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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My Back Yard - Friday

I see the earnest-looking woman making a bee-line towards me, even as I navigate past the less pressurised lunchtime shoppers. I’ve already dodged the wino in the empty shop unit doorway, and swerved the Big Issue salesman, who in truth has almost given up pestering me with his entreaties. I’ve told him at least once that I already help the homeless. It didn’t go down well.

There was a time when my wife used to lovingly pack me sandwiches, so I could keep going through the working day - after all many people want to view homes in their own lunch hour. But she tired of making them, just as I tired of eating them and I now welcome the chance to stretch my legs and walk to the shop for a meal deal. Of course I have the dilemma of the healthy eating - taste-free range - or something with flavour and big numbers on those nutrition information panels. Fortunately my close eyesight is failing, in line with my resolve.

My resolve to dodge street surveys and charity-chuggers trying to sign me up on a direct debit to support abandoned donkeys in Greece, hasn’t faltered though.  I can sidestep faster than a rugby wingback, even with my battered back, so I’m already dummying left, before zig-zagging right past the bloke in the disabled scooter, as the woman with the leaflets comes closer.

‘Excuse me sir.’ She calls stridently, before showing surprising agility and sidestepping to block my path. ‘I know you don’t I?’

This isn’t great. Telling a past client I haven’t recognised to push off, isn’t going to foster repeat business and if they are a buyer, or tenant, I might still be jeopardising office revenue. Reluctantly I stop.

‘Aren’t we near neighbours?’ Presses the woman waving a black and white, home-printed leaflet, in my face.

We might be, my wife tends to know the names and occupations of people in our road, I prefer not to intermingle. You never know when you might be repossessing their house. Fist name terms don’t always go well, when the locksmith is drilling through the front door and the kids are sobbing on the lawn….

The woman confirms her address - next road down - and smiles triumphantly.

‘Then you are just the sort of person who will want to support this.’ She says, handing me her leaflet. I scan the piece of clumsily edited A4 and my heart sinks. It’s an objection to a big new development, planned for a green space not far from my home. The stern-faced woman is looking at me challengingly. She’s a NIMBY - not in my back yard - protestor. They are all late middle-aged and have the glassy-eyes zest of converts, without any of the naive charm.

‘This is a scandal.’ She continues, blocking my path completely. ‘ There’ll be no green fields left in this area if they get away with building this monstrosity.’ I know all about the proposed development - it’s my job - and I’m conflicted. People need homes to live in, my two sons will need sensibly priced homes themselves. But I also know if planning is granted, the landowner will become a multi-millionaire overnight, and the prices will be astronomical too. Paradoxically, the social housing element the planners will insist on, also conflicts me. There are some people you’d rather not live in the same school catchment area.

‘We’ve put all the links on our leaflet and a draft objection letter template,’ Continues the woman, forcibly handing me the leaflet. ‘And it has the email  addresses’s of the local councillors, so we can make our feelings known’ She’s presuming she knows my feelings. Big mistake. Better not let her know I sell houses for a living. I’m hoping she’s unaware, or surely she wouldn't have stopped me?

‘I trust we can count on your support.’ Says the woman forcibly, as I make to leave. ‘We can’t let these people ruin our lifestyle.’

I know the developer won’t use an agent to sell the homes. I know they won’t put in sufficient flood prevention and the schools are already overflowing. I also know the prices will be unaffordable to most.

It’s objectionable.

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Sale Or Return - Thursday

Diverted to some early doors Christmas shopping, after standing on a doorstep for twenty minutes waiting for a viewer who didn’t turn up. Must remember to delete them from the mailing list when I get back to the office.

‘Big issue madam?’ Asks a swarthy Eastern European man in heavily accented English. I’m just forming a sarcastic reply, when I realise he’s addressing the woman hurrying the other way. She’s late for work; the Bulgarian is looking for work – and of course, a home. Not sure any Government can solve our burgeoning housing crisis. I certainly can’t, so it’s a supermarket sweep style dash round the department store to buy presents for my wife.

This early, the road sweepers are still brushing up the detritus from last night’s takeaways. And delivery vans are disgorging pallets of cheap Chinese tat for the pop-up shops in vacant retail units, to flog.

