Waterworld Too - Tuesday

The rain is back with a vengeance, as I battle through rush hour traffic for a late viewing. You can see why the more sprightly pensioners head for Spain in their early dotage. I’d advise them to keep a foothold in the UK property market, not sell-up completely for the lure of all day piss-ups and a pool, but you can’t tell them. They trickle back when their health starts to fail and they discover the much-maligned NHS its still better than a paid for clinic, more used to dealing with drunken British teenagers than early onset dementia.

I pull out slightly to avid a great sheet of standing water adjacent to a bus stop. I’m rewarded with a nodded thank you from two people in the queue and a bolshie blast on the horn from some boy racer coming the other way. I open my hands in question at the spotty oik as he speeds past oblivious to the road conditions, and get a single rigid finger thrust at me in return.

‘Tosser.’ I mutter towards the headlining. Not sure if Ford deliberately targeted the Ka at semi-literate retards with more tattoos than brain cells, but they seem to have cornered the market in aggressive kids who have somehow passed their driving test, but have more chance of becoming Prime Minister than successfully parallel parking.

‘Terrific.’ I mutter to myself as I crawl down the appointed street looking for a parking slot. These terraced houses were built just post-war and planners didn’t envisage owners, or more accurately around here renters, with three cars per household. The rain is lashing down still, as I finally find a space half across the double yellow lines, and switch off. As the downpour refuses to abate I wonder how those new houses they plan to build on what everyone who 's lived around here for more than twenty years knows is a flood plain, will fare.

As the car clock approaches five minutes before the appointed viewing time, I twist awkwardly to retrieve my umbrella from the back seat. I’m rewarded with a stabbing pain in my lower back and a view of a slightly soiled squab - that old woman viewing the retirement flat turned out to be as incontinent as her aroma indicated - devoid of anything other than a yellowy stain.

‘F**k!’ I bellow, as a vision of my brolly, sat by the office door still dripping from my earlier failed valuation, swims - appropriately - into view. The car is still rocking from my expletive as a teenage mum, with a toddler on one arm plus twin babies in one of those double buggies struggles past, looking at me suspiciously. God knows what she’d doing out in this weather, unless she’s searching for the fathers….

I stand on the doorstep, clipboard in hand and watch the rain lashing down. The owners are at work, not home until late obviously, how else could they service a mortgage without both working punishing hours? They are, needless to say, childless. I try not to become a Daily Mail reader, as I pogoed to The Clash in my youth, but some days I can feel my angry middle-Englander trying to escape.

Fifteen minutes later I’m still surveying the soggy street and trying to avoid a persistent drip that is determined to get down my shirt collar. I could go inside, I have the keys, but there’s one of those passive-aggressive stickers on the door’s side panel, warning Hawkers, Circulars and cold callers to not knock. They might as well put up those offensive notices from the fifties telling Irish and blacks they can’t rent round here. I’m guessing the woman of the house will know if I’ve lurked around inside without potential buyers with me, and you never know when people have motion sensitive cameras rigged any more. It’s taken all the fun out of the knicker drawer…

‘Have they rung in to cancel?’ I ask when negotiator S eventually answers the office phone.

‘Do they ever?’ She answers, semi rhetorically.

‘They’re not coming are they?’ I say, completely rhetorically.

I’m sinking here.

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Bearer Of Bad News - Thursday

‘Bad news boss.’ Announces trainee F before I’ve even crossed the office threshold. In the property game - where one in three sales is destined to fall-through no matter what the market does - you get used to a greeting like this.

‘You really need to narrow it down a bit.’ I tell F familiarly, as I walk to the message book.

’It’s not in there yet.’ Says F hurriedly. I turn towards him. Now in sales you train yourself to mask emotions with a neutral smile and demeanour, but F isn’t buying anything from me - other than a one-way ticket to the job centre - so I’ve clearly failed this time.

‘It only just happened.’ Says F pointing at his phone as if that inanimate object is likely to plead his case. I glance at negotiator S. The conflict flashes across her face almost imperceptibly, but I see it, with S it’s hard not to keep looking. S shakes her head from side to side and does that balancing thing with her hands - it’s not quite so successful where her tits are concerned, but I digress.

‘So just tell me.’ I instruct F, tearing my gaze away from S. I don’t want to seem creepy or I’ll end up on another awareness course blue skying asinine ideas onto yellow post-it notes and pretending I care.

