Bittersweet Home - Wednesday

Fifty-odd weeks of the year, there’s a game I play when not actually visiting their homes, or being polite to them in the office, that works well when people-watching. Try it, if you like, I’ve not filed for a patent.

Take any outside situation, be it cafe, park, beach or just avoiding the crowds in Oxford Street and ask yourself as people walk towards you, would I talk to them on holiday? It might be an indictment of me or more likely the general public, but ninety-nine times out of one-hundred, as I search for fashion sense, self-awareness and a hint of intellect in the eyes, it’s a big fat, badly-dressed, overweight no. So when you do actually go on holiday, be prepared for quite a few dinners for two.

‘Look at the state of that.’ I  whisper to my wife, as another obese Brit in unsuitable swimwear waddles past me at the pool.

‘Shhh. You are so judgemental.’ My wife replies. ‘They might be nice once you get to know them.’

‘I have to deal with knobs all day long at work, I’m not going to start conversing with them voluntarily.’ I say. ‘Particularly when you can actually see their knob.’

What is it with old men and Speedos? If I wanted to see wrinkled willies thinly-encased in over-stretched lycra I’m sure there’s a specialist website, but I don’t - particularly when I’m trying to relax on a sun-bed and read my Kindle in direct sunlight. And don’t even start me on thongs. If you meet complete arses every day of the working week, there’s no need to ever see another one.

‘Don’t you despair of the human race?’ I ask my wife, as I wave for another ice cold daiquiri - a sort of slushy for adults that I’ve become rather fond of. Well, as you can no longer drink at lunchtime in a working week, there’s something pleasantly decadent about getting quietly pissed, then sleeping in the afternoon, knowing everyone in the office is stressed and sober.

‘You just don’t give people a chance.’ My wife responds, wearily. ‘I do, I just don’t really believe in them until they exchange contracts.’ I retort. ‘Until then they are just another wastrel, who’ll probably go back on their word.’ Maybe I’ve been selling homes for too long. Bad surveys, bad solicitors and bad karma have sucked the optimism from me.

‘I mean look at this meathead.’ I hiss, as a tubby lad with a wife-beater vest struts by, clutching one of those ridiculous e-cigarettes.

‘You don’t mind looking at his girlfriend.’ Responds my wife, tartly. Busted. But in truth just as much as I was checking out her toned bikini-body, I was actually thinking, no I won’t be talking to you on holiday, because your partner is punching above his considerable weight and you, girl, have made some bad boyfriend and tattoo choices.

‘Why do pretty girls ruin their bodies with awful inking?’ I ask as the pair walk by.

‘So you were looking at her.’ Retorts my wife.

‘Purely in an observational fashion.’   

‘What other kind of looking is there?’

She doesn’t need to know.    

‘Now that’s a outfit only an Italian can get away with.’ I say later, as we escape the heat of the pool and check out the local town. I’ve been drawn, like a moth to a flame, to look at the local real estate office, much to my wife’s chagrin. A stylish-looking man has just sauntered out of the office in question. The olive-skinned bastard looked effortlessly cool, in a linen ensemble, that on a sweaty-Saturday in the UK, would resemble a rumpled dish-cloth after four fruitless viewings with time-wasters from Tewksbury, who will, only put their house on the market once they find something. ‘Ours will sell really easily, you see.’ No. I don’t.

‘Have you seen the piss-poor photos these Italians take, and where are the EPC ratings?’ I ask as I look in the dull window display with far less flamboyance than the just-departed agent.

‘You are ready to go home, aren’t you?’ Asks my wife.

Yes.

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The Human Touch - Tuesday

‘Oh give me strength.’ Says negotiator S, as she replaces the phone receiver and puts head in hands.

It’s a familiar pose. When you deal with people and property, stress and disappointment is a permanent companion. It’s a wonder everyone’s cranium isn’t constantly cupped.

‘Vendor or buyer?’ I enquire, knowing either party is equally likely to disrupt a sale and just a likely to pull the plug on a deal with impunity - bar the lawyer’s bill.

‘Down the Hall’s chain.’ Replies S, referring to one of our owners whose sale has been moving at a geriatric mollusc’s pace. ‘Some numpties are using an on-line agent.’ Continues S, with a shake of her head.

‘Bit of a misnomer.’ Interjects assistant manager T. S raises a quizzical eyebrow and, distractingly, one breast.

‘Well,’ clarifies T. ‘A call centre with an automated switchboard and a cheap for sale board, isn’t a real agent, is it?’ He states semi-rhetorically.