Stepping round a coagulated slick of vomit even the pigeons aren’t eating, I make a beeline for the opposition agents’ windows. I prefer spying on their displays when there is nobody in, but some are still holding their morning meetings and some clearly don’t bother. Irritatingly, I spot several homes I valued and failed to get instructed on. They are all on for too much money – at least I hope they are…

‘Morning Sir.’ Trills an overdressed girl on the perfume counter as I enter the dated store, one whose days must surely be numbered as the march of Internet shopping continues. But then they said that about estate agency a decade ago and we’re still here. I grunt an acknowledgement back. At least she got my gender right.

‘Can I help you with anything?’ Presses the assistant. Good persistence, but a closed question - my sales head is always on. I bought the perfume at duty free in the summer, this is a much more challenging task. I ask where ladies lingerie is, cheeks blushing already.

‘Third floor sir.’ Says the girl with a knowing smile before adding. ‘Do you know her size?’ I answer in the affirmative. I imagine she gets a fair few blokes buying for themselves – one way or another.

I hobble up the stairs. I’ve been in enough dodgy lifts to last a lifetime, and with the shop girl’s question ringing in my ears, I remove the hand-written note from my wallet. Ferreting in the airing cupboard, then my wife’s underwear drawer for sizes wasn’t the most relaxed start to the day. I really don’t need to answer a withering: ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing in there?’ question, more than once in my life.

I should just get a voucher, or if it must be clothing take a safer option, but there’s only so many scarves and pairs of socks you can buy. I walked straight past Ann Summers though, their outfits I find a bit tarty and the material is unbelievably scratchy. What? It was a fancy dress party actually – so don’t judge me.

‘Terrific.’ I mumble to myself. The nightwear and underwear section is on the far side of the floor. I can feel the underemployed assistants watching me as I shuffle towards the big pants section. Worse still there’s a pretty woman holding a bra and knickers set against herself as I walk past the designer gear. I strive for eye contact in sales situations, but my head is so far down I barrel into a dummy in a basque and find myself grabbing a rigid pretend woman by the waist to stop her tipping over - again not for the first time...

‘Would you like a gift receipt with that?’ Asks the young girl packing my purchase. Is it that obvious the item will be coming back on the first shopping day in January? I tell her yes.

‘And you’re sure on the size?’ Continues the assistant breezily. Not really. Why are they always between sizes? Either way I’m likely to cause offence. I plumped for the larger. Psychologically, it’s a better fit.

‘How did it go?’ Asks negotiator S, back at the office. She’s probably referring to the aborted viewing, but I cover it.

‘A bit of a let down.’

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Eat To The Beat - Thursday

I spot him heading my way through a throng of lunchtime escapees. The sort of office workers who are either in the private sector, like me, and are taking five minutes to grab a sandwich to eat at their desk in between calls, or are working for the public sector and engaged in exercising their body, mind and rights by taking their full sixty minutes entitlement - no matter how may times the phone rings unanswered in their absence.

I consider dodging to the other side of the pavement, as I reach the pedestrianised area with slightly fewer empty shop units, not so many charity outlets and a healthier footfall, but I’m almost as lame as him now. Instead I paste on the increasingly hard to muster, glad to see you face. He looks genuinely pleased to meet me again – unless…

‘How’s tricks?’ Begins the hobbling banker breezily, as if greeting some sort of worn-out hooker whose overdraft facility he’s thinking of extending. The analogy has some merit, I think, as we both labour to a halt causing two jogging-bottomed, large-arsed young mothers, with more tattoos than what’s left of the Royal Navy can muster, to swerve their pushchairs past us without cracking into our ankles. The pair are engaged in some sort of harsh-vowelled rant about not getting their money on time and I wonder if they’ll be in shortly to ask B, our loose lettings lush, if she rents to DSS tenants – or if she’s coming out on the pull later? I realise, my autopilot has taken over and I’ve answered with a default platitude along the lines of: ‘Not too bad. You?’

The banker frowns and I notice, with a little churlish pleasure that he’s greyer and thinner on top than me now.

