the market will pick up once the kids are back at school.

‘Give me the details.’ I tell F reluctantly, stopping alongside a delivery van hazard lights flashing, back door flung wide open. I jot down the viewers name and the appointed time and check F has ensured Mrs Brown will be there. We don’t have a key and it wouldn’t be the first time the imbecile has sent another staff member to a home we don’t have access to. Viewers can get pretty pissy if all they can see is a widescreen view of the hall via the letterbox alongside an assurance that it’s very nice inside too.

‘Glad to finally have someone coming to look.’ Announces Mrs Brown a little frostily, once I’ve arrived ten minutes early and gone inside to complete this week’s vendor contact – without the touchy-feely bit obviously. She’s overweight and over fifty and even estate agents have some standards.

We bat some rather stiff small talk back and forth as I notice she’s vacuumed the carpets and sprayed something fresh smelling round the lounge in the time it took her to rush home from work.

The best time to sell a home is when it’s new to the market. A month of marketing means price, position and those ghastly pot plants out front are putting people off. In Mrs Brown’s mind though it’s doubtless my fault.

‘They’re not coming are they?’ She finally asks twenty minutes after the arranged time and five minutes after I’ve run out of excuses.

Once again my profession drops below journalist on the most hated list. It was good while it lasted.

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An estate agent and a columnist - not a popular mix but take a free peek at the book anyway.

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