Huge Issues - Wednesday

'Spare some change man?’ Asks the rough sleeper, propped in a grubby sleeping bag in an empty shop doorway. He looks suitably forlorn and judging by the damp piece of cardboard he’s lying on, the scattering of meagre possessions and the slumbering mangy dog, tethered by a piece of string, he’s genuinely been here all night.

‘Sorry pal.' I say, even before I’ve fully considered my thoughts, and I play out a familiar pantomime of throwing my hands apart, palms up, to signify I’ve no cash. Of course I do have money and if he takes contactless cards payments, as some professional beggars are rumoured to do - because the Big Issue man can seemingly afford a mobile phone - then I could help him with the price of a coffee. But conversely, if I can’t afford to buy my caffeine fix at  Costa or Starbucks why should I pay for his full-fat latte and slice of over-priced brownie?

‘Probably wouldn’t spend it on a hot drink anyway.’ I mutter to myself, as I continue towards the office and stumble across another homeless man, in another empty shop unit doorway. Pleasingly, it’s a commercial unit that not too long ago housed a fledgling, cut-price fee, estate agency firm. I saw them out of business, as I’ve done many others over my career. There are no short-cuts to good service and a good reputation.

‘Can you help me out?’ Pleads the second vagrant, lying on another bed of commercial packaging that isn’t going to be recycled any time soon. He has the sort of impressive beard, that with a little grooming, would put the second-coming hipsters who do buy coffee around here, to shame.

I could help the man out, I could point him in the direction of the job centre and let him know that if he applies himself, takes a bit of pride in his appearance and doesn’t spend all his benefit money on cheap cider and roll-up cigarettes, then I could possibly rent him a studio flat in six months time. But nothing is ever that simple.

‘I’m all out man.’ I tell the bedraggled figure. I’m not. It’s a blatant lie, but I’m torn between wanting to help these people out and the nagging feeling I’m being played. Plus, estate agents do have a reputation to protect…

‘Have a good day anyway.’ Mutters the man into his voluminous beard. Bastard. He’s been on the guilt-trip-close, sale’s course. I’m half-tempted to turn around and give him a pound coin or two, but that nagging article a racist couple showed me in their Daily Mail a few weeks ago, as they bemoaned the country and planned their flight to somewhere sunnier, is lodged like a parasite in my brain.

‘You see that’s what they do.’ Said the husband earnestly, showing me the picture of some eastern European pair, parking their BMW on a meter for the day and heading to the west end of London for a lucrative day’s begging.

‘The country is going to the dogs.’ Echoed his sun-bleached wife. ‘That’s why we’re leaving.’

They’ll be back once one of them gets ill and they’ll doubtless wonder why the NHS can’t help them, because all the non-native care staff have also left the country. I’m not going anywhere. I had the chance long ago, and figured if you can’t make it here, in the birthplace of democracy, in one of the most - until now- welcoming and liberal societies on earth, you won’t be making it anywhere else, just because you need a stronger sun cream.

As I approach the office I notice two more commercial boards above recently vacated shops. A horrible feeling of deja vu engulfs me. I’ve seen decimated high streets before and failed estate agency firms, the whole thing has ominous portents. Maybe the only way to solve the UK housing crisis is for another big property recession? It’s like a turkey wishing for Christmas, I realise, and it could be me sleeping rough if it really bites.

‘Big Issue sir?’ Asks a gruff voice, from nowhere.

Yes it is.

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The Only Way Is Up - Friday

Back in the budget hotel car park with a lowering sense of deja vu. This time there is some sort of barrier to negotiate and draconian threats of clamping cowboys if I don’t report to reception and obtain the appropriate get out of jail card.

I note a couple of new company cars, for those producing better sales figures than my office and the mood darkens. Then, as if to compound the misery, H my vertically-challenged rival manager, sweeps in with a shiny new German motor. The urge to key it with British Leyland lives, rises briefly, until I realise that the car park is monitored by CCTV. 

I’ve imagined many ways of resigning - with varying degrees of style - but being caught red-handed scratching graffiti on a BMW’s door, championing a defunct manufacturer that built crap cars isn’t my exit of choice. But man, it’s tempting.

‘You have ticket no?’ Asks the slightly stern looking girl on reception, as I make it through the revolving doors without being spat out into the car park again. There's a deep Freudian message in there somewhere but I’m too tired and simple to find it.