‘Seriously?’ he quizzes, shaking his head a bit like Bomber our destructive local surveyor when he down-values another home and destroys a much-needed sale with the words: ‘Price seems a bit full. Got any comparables?’

I admit, a bit sheepishly, that I haven’t thought the answer through and I’ve had better weeks, better months, better years and probably better career opportunities.

‘Thank God,’ he says brightening. ‘I thought it was just me.’

‘Thing is. I feel like a bloody dinosaur.’ Continues the shot-to-pieces in the hip and hair department moneylender, as I find myself perching on a pigeon-shit-stained bench half listening to his depressing monologue and half hearing the increasingly plaintive cries from the Big Issue seller everyone with a job, or not retired, is studiously avoiding.

‘Your business has changed a lot.’ I concede, trying to look at my watch without him spotting the movement. All the low-calorie meal deals with any non-horsemeat filling will be gone at this rate and I vaguely imagine I can hear phones ringing in my office, unless it’s that ear infection back again.

‘Tell me about it.’ Answers the man morosely, as I think ring the Samaritans pal. They volunteer for this sort of thing and don’t have to sit on a chilly bench a wino slept on a few hours earlier, feigning an interest rate I can’t sustain. The tarnished and gum-splattered pavement at my feet looks suspiciously like night-time emissions have been vented, making me wonder if I’ll have any, shoes of at the door before you come in to our house, oddballs later today. But then again, maybe they aren’t so weird?

‘The world is run by bloody bean counters.’ Rails the banker, seemingly without irony. Should I ask him about my endowment mortgage? Probably not. I’ve already seen one grown man cry today and there’s still that repossession to attend later.

‘Do you know, I’m one of the oldest in my branch now.’ Continues the man semi-rhetorically. ‘I have to report to some snot-nosed kid who talks in marketing sound-bites and questions my sales figures every Thursday.’

‘Not good.’ I concede, wondering if I can stomach another reduced-fat cheese and pickle, with those taste-free baked crisps and a bottle of flavoured water resembling piss?

‘Burger and chips?’ Asks assistant manager T, as I return.

‘Comfort food.’ I tell him - feeling a bit sick.

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Second Innings - Friday (continued)

I’m on my third glass of bubbly administered by the increasingly hot looking girl in skirt and blouse combo and it’s not even midday. I don’t usually do lunchtime drinking as I either get dozy or demonstrative but the lure of free booze and a babe dispensing it has me hooked. That and the fact I need a bit of Dutch courage to try and compete with the privileged brayers who are sharing the executive cricket box with me.

As we climbed the stairs I still expected the steward to pull me aside to double check my ticket. To tell me no riff-raff here and I should try the public section where the beer is served in plastic glasses and those in off the peg clothing, or fancy dress are more likely to fit in.

‘The trouble with these losers who get into arrears is they are over-leveraged.’ Pontificates some ruddy-cheeked suit to another weak-chinned chap with what might be some sort of club tie, it’s so garish. I ache to jump in and tell him repossessing someone’s house when they are still inside is about the most soul-destroying thing I’ve faced – apart from the weekly sales figures chart. But the girl is back with a top-up.

I should talk to someone, but despite the fact I do that all day every day, I’m on familiar ground. This bunch of entitled arses seem to converse in spreadsheets and acronyms. Head starting to feel light in both brains and balance, I see M my bloated mortgage man is across the other side of the room talking animatedly to a fellow chubster, in between mouthfuls of canapés. They say there’s no such thing as a free lunch but M is making a pretty good fist of it. I‘m just not that hungry any more.

Unsteadily, I turn and see that out on the balcony is a man alone. He has a short sleeve shirt on which isn’t the best start, but I’ve learned not to judge a book by it’s cover after selling multi-million pound homes to people scruffy enough to get turned down for a Big Issue salesman’s job. I step outside and the heat and light make me wince. Below, the arena is an impossible snooker baize colour and uniformity, and a batsman has just laced leather through the covers to a building crescendo of applause.

‘Great strike.’ Says the man with no fashion sense I’m now woozily stalking. The accent is thickly American and I’m already hoping he won’t have class issues, or notice I’m wearing chain store shoes and a Marks and Spencer shirt. The truncated education and failed woodwork O level will always be with me, but I read a lot, bluff a lot and avoid making bookcases. I introduce myself but decide not to give him a business card. He’s something in the City of course, on secondment.