‘Number 12.’ Begins F and my stomach lurches even before the reveal. There’s half a month’s worth of commission riding on this sale, tell me it’s recoverable. ‘Bomber is doing the mortgage valuation.’ Continues F with an apologetic shrug. The expletive is still pinging off the filing cabinets even as I place a pound coin in the office swear box and grind my teeth expensively.

Every town has one. Some several. Surveyors who routinely lop about ten percent off the agreed sale price just to cover their bony arses. It doesn’t seem to change much, no matter what the market is doing. Rising, falling - according to the papers it’s never stable - these little weasels in sports jackets and grubby coloured trousers conspire to wreck weeks of marketing, days of fractious negotiating and hours of assiduous finance placing. And we have to pretend we like them.

I know I’m not alone in this, my twitter feed confirms they are all over the UK. Their modus operandi doesn’t vary much. They just ask the sale price, request some comparable evidence of similar sales - then take off a number they’ve already thought of. Our particular bette noir just happens to bear the nickname “Bomber” but I’ve heard of: Dr Death, The Wrecker, Demolition Man and Poison Pete to name but a few. Same pimp, just different coloured trousers.

There was a time, when I first started in house sales that I aspired to becoming a Chartered Surveyor. Back then, all the senior partners were qualified with RICS after their name. In fact it used to be the only way you’d be invited to become an equity partner before the banks and insurance companies moved in and bought estate agency firms in a frenzy of overpaying. Some of the ex-partners are still sunning themselves and playing golf even now. I was born too late - plus I didn’t fancy several years of studying…

Now the surveyors we see are just as haunted as the house sales people. Targeted and monitored to within an inch of their next nervous breakdown. Spending your days rushing from dusty loft space to dusty loft space then dictating your survey, or more often now, downloading the pre-populated report on your tablet computer, while sitting in a mid-range Vauxhall with pastry crumbs in your lap I can do without. We tend to run Fords…

‘Hello all.’ Says Bomber when he arrives for the keys. I can almost taste the hatred, he has the skin of a rhinoceros.

‘Any comparable sales?’ Asks Bomber as I hand him No 12’s keys and a set of our sales particulars.

‘We had a lot of people wanting this one.’ I urge. ‘It’s worth every penny.’

‘We’ll see.’ responds Bomber as he leaves.

‘Stick the For Sale board back up boss?’ Asks F before the door has closed.

He’s learning.

Another Brave New World - Wednesday

The tie is new but everything else is the same – although the suit trousers seem a little snugger. Still not sure about the pattern if I’m honest, there was a time when I thought I’d never succumb to the tyranny of the tie, aside from a brief dalliance with some skinny versions when punk softened to new wave and I bought the first two Jam albums on the spin. But you junk ideology as rapidly as you take on mortgage and overdrafts.

‘You don’t like it do you?’ Asks my wife softly. For a moment I think it’s a general observation, predicated mainly on the mother of all Mondays – the first day back at the start of a fiscal year, when the clocks have yet to change but the targets are all re-set, and a statistical mountain looms ominously. But she’s talking about the tightly knotted present.

‘It’s fine.’ I lie, as I look in the mirror and see someone vaguely familiar, just older and greyer, staring back at me.

‘I have the receipt.’ Says my wife flatly. She knows. She always knows.

The road looks the same, washed in that orange streetlight glow which makes the scene resemble something from Blade Runner, only with high mileage Fords rather than Harrison Ford. The fastidious car cleaner is just leaving for work, his motor gleaming irritatingly. He catches my eye.

‘Happy New Year.’ He trills in a singsong voice. He doesn’t mean it, I don’t want to return it, but we both engage in the meaningless ritual. He’s something in figure-fiddling so probably has the same handshake as my bean counter boss - and he knows what I do, so he can’t really be wishing me well for the next twelve months of property market mayhem. We get blamed when prices go up, chastised when they go down.

I wave him on, as both cars look to leave at the same time. His headlights battle with his paintwork in trying to dazzle me. It’s as bright a start as I’m expecting, judging by previous years. A salesman needs resilience and a hide like a Rhino, but it’s a finite resource. I may have the right skin now; with the wrinkles and furrows deep enough to plant seedlings in, but my patience is wearing thin.