He’s right. People have been predicting the death of the traditional, high street estate agent for the last twenty years. Ever since some spotty oik, with an algorithm and no sex life, thought writing a programme in his bedroom, would replace real people, with real knowledge and a wealth of experience. 

I’m not one to blow my own trumpet - not least because I’ve heard it’s anatomically impossible - but I’ve lost count of the number of sales, I’ve saved over the years. Where the easy part is agreeing the transaction and the hard bit is progressing the deal to successful completion.

‘Some idiot thinks they are saving money by using a cheap outfit,’ continues S angrily. ‘And they are trying to do all the sales progressing themselves.’

‘Not good.’ Says T, unnecessarily.

‘And now they have pissed off everyone in the chain, the solicitors refuse to talk to them and the first time buyer at the bottom is threatening to pull out if they can’t complete before their planned wedding date.’

‘Even I know it’s a false economy.’ Says trainee F, as he opens a packet of own brand, basics biscuits, from the local supermarket. I haven't got time to point out the irony. They can train dogs to fly planes now, but flogging dead horses won’t keep me stable…

‘Someone needs to talk to them and explain you get what you pay for.’ Suggest T, walking over and helping himself to one of F’s biscuits. More irony than what’s left of the British steel industry, in my office.

‘I know,’ agrees S. ‘And remind them you only pay a proper agent a fee, when they get the deal done.’

‘Work your way down the chain and speak to as many people as you can.’ I counsel.

S looks at me with a hint of distain, before saying.

‘I know, I’m doing that.’ She’s good, I sometimes forget how good with the other distractions.

‘The point is, I shouldn’t have to.’ Continues S. ‘If the industry wasn’t full of shysters and charlatans who can set up and start trading without so much as an IQ test.’

No sale no fee, is a double-edged sword for the estate agent. It encourages reluctant sellers to come to the market with no cost - other than the widely ignored Energy Performance Certificate - yet it means owners can change their minds with no real financial penalty. We, on the other hand, can work for months on a sale only to have several thousand pounds worth of commission disappear with a phone call. It does mean we work damned hard to keep sales together though.

‘How you getting on?’ I ask S, when I return from an abortive viewing. If I had ten pounds for every time I’ve stood on a doorstep, like a poor man’s prostitute, waiting for punters who end up screwing me over, I’d be….well…. I’d be better off than I am now. And not feeling so soiled.

‘I’ve managed to track down the fiancee at the bottom of the chain.’ Answers S. If this career fails, she’d make a great private investigator.

‘And we’ve got a bit of leeway, she’s happy if we can exchange before the wedding and we leave completion until they return from the honeymoon.’

Try negotiating that with an answerphone.

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Alphabet Soup - Wednesday

‘More f***ing regulations to discourage my landlords.’ Exclaims loose lettings lush B vehemently. 

‘What this time?’ Asks assistant manager T, wth barely disguised boredom.

You should know, I think spikily, but I pause just in case…

‘They are ruling tenants can insist property is brought to a higher energy rating if it’s an F or G band.’ Answers B moodily.

‘What’s that again?’ Enquires trainee F, as I shake my head in disbelief. I’ve explained the European regulation - that insists all homes have an Energy Performance Certificate issued, telling prospective buyers or tenants how energy efficient their new home is likely to be - more than once.

‘It’s a load of bollocks. No one cares.’ Says T.

‘Exactly.’ Agrees B. ‘As if they haven’t tried to discourage landlords enough by levying extra stamp duty levy when they buy multiple homes.’

‘It’s meant to stop first time buyers becoming locked out of the market.’ Says negotiator S sharply.

I don’t need an ideological argument in the office again, particularly as my loyalties are torn and I swing more wildly than a weather vane in a hurricane. The latest piece of Government meddling in the property market is probably meant to help, but invariably the law of unintended consequences comes, with ill-thought through legislation.

‘What about my landlords?’ Argues B. ‘Half of them are only in the buy-to-let market because some leftie chancellor stole their pension pot, then pissed off to work as a consultant in the city.’

’Not that one.’ I correct her.

‘You know what I mean.’ Counters B, with a snarl. I do actually.

‘When was the last time anyone actually gave a toss about a home’s energy rating?’ Asks T, in my direction. Well of course they don’t. People buy homes with their heart, not their head - fortunately. It means an experienced campaigner can push physiological buttons no drone in an on-line call-centre outfit, ever could.

‘That lady last weekend was interested in energy efficiency.’ Says S, a little weakly.