‘I’m with this lot.’ I say to the receptionist, indicating the crooked Welcome board where once again they've misplaced a couple of possessive apostrophes on two of the delegations. Not that I’m in a position to complain, I still get them wrong - and still receive reprimands from grammar pedants when I do - but at least someone is reading my output. Far better than being ignored.

‘So Estate Agents, no?’ Queries the girl. The staff seem to have shifted subtly over the past twelve months. I’m sensing a move further east, to newly admitted European nations. One thing is for sure not many indigenous locals seem to work here. The probably don’t get many UKIP delegations staying.

I acknowledge my guilt in ending up in a profession roundly despised by even third world cleaning staff and the girl, with roots badly in need of more peroxide, hands me an exit ticket. If only the career one was so easily taken.

‘I like to buy in this country.’ Says the girl with a crooked smile. I just stop myself from looking pointedly at my watch. No need to be rude before she is.

‘Only,’ continues Tatiana - happy to help according to her name badge - ‘The prices are as high as the mountains, no?’

When she puts it so charmingly it would seem churlish to point out appending NO as a suffix to every sentence tends to negate the earlier statement. So I agree with her and take the proffered, date stamped, escape ticket. Then despite my smile, her mood darkens.

‘And it’s all you peoples fault, no?’ She barks like a concentration camp commandant. Terrific, I think, as I head for the elevator my denial clearly not believed. I should check the back of my jacket to see if I’m sporting some sort of motif to make me more recognisable when the book and negotiator burning starts.

So, not only do buyers and sellers not understand how the market works, I can now add vast swathes of former Russian satellite states’ immigrants, along with “property expert” television presenters and politicians. Perhaps I should learn how to work in Housekeeping instead of housing, at least the shit tends to remain in the pan - or the bed.

The lift doors swish shut behind me and I steel myself for another piss-poor Powerpoint presentation from my bean counter boss. I read somewhere that Microsoft were stopping those tacky Clip Art inserts. The bean counter will be distraught not to have that ghastly graph with the briefcase wielding drone trudging uphill endlessly. Sales is a Sisyphean task, at least I think it is. Look it up, because it’s all Greek to me…

Then I notice the lift carriage is carrying adverts for local business outlets. The cut price clowns with cheap fees and cheap suits are staring me in the face. I spend my life persuading owners that a slashed percentage charge by an estate agent could end up costing them money, but some just won’t listen.

Just hope the lift didn’t have hidden cameras.

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Sleight Of Hand - Friday

‘Guess who I just saw moving out? Asks assistant manager T as he hurries back into the office, face like thunder. The choices are wider than I’d like, with upwards of twenty other estate agents working my area. T needs to narrow it down a bit.

‘Give us a clue.’ I tell T, conscious that everyone else in the office is listening. Sales people get paid predominantly on commission and want to know who is taking: food from your mouth, rental payments from your landlord, credit card fees from your lender...

‘You hated them.’ Says T earnestly.

‘You’ll need to narrow it down for him love.’ Suggests B from her lettings enclave. She can be cutting, but it’s normally third party damage rather than self-harm – although the excessive drinking and serial shagging is pretty destructive.

‘Have a look in there.’ Instructs T, grabbing the viewing book, flicking back through the pages then plonking it on the desk in front of me. I glance down at the smudged entries, unable to stop myself from getting angry over the largely empty column where the vendor feedback should have been noted. I recognise one wobbly entry though.

‘Not number thirty-three?’ I ask, hackles rising as I read my note stating the viewers I took round on the soggy Saturday in question, were having a second viewing direct with the owners on the Sunday.

‘The very same.’ Answers T smugly. ‘And the removal van is outside now, bold as you like.’ I scowl and feel the frown lines deepen further. Any longer in this business and I’ll need decorator’s filler rather than that scent-free “man cream” my wife bought me and I refuse to wear.

‘But they took it off the market and said they weren’t selling any longer.’ Says negotiator S naively. She’s still got a lot to learn, some of it I can help with but the more tactile lessons are off-limits.

‘Not selling with us you mean.’ Counters T sarcastically.

I knew something didn’t smell right - and not just the daughter’s hamster cage. The viewers had been almost evangelical in their praise for the house when I showed them round, suit dampened, hair dripping. All the buying signals were there, plus a second viewing direct with the owners on the Sunday. Then, after the weekend, the viewers told me rather curtly they’d found something else and asked to be taken off the mailing list.