‘So property guru eh?’ Enquires the man as another ball hurries to the ropes and the raucous section opposite us jump to their feet and mimic the umpire’s signal for a four. It looks more fun over there, even if you have to drink over-priced gassy beer from a disposable beaker. He thinks you’re a Guru calls the triumphant inner voice, buoyed by Veuve Clicquot on the shareholder’s tab.

‘Not really.’ I say with what I judge should sound like false modesty. ‘I just dabble.’ In scuzzy ex-local authority flats with pools of urine in the lift. Says the third man, now positioned in my head. And crap conversions with  porous plasterboard, suspect building regs and no soundproofing, continues my inner barracker chipping away like a mouthy wicketkeeper.

‘They told me this game was like baseball.’ Announces my Yankee friend shaking his head in bemusement. ‘I haven’t a clue what’s happening.’ You and me both pal I think, spotting a pitchside advertisng banner for one of the big law firms I despise.

‘More drinks gentlemen?’ Asks a feminine voice, as I see the new love of my life approaching.

‘What do you reckon buddy?’ Asks my companion. ‘This lot seem a bit dull. You want to knock the ball out the park?’

I just might.

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Love the Public - Wednesday

‘Good news.’ Announces assistant manager T as I enter the office having dodged the winos in the park, the Big Issue salesman and the traffic warden successfully. In this business good news, like punters, requires qualification. It’s really only good news when the sale has exchanged and completed, plus the cheque has cleared.

‘One of our competitors gone bust?’ I ask optimistically as I glance at the message book and see I need to ring bean counter boss. My mood darkens. How many times a week can he ask how the week is going? Just wait until the stats on Friday you figure-fiddling f***er.

‘No.’ Answers T. ‘Sadly not, although I hear that lot up the road have only three sales in their pipeline.’ I nod in appreciation, as T gets to the point and tells me we have an increased offer on a house I’ve been negotiating on for three, drawn-out, days. I should be delighted, but the owner has been less than enthusiastic and I sense they might be cooling on the whole process, something that might potentially cost me £7,500.

The first offer was admittedly £20k off the asking price and once I’d checked the buyers’ credibility; the finances, the chain and the state of progression, it was turned down dismissively, as expected. Sometimes a deal needs to “cook” a little. Too quick an acceptance from either party and doubts begin to surface. An extra £10k was the first revised bid; then yesterday I got within £5k of the asking price as the buyers began to needle in tandem with the reluctant sellers.

‘Full price offer.’ Crows T, before adding a premature. ‘Another one in the bag.’ He has a lot to learn about property and even more about human nature.

‘You don’t think they’ll turn it down do you?’ Asks negotiator S, showing more perception and a distracting amount of flesh with the low-cut blouse she’s wearing.

‘I just got the feeling they were getting cold feet.’ I say cautiously. ‘Sometimes they bleat for months about nobody wanting their home. Then when it comes to the reality, to an offer and the prospect of packing and moving, they panic.’

‘They’d be mad to turn it down.’ Persists T. ‘It’s the full money. They can’t.’

‘They can do what they like.’ Says loose lettings lush B acidly. ‘People jerk me about all the time.’ I really don’t want to take that conversation any further, so I retire to my office to make the call.

‘So’ I conclude. ‘After some tough negotiation we’ve got them up to the full price and of course they are in an excellent position.’ The reiteration seems needed because the resistance is almost palpable. I wait, silence being an old friend where negotiations are concerned. I’m rewarded with a heavy sigh before the owner says. ‘Let me talk to my husband’ We’ll think about it.’

‘It will put you in a fantastic negotiating position for your next property.’ I urge, needing some positive spin on what is fast becoming a dead wicket. ‘The trouble is, we’ve seen nothing that comes close to our house.’ Grumbles the woman. ‘I’m wondering if we’re too cheap.’

‘Five months marketing.’ I shout angrily, once I’m back in the main office and studying the computer screen, ‘Four adverts. Over five hundred unique web visits. Four mail outs. Twelve accompanied viewings. One broken for sale board and three days of negotiation and she thinks she’s we’ve not done enough for the money.’

