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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Starting Over - Sunday

‘How long can we park here?’ I ask my wife anxiously as we pull up outside the faded grandeur of some semi-detached Victorian houses, now mostly converted to student flats. She studies the complicated sign that seems to offer residents permit parking at certain times of the day and free for all, subject to length of stay restrictions, at others. I’m baffled, but unlike my two sons I never made it to a University town, apart from to flog homes. I suppose it is part of the ageing process. Offspring get stronger, live longer and are smarter than their parents. At least if they get both get decent degrees they won’t end up estate agents.

‘I think we’ll be okay for a couple of hours.’ Answers my wife unconvincingly. It’s the sort of conviction she showed when left turned out to be right and a one-way street didn’t really work, if you were going the wrong way. I notice some curtains twitching and thank God the company doesn’t sign-write the cars or I wouldn’t park here at all. Youngest son appears looking taller and fitter than ever, pride and envy odd bedfellows.

‘You made it then.’ He announces by way of a greeting. He’s sat in the back for enough journeys to know it was never a given with my wife’s map reading and my patience. I answer in the affirmative and eye the steps warily. We have the car down on its rear shock absorbers and I’m the man who always tells punters doing your own removals is a false economy.

‘This is really nice.’ I say incredulously as I sit slumped in a leather sofa, back grumbling in tandem with my tummy. Boxes are strewn everywhere but this is still a high standard conversion, far superior to the first forays into the property market I made back in the eighties. Since when did students get picture bay windows, original fireplaces, full gas central heating and a huge 50-inch plasma television? No wonder they end up with thirty grand’s worth of debt. Thank goodness he didn’t opt for one of the comedy qualifications we always laugh at on CVs. If I get another graduate with a 2.2 in Theatre Studies or Event Management I’ll scream unconvincingly and lay out some trestle tables.

‘So this is like the nearest shops and stuff.’ Informs my son after I’ve crosschecked the inventory like an over-zealous astronaut on lift-off then noted the flaws on a snagging list. I’m the guarantor after all and if the landlord thinks I’m coughing for the iron-shaped burn on the bedroom carpet he can think again. We’ve walked into a secondary/tertiary shopping area, peopled by estate agents and take-away food outlets. The rents will be cheaper here and A2 and A3 commercial planning consent easier to obtain. I look inside each competitor and check out the staff. One office is having a meeting, staff grouped around the manager’s desk at the back. I grudgingly approve then move on to the cheaper operators where the telltale signs are shown by window displays with bulbs out and weeds growing on the forecourt. Cheap fee, cheap service I conclude.

‘I hate to say this but this is quite a cool shop.’ States my son as we wheel a trolley round a barn-like home goods store. He’s selected a beanbag, some matching duvet covers and a collapsible clothes dryer. It only seems like moments ago he was playing Pokemon on his hand held Gameboy. I’ll be getting mail-shots from undertakers offering funeral plans soon. I’ve already been insulted by the Saga holidays brochure arriving un-requested.

‘Afternoon.’ Greets a neighbour warily as my wife and I finish unloading the car, son already inside with a supermarket-sweep’s-worth of food and drink we’ve paid for. The man looks comfortable middle class and has emerged from one of the few houses yet to be converted. I’m guessing he’s hoping we might be moving in rather than three more teenagers with loud shirts, loud music and late nights a plenty.

‘Neighbours seem nice.’ I tell my son as I check my watch for the long journey home.

‘Not sure I’d buy here.’ He says

Not for another twenty years on current trends.

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