The drive is familiar - and contemptible. Fewer four-by-fours are out and about, as the school run has yet to recommence, but the usual collection of blank-eyed representatives are queuing nose-to-tail and that bastard in the JCB seems to be somewhere up ahead, judging by the orange flashing light moving at five miles an hour above all the exhaust-belching saloons.

‘Happy fortieth Shane.’ I mimic, as the car crawls under a hand-written banner, flapping mournfully from an overhead footbridge. ‘It’s all downhill from here Shaney-boy.’ I pronounce, wondering just when someone named Shane started to reach his fourth decade? Time marches on, I guess. The probate sales tend to be peopled by Arthur, Anthony, Mary and Margaret, so Shane is halfway there.

The car park is filling rapidly and the park itself still littered with takeaway boxes and a couple of early-rising winos. I take a wide route round both sets of detritus and spot the office window. A light has failed over the holiday period and I toy with just leaving it to see how quickly another member of staff spies the, less-than glaring error – but Easter is a long way off. I’ll be on the Diazepam by then if it remains that gloomy.

The answer phone is flashing insistently. I’m not expecting too many more Happy New Year greeting on this tape. I’m not disappointed – but then of course I am.

‘Happy New Year.’ Offers assistant manager T as he becomes the first to arrive, thirty-three seconds before start time. He knows too.

‘How many fall-throughs over the holiday?’ Asks T shrugging off his coat nonchalantly. It doesn’t seem to wound him as deeply as me – but then he’s not on 10%. I tell him.

‘So we’re on a minus figure before we start.’ He concludes accurately.

‘Ah-ha.’ I reply. ‘Everything is less than zero.’

T looks at me quizzically.

‘Elvis Costello.’ I tell him.

‘The dead Elvis?’

Not yet.

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Over To You Danno - Tuesday

‘Oh great.’ Grumbles assistant manager T, here comes that bonehead with the books.’

I look through the window to see the object of his scorn, a man in late middle age with an admittedly naked bonce. His head is glistening with sweat as he attempts to traverse the traffic while balancing a large box in his arms. Behind him his ancient Ford is parked on the double yellow lines, hazard lights winking an invitation to the nearest traffic warden. They won’t be far away as it’s not raining.

The man has the look of defeat in his eyes before he starts, the sort of demeanour you see in British footballers every World cup. Many people think estate agency is a loathsome lot, what with opprobrium of public and commentators alike, but try selling leftover books to apathetic office workers who have moved on to iPads and Kindles. It would be easier to flog quill and ink sets.

‘I don’t know why he bothers.’ Continues T as the man takes a half step forward, then retreats to the far pavement as a lumbering lorry thunders past and the light fittings and floor joists rattle again. Full repairing and insuring lease with upwards only rent reviews. God bless you group legal…

‘Oh he’s quite nice really.’ Counters S my big-hearted, large-breasted negotiator. She always manages to be uplifting, I think warmly, as I wonder idly if she has a penchant for the more mature man? She rather ruins the daydream, as the bookseller leaves the sanctuary of the kerbside, by adding: ‘He reminds me of my granddad.’

‘I haven’t got time to read books. ‘Says T scornfully. He doesn’t buy a paper either, but he’s always pinching mine at lunchtime. My timing has never been great, something my wife will doubtless endorse. Too late to be a partner cashing in when all the financial institutions overpaid for estate agency chains, and an aspiring writer just getting the hang of it when the industry collapses due to free content and illegal downloads. Just as well I didn’t buy that guitar.

‘He can’t make enough money to live off doing that job.’ Posits T as the man approaches and I see his hangdog look miraculously replaced by a cheery demeanour straight out of a 1980s sales seminar. He’s faking it like everyone else.

‘Just be nice.’ Says S to T with a steely stare. ‘He can leave the box and you’ll probably be out when he comes to collect any orders anyway.’

‘There won’t be any orders.’ Counters T accurately. ‘Who wants end of run cookery and reference books when you can get all that stuff on-line?’

T is right, nobody with a router wants a set of encyclopaedias in a Wiki-world. But then, who would employ the world-weary man in any modern, digital industry? I see the sad CVs most weeks. One’s where they’ve taken out the schooling dates to try and fool the recruiters and even shortened the career history to show just the last ten years. But you know, you just know. The Government need people to work until their late sixties and few worthwhile employers want to recruit anyone over thirty-five. I can’t afford for it to be me trying to shift literary units. Except in an e-book format of course….

