BT Phone Home - Sunday

‘Don’t start that now.’ Urges my wife. ‘We are going out shortly.’ And a voice that must be my own, because it’s coming from me, replies.

‘It shouldn’t take long.’

What am I thinking of?

I’ve suffered the ridicule of the younger members of my team for months now, over the laughable antiquity of my mobile. I was one of the first, in the eighties, to have a car phone. A big brick of a Motorola that sat in the centre console and made me feel like a smart-suited yuppie. I had more hair and less stomach back then and wasn’t embarrassed to be driving a Ford Orion Ghia. A motor that screamed Estate Agent, even before sign-writing the sides with a company logo became a marketing man’s wet dream. Times change, but not my phone apparently. Upgrade required.

‘You know you’ll only get agitated if you talk to a call centre in India.’ Warns my wife, tapping her wristwatch.

‘The website says you can change phone and tariff, quickly and easily.’ I say doggedly, knowing even as I spout them, the words are a nonsense. I must have the memory of a goldfish.

‘You can’t.’ She says, walking away. I think I hear the kettle go on.

As I stare at the computer screen, my resolve is wavering with the raft of options supposedly available, if I can just get past the automated answering service. Then a little box pops up. Would I like an instant messenger style chat with an advisor? Damn straight I would. I click on the link. Probably won’t have time for the cuppa now, I think, smirking towards the kitchen. Oh hubris, you cruel avenger.

Hi this is Sunny here. May I have your name? Announces a distant keyboard. I don’t like revealing that sort of information readily, out of hours, but I accede.

Thank you (inserts my name) Now how can I help? By not using my first name when you don’t really know me, I snarl under my breath.

‘What was that dear?’ Comes a disembodied voice, before adding. ‘Tea or coffee?’

Trouble is I know how costly divorces can be – and the bloke never gets to keep the house.

I inform Sunny – yeh right – of my need to upgrade both phone and call plan. I’m going to need some sort of data allowance too, according to sons and staff alike.

Ok (inserts my name) can we start with some security questions? The regret is burgeoning and my ancient Nokia beside me is looking a little wounded.

Ten minutes of time-lagged questions and increasingly irate answers and I crack.

‘For f***s sake. I don’t know the first and third numbers on my bank sort code you Mumbai minger!’

‘I hope you didn’t send that.’ Cautions my wife, appearing at my side with a steaming mug, to match the one sitting by the computer. I tell her no. I can’t type that fast.

‘Only it’s unfair and racist.’

‘I didn’t type it.’ I plead. I’ve been on enough courses to know what you can’t say.

‘They are only doing their job.’ Continues my wife irritatingly. You don’t want the truth - or logic - when you are raging at the machine.

Are you still there? Asks Sunny. Yep, no rope available and probably couldn’t fashion a noose anyway. I failed my knot-making badge at Cubs. Still not sure if a hitch-kick is a high jump technique, or a way of ensuring your canoe doesn’t float away in the night.

JUST TELL ME MY OPTIONS. I type with keyboard breaking ferocity.

Thank you (still inserts name).

Don't thank me just answer.

What phone do you have now?

‘Jesus. Surely they know that? I’ve given them my sexual orientation and shoe size.’

‘Calm down.’ Says my wife before adding – rather unnecessarily. ‘I told you that you didn’t have time for this now.’

I punch end call with relish and Sunny sinks below some distant horizon.

‘That was rude.’ Chides my wife.

Not as rude as the satisfaction survey that popped up for me to answer, seconds later.

New phone yet?

Put it this way - don’t try to Face Time me….

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Divided Loyalty - Monday

‘I’m going to need a price chop on flat four.’ Announces morbidly obese mortgage man M at the morning meeting. Immediately I bristle. Not visibly, I got that under control after a few months in the business, but inside I’m angry.

‘Why’s that?’ I ask in a studied tone of neutrality. Only I’m not neutral, I’m old school estate agency. I want my clients – the owners – to have the best deal possible. They’re the couple that entrusted me with their home sale. Who chose me over at least two other agents pitching for the instruction. I have a duty of care and a certain amount of stubborn pride that hasn’t been eroded by years of ramped-up targets working for faceless financial institutions, more interested in the buyer than the seller.

‘Crap survey.’ Reports M derisively. ‘Needs new window frames soon, communal parts aren’t up to much and the sale agreed figure is too high.’ That’ll be the price the buyers were happy to pay four weeks ago then, I think sourly. Before M tucked them into a nice loan deal and some high-commission generating life insurance.

