Running And Scared - Monday

‘That’s not good.’ I announce to the office, as I study my Estates Gazette, the publication aimed at property professionals more than common estate agents.  I still read it though, as the company pay the subscription, set up and forgotten after a long-gone chartered surveyor, was once based here.

Nobody says anything, so I cough conspicuously.

‘What is it then?’ Asks assistant manager T languidly. I’m guessing I’ve interrupted his social media monitoring rather than a diligent attempt to progress one of his long-standing sales.

‘Surveyor getting sued for a dodgy valuation.’ I tell the assembled office. B our loose lettings lush, looks up briefly then starts filing her nails again. It’s marginally better than running them down a blackboard, but only just.

‘Is that bad?’ Asks trainee F. ‘I thought you hated all surveyors.’

‘Not hate.’ I counter.

‘Dislike then.’ Offers T.

‘Distrust?’ Contributes negotiator S with one of her beguiling smiles.

‘They are sale wreckers.’ Spits obese finance fiddler M, as he waddles past.

It’s more complex than that. Surveyors have a tough time of it too. When I first entered the industry, pre-internet and coloured photos on sales particulars, a surveyor was a much respected professional. Most partnerships required you to be qualified to enter the firm, and legions of minor public school under-performers would become  Chartered Surveyors as they were too dim for medicine or law. Before long they were taking extend lunch hours, learning golf and doing surveys nobody took any notice off.

Those who qualified too late to enjoy the instant millionaire sell-offs of small partnerships to banks, building societies and insurance companies, began to work for their money. When valuations were wrong in a rising market nobody cared or noticed, but when values fell, lenders cut up rough to find the tertiary development they’d lent millions on to a dodgy developer, was worth less than half the loan, once the borrower hand gone bust. That’s when the lawyers, who use to bully the surveyors at school, really started to bugger them…

‘Are they sale wreckers?’ Asks F, still doggedly trying to learn despite the fact I’ve covered this ground before. There must be retarded goldfish with better retention skills than him.

‘They just cover their arses most of the time.’ I answer. ‘If they knock the agreed sale price by 10% some of them seem to think it will stop them getting sued retrospectively if the market goes belly-up.’

‘Like I said, sale wreckers.’ Concludes M smugly.

‘Give us the gist.’ Says T, waving at the periodical in front of me.

I relay the familiar tale. Big loan from unheard of city lender on an ambitious build project where the developer has pinned his business plan on ever rising values, not built-in value. As often the case, the figures don’t add up, builder wants more money and someone looks again at the original valuation and finds the cupboard is bare. End result, lawyers laughing, surveyor crapping himself in court. 

‘So they’ll be even more scared of their shadows when they value any of our sales.’ Predicts T with a sneer.

‘And we’ll have buyers unable to complete, or trying to re-negotiate the price.’ Adds S, with a frown.

‘And big PI problems.’ I add.

I see F frowning at me again. Granted I hate it when people use unknown industry acronyms, but I have told him before.

‘I’m not referring to Magnum, when I say PI.’ I tell F wearily.

The whole office looks at me blankly. M has disappeared so sadly nobody else is likely to remember Tom Selleck’s finest hour - or moustache.

‘You don’t mean the ice cream do you?’ Ventures F hesitantly.

God I feel old some days.

Professional Indemnity Insurance (PI) explained to an increasingly disinterested audience, I look to move on. Then I see Bomber, our own local sales destroyer, striding across the road towards the office door.

‘Tell me that dickhead isn’t valuing one of our deals.’ I plead, as everyone else spots the harbinger of doom.

‘Oops, I forgot to tell you.’ Admits F, face reddening.

You don’t need to be a detective to guess what happens next.

-------

Plug And Pray - Friday

‘That’s a joke.’ Exclaims assistant manager T as he stomps back into the office face like thunder.

Chances are we are not about to be rib-clutching and rolling on the imitation wood laminate flooring in uncontrollable mirth, any time soon.

‘What?’ Asks loose lettings lush B, with a hint of a hiccup.

‘They’ve only gone and taken four parking spaces away up the road.’ Says T, shaking his head.

Not funny so far.

‘It’s hard enough to find a space as it is.’ Responds B with a grimace. ‘You’d think the council don’t want business to succeed in town.’ They don’t seem to. They want you to pay prohibitive business rates though.

‘If it’s for more disabled spaces you can understand.’ Says negotiator S reasonably.

I can’t understand, I want to reply. But I already have a reputation as a grumpy curmudgeon. Best not to say, swathes of empty spaces with a wheelchair stencil where I’d like to park my car, make me want to let down the tyres of any car with a Blue Badge. It doesn’t help when surprisingly sprightly looking occupants hop out with no walking sticks in sight.

‘It’s not for handicapped people - at least not physically.’ Says T with a shake of his head. ‘They’re installing those bulky battery charging points.’

‘Nobody drives an electric car.’ States mortgage man M dismissively. ‘At least nobody who lives in the real world and has to travel more than thirty miles without plugging in and waiting for hours to re-charge.’

‘It’s good for the environment.’ Counters S.

‘It’s not good for my blood pressure.’ Bats back M. ‘I’m trying to visit clients all day and I can’t park when I get back to the office, because some tree-hugging weirdo with more money than sense wants to park a Noddy car in a space I pay hundreds of pounds a year to not be able to use.’

Actually the cost comes off my office P & L account, but now is not the time to quibble.

‘Those idiots at the town hall have never had a proper job.’ Snarls M. ‘God save us from do-gooders and career politicians.’ He concludes, before waddling towards the kitchen. I’ve hidden the biscuits so his day isn’t going to get any better.

‘You have to start somewhere.’ Says S doggedly.