‘Morning everyone.’ Announces the man with teeth-grindingly cheeriness. I saw his face moments earlier. It was a bottle-top twist away from a whole pot of paracetamol.

T turns his back on the man callously. B in lettings picks up a line that wasn’t ringing, leaving S to feign interest in the motley selection of hardback books with garish photos and unknown authors on the cover. I walk over to join her.

‘Got some good titles this month.’ Says the man with admirable enthusiasm. I’m almost convinced. Then in the background I see the traffic warden approaching his ancient Mondeo.

‘I’ve never heard him swear before.’ Says S in surprise, as the man bounds through the traffic to plead his case. I’m willing to bet he spits a few expletives out in the privacy of his, now ticketed car. I’ve started to issue it, sir. The appeals procedure is on the reverse.

Booked. 

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Rights And Wrongs - Friday

‘This is a pretty crap area really isn’t it?’ States trainee F as I weave the company car in and out of ageing Fords and Vauxhalls parked half on the kerb, half on what’s left of the grass. I hesitate to point out to him that this may be crumbling ex-local authority housing stock but the prices are still way out of his reach.

We’re on our way to measure up a voluntary repossession, the keys and instructions from the lender nestling in my briefcase. At least I know the outgoing owners will be long gone this time, it’s when they are still inside it gets messy. A scruffy brace of teenagers, hoods raised, look at us menacingly as I slow to walking pace to ease between a huge flatbed 4 x 4 and a rusty Citroen Saxo with more differing coloured panels than Joseph’s Technicolor Dreamcoat.

‘How come some houses have all new windows and roof tiles and some are all rundown?’ Asks F pertinently, as I spot the 1950s built semi in question. As if to underscore F’s question, the house we’re about to enter is scruffy, with the exception of a low-level picket fence to the front and a naff-looking windmill, while the adjoining home has updated UPVC and tiling.

‘The next door place is still owned by the council.’ I tell F as we clamber out of the car and I feel several pairs of eyes watching from behind net curtains. The dislike is almost palpable. At least if they key the car it’s not my long-term problem.

‘So they are actually in better nick than the one’s people bought?’ Questions F, brow furrowed.

‘Often.’ I tell him. ‘The people with mortgages can’t afford the upkeep.’

F shrugs and stands aside for me, his bovine brain clearly working on another question more rickety than the gate he’s just opened.

The house is typical of the era. Open-plan front garden, no garage, hence the on-street parking issues. To the side, is a narrow, wire-fence-bounded walk-through to a concrete shed, once for coal, more often full of bikes and rusty prams now.  We stop outside the front door. A door I now open with the shiny new set of keys, as I wonder if the ex-tenant, now ex-owner, regrets exercising their options.

‘So this was, like, one of those right-to-buy jobs then?’ Asks F uncertainly, as we check out, first the cramped under stairs cloakroom, with the temperature of a morgue, then the through lounge/diner to the rear kitchen, fitted with a cheap-looking DIY kitchen units, not quite level. A tap drips mournfully as I glance at the 100-foot garden, wildly overgrown, with the odd discarded push-along toy rising from the grass like some avant-garde entry at the Chelsea flower show.

‘Yes.’ I tell F as I unpack my clipboard and begin scribbling my notes on autopilot. I know the floor plan by heart and could probably guess the measurements it wasn’t for fear of prosecution under that pesky Property Mis-Description Act.

‘It was a mixed blessing.’ I tell F as I continue to jot down the home’s particulars and wonder how I’ll get a decent picture without using PhotoShop.

‘So they all just turned a big profit then moved on?’ Asks F, as we make the upstairs landing and I see the cramped third bedroom and undersized bathroom, and then check out the two bigger bedrooms, both with cheap louver-fronted fitted wardrobes, circa 1970.

‘Those that didn’t run out of money and couldn’t make the payments.’ I tell F.

‘It was that women who invaded the Falklands that done it, was it?’ Says F, throwing me briefly, until I realise he’s talking about Margaret Thatcher. Sometimes I feel really old. Ignoring F’s tenuous grasp on history, I tell him that, as with most things in property, there are winners and losers - and no easy solutions.

‘So this place will be cheap then?’ Concludes F when we are back out by the gate and I’ve taken several snaps, none of which will hide the obvious without artifice and a risk of prosecution. I tell him my suggested number and he almost chokes.

If I’m right, he won’t be buying.

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