‘We need to find out who has bought that house.’ I say sternly.

‘Pretty sure no other agent had it on their books.’ States T. With property portals easy to access, agents no longer have to fraudulently register as buyers on the opposition mailing lists, we just point and click to see who has what.

‘Maybe they’ve rented it out.’ Suggests B with a disinterested shrug.

‘Were any competitors offering it?’ Asks S, just ahead of me.

‘How should I know?’ Snaps B. The opposition awareness has passed B by, unlike the gin bottle and at least one rumoured STD.

‘Finally stopped raining.’ I say cheerily as I wonder up the drive of number thirty-one, leaflet in hand. The owner is fortuitously in the garden raking, or spiking, or hoeing the lawn. I never did have very green fingers - apart from that time I tugged another agent’s long-standing for sale board out of the ground, after dark.

‘Oh they’ve moved. Sold it to a lovely couple.’ Says the horticulturist to my seemingly innocent enquiry about next door.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Answers the man to my next question. ‘A black BMW on a new plate. Do you know them?’

In passing.

‘So the vendors have cheated us out of the commission.’ Says S incredulously, back at the office.

‘It happens.’ I tell her, adding. ‘Only with open Land Registry access it’s easier to catch them than it used to be.’

‘You’ve had it before?’ Questions S. ‘What do you do?’

‘Try the reasonable approach and ask for the money, then get my Magistrates’ suit out.’ 

‘Well?’ Asks T after my brief phone call, everyone watching.

‘Said they can’t pay, as they sold cheaply with no agent’s fee to settle.’

‘Bastard.’ Says T angrily. ‘What did you say?’

‘See you in court.’

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Can't Always Get What You Want - Wednesday

‘So how much you going to sting me for selling my house?’ Challenges the husband as his wife nods in passive-aggressive agreement. I’ve done the preliminary chat, establishing motivation, and the walk-round what is a pretty average semi-detached house from an uninspired architectural period. Now for the tricky bit…

‘If I could just run through the marketing we’d recommend for your home.’ I begin, trying to keep any trace of weariness from my voice. Those that have the fee-blinkers on won’t often be distracted, now matter how financially destructive their obsession with charges alone, might turn out to be.

‘Never mind all that nonsense.’ Interjects the man, clearly enjoying showing his nodding dog wife he’s an Alpha male. He’ll be doing her from behind later suggests a distracting inner voice I could do without - particularly as the wife is staring at me earnestly. She’s either attentively awaiting my reply or I’ve left my flies open.

‘I know you lot are all the same.’ Continues the man, smirking at his wife before adding. ‘I’ve done my research.’ For a moment I wonder if my huge internal groan has verbalised externally. That would be almost as bad as that awkward moment in a client’s house when I made to discharge a gaseous build-up silently, only for a light-fitting-rattler to blast from my nether regions. It was one of the few times I was glad there was a pet dog in the room. God bless you Buster….

One of the most demoralising customers, are those with a little knowledge and a similar amount of intellect. The type of individual who wield a clipboard, with a self-made grid listing the pros and cons of each agent and tick boxes with comment spaces. Ultimately though this guy will be only thinking, price and fee. The future service element and how much an experienced professional operator could save him, doesn’t have a place on his form.

‘I’d like to think not all agents are the same any more than every car, or television is identical.’ I tell him, regurgitating bits from several courses. He has a BMW on the drive and one trainer recommended disparagingly telling owner’s with prestige cars and an aversion to sensible selling fees, that they could be driving a budget brand motor but they’d actually recognised a difference there. To be honest some sales scenarios are best left for the classroom – particularly with dental costs as high as they are.

‘You just stick a photo in the window and put it on a website.’ Goads the man, ruffling towards his wife like the cock I’ve decided he is. And to think I sat exams to try and differentiate myself from the wide-boys and girls with sign-written company cars.

I try to point out that the value of an agent’s expertise often comes during the negotiation phase, or the protracted post sale, pre-exchange period. Endeavour to enlighten him on chain delays, down-valuations, bad survey reports, unhelpful local searches, covenants and deeds of variation. I might as well be conversing in Swahili.