‘You can’t start, that’s the point.’ Replies T. ‘Not unless you have a five mile extension lead.’

‘It’s like pigging pointless Energy Performance Certificates.’ Contributes B. ‘Nobody gives a toss what band their new home is going to be in, they just want the rent to be cheaper than it is.’

‘Tell them.’ Pleads S, turning to me with a pleasing pout.

No matter how much I’d like to please S - avoiding harassment claims and industrial tribunals, obviously - I’m hard pushed to enthuse about agenda-heavy, reality-light  policies that pander to bobble-hat wearing, multiple-pierced Greens, while heavy industry in China chuckles and chokes the earth's atmosphere.

‘He knows.’ Says T with a wry smile. ‘He just won’t say it.’

‘I’m not a big fan of over-priced cars that you can’t hear coming, any more than over-priced roof panels that you can hear humming.’ I answer, secretly pleased with the poetic cadence.

‘Can you hear them hum?’ Queries trainee F, unhelpfully.

‘You can smell them humming.’ Says T with a wry laugh. ‘Particularly if you’ve been mug enough to lease your roof space for twenty-five years. Ugly as sin and you can’t sell you house. Not sure how that helps the environment.’

I’ve been sensing a mis-selling scandal on solar roof panels for years now. Unsightly, built in obsolescence and with promises of performance you’d be well advised to disbelieve. Like a fat politician, basically.

‘Talk of a waste of time, look who is coming in.’ Says T, nodding towards the window. Right on cue the Energy Performance Certificate man - a sort of cut-price chartered surveyor - comes in to the office.

‘Got a couple of reports to do.’ He says cheerily. He should write a Blog instead. Loads of effort and nobody reads the end result.

Shocking.

--------

Thoroughly Green ebooks - no trees killed in the production - available for all formats. Links on the right Eco-Warriors...

Big Bang Theory - Thursday

‘Here comes Sheller.’ Announces trainee F with unusual confidence. There’s a long silence, as we look at him, each other, then follow his gaze out into the high street.

Assistant manager T sighs then enlightens the imbecile. ‘It’s Bomber, his name is Bomber.’

‘The end result is the same though.’ Says negotiator S with a shake of her head.

‘That’s what I meant.’ Counters F defensively. ‘Bomber.’ He hesitates then asks. ‘Remind me why he’s called Bomber again? He’s too young for euthanasia but a controlled explosion at his desk might work.

‘Because he destroys sales.’ Answers S, saving me from some witheringly sarcastic response that might involve another re-education course with some touchy-feely woman from HR who doesn’t shave often enough.

Every town has a harsh-minded surveyor or two. Long in the tooth practitioners who were sued until their professional indemnity insurers threatened to withdraw cover, after the last property crash. Where lenders who were all to happy to advance money rashly to those with dodgy employment letters, or self-certificated borrowers proffering back of a fag packet first year accounts, decided to retrospectively blame the surveyor for signing off a value that some expected to only keep rising. 20-20 hindsight is a real gift.

‘The twat just down-values every sale he looks at.’ Snarls T. ‘We agree a house at £375,00 he’ll value it at £ 350,000,’ continues T hitting his stride as Bomber does the same across the road. ‘Tie a deal up on the same house at £350,000 and you can guarantee he’s value it at £325,000. Those bastards are frightened of their own shadows. I’m surprised he comes out in the daylight.’

‘I’ve complained about him to my panel of lenders.’ Contributes tubby mortgage man M as he waddles across the office something chaffing again unpleasantly. ‘Tried to get him struck off but they won’t play ball like they used to.’ There’s a reason for that, I think glumly. My memory and longevity is elephantine and I’ve repossessed more homes than I care to remember.

‘If the sale goes down the pan, could you ask the owners if they’d like to rent it out instead?’ Asks B from lettings unhelpfully. The dagger-shaped looks just bounce off her. ‘What?’ She asks with an air of innocence she lost a long time ago. ‘A girl’s got to make a living.’

‘Be nice to him.’ I counsel as Bomber approaches the door. ‘You never know, he might value it up.’

‘Fat chance’ Says M without a hint of irony.

M is right. But I can’t afford to upset the surveyor, despite the fact his caution, bordering on outright fear, has cost me thousands this year alone. But then if it’s not Bomber, it’ll be one of his partners in destruction. I know of a Dr Death, The Terminator and at least two Grim Reapers, from discussions with sister offices.

‘Morning everybody.’ Breezes Bomber as he enters the office. The response is colder than a long-abandoned house. I’m surprised his damp meter doesn’t start pinging off the scale. I beckon him over, and he gives me the address. Only two weeks ago I was punching the air with delight when the sale was agreed, now I’m imagining the fractious conversation with the owner and a call to the board man to re-erect the For Sale sign.

‘Set of the details and the energy performance report please.’ Says Bomber with a forced smile I’d like to force back down his throat. He’s the only person to show interest in an EPC since the last surveyor came in to cover their arse.

I hand Bomber the information and ask him to sign for the keys.

‘Got any comparable sales?’ He asks whiningly. So you can work down from those figures, less ten percent, I think angrily. If you put enough caveats and disclaimers in a survey it becomes as worthless as the EPC he’s clutching protectively.

‘Hmm, price looks a bit full,’ speculates Bomber to an audible pantomime-style hiss from stage left, right and centre.

‘It reflects the market. We had competitive bidding and two disappointed punters.’ I tell him artfully.

‘Reckon it’ll be ok?’ Asks F after Bomber leaves.

No.

------

More explosive content in the 'too cheap' ebook, here:

http://amzn.to/ttGZ4j

US Readers: http://amzn.to/vXpFJf

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.

------

Matrimonial and marketing advice, far cheaper than a lawyer - in property e-book:

http://amzn.to/ttGZ4j