‘She was a weirdo and a complete time-waster.’ Counters T.

‘Tree-huggers can’t afford homes anyway, so I don’t see why you are bothering.’ Contributes fat mortgage man M, not exactly helpfully.

‘You’re a big arse.’ Responds S.

Not grammatically correct, but as is often the case, I’m with her.

‘The point,’ continues T. ‘Is it’s just a load more paperwork that nobody needs. If you fall in love with a thatched cob cottage you don’t give a flying fig if it has a G energy rating. You just want beams and an Inglenook.’

‘But the certificate will tell you how inefficient the insulation is.’ Says S, a little unconvincingly.

‘They don’t give a shit.’ Snaps T. ‘They just whack the wood burner up and incinerate a few more trees.’

‘What do you think?’ Asks S, in my direction. Terrific. Now I’m going to upset someone, whatever I say. Fortunately I spot a timely intervention, coming across the road towards the office.

‘You should ask this man.’ I say pointing towards the dull-as-ditchwater Energy Performance Certificate issuer, coming our way.

‘Oh not that twat.’ Says T dismissively. ‘I’ve had more interesting conversations with my mother’s goldfish.’

T has a point. The man could bore for England. But then that’s what you get when head office, and the bean counter boss in particular, eschew good local practitioners for corporate agreements with the lowest cost provider willing to give a secret profit kickback, on their fee. Strictly speaking it’s illegal under the Estate Agents’ Act 1979 - unless declared to the client - but then the bean counter isn’t an estate agent. And anyone can be one. No study or qualifications required. I still wonder why I bothered….

‘I’ll email my report to you within twenty-four hours.’ Says the EPC man flatly, as he leaves the office with a set of keys for an empty home we have just listed. He needs to keep to the rigid service standards agreed corporately. But the truth is, nobody cares.

I’d tell the boss, but he likes to remain insulated from the truth.

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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.

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Let's Do The Timewarp - Wedneday

Stuck in traffic again. If I’m not gridlocked I’m dodging aggressive traffic wardens, determined to not rest until every town is a wasteland of boarded up units interspersed by charity shops and coffee outlets. I have idiot trainee F alongside me so there’s not a lot of intellectual stimulus and the local radio presenter – only allowed as an auditory intruder in case he can pre-warn me of any further traffic blockages – is vainly trying to plug some absurd competition to guess three celebrities from a trio of nano-second clips. The hook is tens of thousands of ‘life changing’ pounds that won’t even buy you a studio flat round here. God, I despair of humanity.

‘Who do you reckon they are then?’ Enthuses F, nodding at the radio. ‘We could ring in.’

‘You might as well try and guess the lottery numbers.’ I tell F wearily, spotting an opposition for sale board and bristling uncomfortably - even after all this time.

‘Yes but it’s a huge amount of money.’ Continues F. It’s not. I point out the cost of housing stock and then remind the fool that to call in you need to ring some pumped-up price phone number that is in all probability funding the ‘giveaway’. F looks crestfallen. He has to learn sooner or later.

Finally we move and I take a rabbit-run short cut through some 1930s housing stock. The roof tiles have been replaced, on some, with unsightly concrete interlocking pieces that will be throwing up survey problems in years to come, as they’ll be too heavy for the existing struts and purlins.

What sort of vintage do you think these are? I say, nodding towards the spec-development semis, while squinting at the unaccustomed sun and tugging out my sunglasses.

F frowns. I wait, then bump over several sleeping policeman. My back winces ahead of F’s pearl of wisdom. He hasn’t a clue.

‘It’s hard to tell.’ He eventually ventures.

‘Look for styling cues.’ I tell him, seeing, through my tinted vision, bay windows, tile hung elevations and cast iron guttering.

‘Uhm, are they like original Ray-Bans?’ F finally asks.

Think I’ve mentioned no minimum qualification for estate agents before...

‘That development.’ I say to F as we pass a mock Tudor cul-de-sac of identikit executive homes, all with double garages but still not enough parking for the two teenagers, four car families, now living there.

‘They’re kind of modern’ Ventures F timidly. They were when I first started in estate agency, I think gloomily. Now the Energy Performance Certificate assessor will pick holes in the loft insulation levels, the lack of cavity wall filling, then condemn the wheezing boilers with crappy energy ratings and no condensers.

‘They’re 1980s.’ I tell F, as I swing back out on to the main road then use my local knowledge to dodge more road works, darting down a road containing some rare 1950s bungalows.