‘You’re having a laugh.’ Snaps the man when I finally tell him my recommended asking price and suggested fee.

‘That’s several thousand pounds.’ Says his wife. ‘Just for advertising it.’

It’s not just for advertising it, plus it’s No Sale No Fee. And I have a feeling it would be the latter in the unlikely event I get the instruction to sell.

‘I’ve been offered way more than that on the selling price.’ Begins the man, showing his grasp of the property market hasn’t been improved by wielding an A4 self-penned comparison sheet.

‘Yeh and we can use an on-line agency for next to nothing.’ Adds his wife, as I think, that’s what you’d get lady.

I’ve seen more on-line agency outfits that have ‘spotted a gap in the market’ come and go in the last decade than we’ve had Baby Clothes shops in the High Street start and fail. The sort of ill-researched enterprises favoured by smart-suited, dim-headed candidates from television’s devoid-from-reality show, The Apprentice.

‘How did the valuation go?’ Asks negotiator S, fifteen later.

They are probably assembling their own for sale board about now.

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Happy Families - Tuesday

I drive through the soulless early eighties executive estate. This era hasn’t worn well. The mock Tudor timbers are flaked and rotting where they haven’t been maintained properly. Any original windows are tired, with the paltry-gapped double-glazing blown causing condensation or ugly fogging to the glass. There are not enough parking spaces and the pavements are littered with teenagers’ first cars. A battered and rusting selection of Ford Kas, baby Peugeots and Renault Clios are strewn on either side, making it hard to navigate the tight corners. Some of the larger homes have double garages but the majority have narrow single units where the parents’ cars never make it inside, let alone their grown-up children’s motors. Children who’ll be at home until close to their fortieth birthday if the average age for a first time buyer climbs much higher.

This is a matrimonial dispute and I’m meeting first one party, then straight after the second. These are notoriously frosty affairs, with any business to come a long way off at best by the time the lawyers have battled over who gets what. I know what these homes are worth, but I’m betting the two parties won’t agree with me. I have the evidence, it’s available on-line and I’ve completed on two houses in adjacent roads in the last few months. Of course at this vintage, many of the homes have had new kitchens and bathrooms installed and a fair majority have replaced the developers cheap window units. Some will sport unsightly conservatories on the back eating in to the already parsimonious plot sizes and one side of this road, with the south facing rears, is more favoured but I can still get the price about right. Not that some competitors will be so honest. Overvaluing is still rife, with the less professional practitioners inflating figures just to get a sole agency and a for sale board - and more importantly control of the marketing.

‘We’re going to need to be quick mate.’ Says the man as he looks anxiously at his watch. He is late-forties and driving a cheap model BMW. I’m clearly not his mate, so he wants something from me. It doesn’t take long. ‘Can you put the price in writing and make it as low as possible.’ This rarely happens without a reason. ‘I’m thinking of buying her out.’ Explains the man as we finish the cursory tour. The house is unloved and only the two kids’ bedrooms show any sign of attention. That’s if you call flat screen televisions and Play Stations a mark of affection. If they really cared they wouldn’t be separating. Despite all the self-help bullshit about it being best for the children to go your separate ways, it’s a lie. I know.

The key scrapes in the door and I rise to greet the soon to be ex-wife. It has been an uncomfortable ten minutes perched on the couch waiting alone in the loveless house, just the ticking of a clock for company. ‘I suppose he’s long gone.’ Says the spurned woman icily, as I make my introduction and just stop short of apologising for having a penis. She doesn’t take long. The smile is unconvincing she’s clearly a bit out of practice.

‘Could you make your price as high as possible?’ She urges. ‘And I need a copy to my solicitor.’ This is why we now call these exercises market appraisals, not valuations. If they want to go to court to argue the figures they should get a formal valuation from a Chartered Surveyor. The surveyor will charge a fee, then come in to my office and ask what the house is worth.

‘How long until I get your letter?’ Probes the woman, then she can’t help herself. ‘Only I want the cheating bastard’s bollocks on a plate.’ Momentarily I wonder if I’ve missed another chunk of female-focused legislation. Some corrective law that gives positive discrimination in favour of women wanting a scrotum-sac trophy along with the house and half his pension. I feel a tightening in the nether regions and resolve to hang on to my own home and balls and to stick to fantasy - or the free trial sessions on-line.

It’s a hard job.

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