‘The public always screw you over.’ Pronounces B rising and click-clacking towards the ladies’ loo. I can’t be bothered to take the easy points I’m so demoralised.

‘We’ve thought about it.’ Says the owner last thing when I ring, bean counter’s voice still ringing like tinnitus in my ear. ‘And we’ve decide to withdraw from the market.’

I try half-heartedly but the horse has long gone.

‘We won’t be charged will we? It’s no sale no fee.’ Says the woman rubbing the salt, before adding.

‘You’ll tell the buyers won’t you? We’d rather not speak to them again.’

Leave that with me. I’m an expert at disappointment.

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Bank On It - Thursday

‘Hey, how’s it going?’ Calls a familiar voice, as I make my way through the lunchtime shoppers to seek out another mind-numbing calorie limiting, meal deal.

Several options open up to me, as I try to place the dulcet tones. Pretend I haven’t heard and dodge past the Big Issue seller, while ignoring him too. A cursory. ‘Fine thanks, can’t stop.’ Before pressing through the throng heading for the park. Or engage briefly while glancing at watch and trying to place whom I’m talking to and if brushing them of quickly might cost me money. I turn.

It’s the crumbly-hipped banker with the charisma of a cold store. I offer a thin smile, the one graded for tradesman, office appliance engineers and those wanting sponsorship for another walk, jog, or cycle to cure cancer. He’s oblivious to an incipient brush off, but then he flogged Payment Protection Insurance to self-employed builders for years until they rumbled him.

‘Thought it was you.’ Continues the banker offering his hand. A hand I don’t want to shake if there’s no commission in it. I’m starting to feel like Howard Hughes – obviously without the money – and have to physically fight the urge to wash my hands after each contact with the public. I collect countless colds and bugs each season. The alcohol gel in the car glove box is used copiously after each appointment and come late afternoon I’m often tempted to ingest it. Just to kill the pain.

He’s grinning at me unpleasantly. I thought the bank would have made him redundant by now.  A lifer with the industry, aged mid to late forties, too long in the tooth to learn new techniques and with all the sales ability of an amoeba. I get endless CV’s from similar hopeless cases wanting to become estate agents, alongside the South African realtors who have bailed out after they realised the servants wanted their house not their goodwill. They’re virtually unemployable.

‘How’s the market?’ Probes the man, not remotely feeling my buying signals are set to stop. It’s such a cheesy question but everyone asks it. At the paper shop, the petrol station, at barbeques and those other burnt meat occasions – funerals. They don’t like me but they want my knowledge. The fact I still can’t second-guess the market after three decades is something I, and countless media “property experts”, try to keep to themselves.

I give him the standard sanitised waffle about realistic pricing, good locations and demand holding up. But I’m boring myself half way through. He doesn’t seem to notice, but then he can talk for hours about APRs AVCs and MVAs.

‘I’m thinking of buy-to-let as an investment.’ Continues the banker. ‘Still good yields if you can buy cheap and I’m not sure even my bank pension is safe.’ Terrific, if even accountant-types aren’t secure what hope for the fiscally illiterate like me? He’s going to ask, I think, as I look at my watch more pointedly than I’d do if he were a paying punter. And sure enough he does.

‘If you’ve got anything coming on cheap, under market even,’ grins the man avariciously. ‘I’d be grateful to know.’ Please don’t tap your nose, says my inner voice plaintively, but the finger goes to the septum anyway. Surely he knows I’m charged by my client to get the best possible price? But when it comes to money and your own piss-poor personal pension fund, ethics are the first casualty.

‘I’ll give you some free gratis too.’ Says the man as I start to move away, pointing at my watch now. Nothing is free mate, apart from my no-obligation valuations. ‘The Euro is a dead man walking.’ Announces the banker conspiratorially. ‘The Germans are already secretly printing the Deutsche Mark again.’ And with that he leaves before I do, wobbly gait lost amongst the Primark bag carriers.

I’m still trying to work out what to do about my holiday currency when I get back to the office, to be greeted by negotiator S saying. ‘Boss on line 2 for you.’

What can the bean counter want?

‘How’s the market doing?’

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