‘These.’ I say to F, as we exit past the temporary traffic lights and I get a rare shiver of pleasure as I spot the van we had been following still stuck on red, some three hundred yards back. No sign of any workmen, needless to say.

‘Well these are old.’ Posits F staring at the last bungalow on a corner plot that might just take a planning application for in-fill, if it wasn’t for the tricky access back on to the main road.

‘How old?’ I press. ‘Pre or post war?’

F shrugs then asks.

‘Is that the Falklands war?’

‘Here we are.’ I tell F as we turn onto a sprawling housing development with virtually no architectural merit. The gardens are open-plan as will be the downstairs accommodation. Crazy paving paths and matching chimneybreasts are hardly complemented by huge, single-glazed, picture windows that drip with condensation nine months of the year.

‘These are cool.’ Enthuses F as I take a sideways glance at the imbecile and almost mount the kerb.

‘The energy assessor might think so, but that’s for a different reason.’ I carp.

‘1960s like Mad Men, you mean?’ Asks F after I’ve tired of waiting. I nod and he looks at me hesitantly. Eventually he speaks.

‘Is that, like when you were born?’

I preferred it when he was wrong.

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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.

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Strange Town - Saturday

‘Don’t embarrass me Dad.’ Hisses my son with a line I’ve been hearing ever since both lads reached the age where they realised what I do for a living.

I’m in a strange town, doing a familiar thing. Amazingly the youngest lad has nearly completed his first year at university and already he needs to throw his lot in with a bunch of fellow grant-grabbers he barely knows and whose parents I’m going to be co-guarantor with. Time to choose a student-share house.

‘And don’t tell the landlord who you are.’ Adds my son earnestly, as we clamber out of the car and move towards the terraced house to meet the middle-aged man who is standing on the doorstep, looking officious. ‘Just let him do the talking,’ suggests my wife. ‘And don’t ask any technical questions.’

Terrific. I’ve finally found myself in a position where I might be the most knowledgeable person at a meeting - and not trying to sell something - and I’m not allowed to flex anything.

The area is typical university town, student ghetto stock. Tightly packed terraced homes, chock-full of cars, on streets that were designed for foot traffic, or the odd horse and cart at best. I can spot dormer windows and Velux roof-lights in the loft areas, where every bit of space has been converted to milk maximum revenues from minimum square footage. Greedy landlords at it again, I think, as I curse the fact I didn’t ride the buy-to-let boom myself. The yields here must be pretty impressive.

‘He’s already chosen it.’ Reminds my wife as my son does the introductions and the landlord greets us warmly. I’m looking for deception after years in the business, but he seems a nice guy. Seems. ‘Yes and I’ve signed the guarantee and I’m jointly and severally liable.’ I tell her, still wondering if the co-tenants are going to prove reliable enough to make it to the end of their course - and the end of the agreement.

I follow my family and the landlord up surprisingly airy stairs to the upper flat. One with three bedrooms and one bathroom, something I’ve reminded my son of to his obvious annoyance. His first year room had, of all things, its own en-suite. He’ll have to learn better bowel control when he finds someone in the bath for an hour when he needs a dump. But this place is turning out to be far from a dump.

‘This is way too nice for students.’ Gushes my wife to my annoyance, as we look round an airy lounge with a pretty bay window, original fireplace and most importantly a huge plasma television set with broadband router winking underneath. Enthuse too much and the landlord will put the rent up, I think defensively, as I start to scan for smoke alarms and wonder if I should ask about the pointless Energy Performance Certificate?

‘You’ll supply a detailed inventory won’t you?’ I ask, to looks of admonishment from wife and son. The landlord confirms affably, as I add. ‘And a gas safety certificate at the start of the tenancy?’

‘This seems too good to be true.’ I tell my wife softly as we look at my son’s room. A large loft conversion, with roof lights and twin double beds. I’m already thinking my homes for the first five years of our marriage weren’t as well presented as this. ‘Where’s the catch?’ I whisper to my wife, with the sort of mistrust of humanity my third decade of dealing with people and property has engendered.

‘God you’re so jaundiced.’ She says, with what I detect isn’t concern for my health.

We say our goodbyes on the doorstep as I wish I’d brought my calculator to work out just what sort of return the man is getting out of these kids - far better than on a conventional let of a family home in the area. But then the property is far better than I expected.

‘I bet you wish you could have lived somewhere like this when you were my age.’ Suggests my son, as despite myself I wave at the departing owner.

They learn fast, these students.