When I first started half a lifetime ago, when a Ford Orion Ghia and paisley ties were fashionable, it was simple. The estate agents acted for the seller and the buyer was pretty much the enemy. Then a raft of banks, building societies and insurance companies bought into partnerships with the sole aim of tapping into naïve first time buyers. The object was to snare them for life as a customer before another institution did. Endowment mortgages were flogged with ruthless singularity and it wasn’t unheard of for buyers to be favoured as long as they used the financial products the paymasters wanted flogged.

‘I’ve got at least two other buyers who’d pay the price agreed.’ I tell M wearily, still not wishing to junk all my principles despite my own moribund repayment vehicle – yep, I have an endowment too.

‘Yes but if it’s not worth the money.’ Repeats M dogmatically. He still seems to think chartered surveyors know values. They just chop a bit off the agreed price and churn out a survey so shot-through with caveats it actually says nothing actionable, to the practiced reader.

‘I’ve got an introducer’s fee due on the buyers.’ Says negotiator S with a rueful smile. She is good at channelling purchasers into M’s chubby paws and my bean counter boss loves bolt-on fee earning opportunities. But it’s a difficult square to circle and I often wonder if the punters – sellers or buyers – are getting the best deal. Then I remember I need to make some pretty chunky payments each month. It’s not easy to love yourself in this industry.

‘Get me a copy of the report and I’ll talk to the owners.’ I tell M gloomily. I’d love to tell the buyers to twist, and wheel in another purchaser possibly at more money to show the owners I’m on their side, but in reality that sale might come up against the same hurdles, only a couple of months down the line – and my mortgage needs paying every four weeks.

I remind M that there may be money to fix the windows in the maintenance sinking fund, but I know the management company in this block is as suspect as my allegiances. The original developer is rumoured to own the company charged with the upkeep of the building and like many, is using the arcane leasehold tenure system as a cash cow to milk ground rents and inflict skyrocketing service charges. I’d never buy a flat without a share in the freehold – come to think of it I’d never buy a flat period. Not again anyway.

‘This is blackmail.’ Wails the lady vendor when I tell her the buyers need three thousand off, or they’ll be off. I warned her at the beginning not to start packing until contracts were exchanged, but the room is full with cardboard boxes.

‘They shouldn’t be allowed to do this.’ Continues the joint-owner balefully. She looks at me as I think, don’t ask for a fee reduction lady, but instead she says: ‘What would you do?’

Take the money and run.

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View To A Kill - Wednesday

My mobile rings as I battle the traffic to get back to the office. Needless to say I haven’t remembered to stuff the ugly bluetooth earpiece device in the side of my head – I’m still not convinced it doesn’t irradiate the few brain cells that haven’t been permanently damaged by this job.

‘Really?’ I ask the empty car, as I see the office number flashing insistently. There was a time in the late eighties when I thought it was the height of cool to have a brick-like cellular phone clamped to the centre consol of my Ford Orion Ghia, now I detest the 24/7 availability mobile communications provide. I check the traffic and scan for any police cars. Can I risk a sneaky conversation, or should I try and double park to take the call?

‘Yes?’ I say curtly as I make sure I’m not about to plough into a woman with pushchair on a pedestrian crossing. Estate agents already get enough bad publicity.

‘Where are you boss?’ Asks trainee F via a crackling connection. In the car you cretin crosses my mind but sarcasm doesn’t travel well over the airwaves, plus I’m not sure if cretin is an allowable term of endearment for staff any longer. There must be a memo somewhere.

‘Can you do a quick add-on viewing at Mrs Brown’s house?’ Asks F after I’ve given him my location – still moving slowly but in full control of the car officer. My mind whirs in time with the nagging sound from under the bonnet, possibly a water pump I’ve been told. But the prospect of sitting in the grubby main dealer’s service area drinking molten-plastic-laced instant coffee and reading back copies of the local property paper while some oik in overalls takes an hour to tell me the part isn’t in stock, just makes me want to weep.

I can’t for the life of me remember who Mrs Brown is. I know every property but the names elude me after all this time. I ask for the address and another dilemma presents itself. We need a viewing rather urgently on Mrs Brown’s home. Nobody has looked in over a month of marketing. One of the main gripes about agents once they have the home to sell is lack of contact. I urge staff to call clients once a week – the rather racily titled, but actually none too pleasurable, vendor contact – only after four weeks of excuses and no punters the calls become uncomfortable. There’s only so many times you can promise another advert and say the market will pick up once the kids are back at school.

‘Give me the details.’ I tell F reluctantly, stopping alongside a delivery van hazard lights flashing, back door flung wide open. I jot down the viewers name and the appointed time and check F has ensured Mrs Brown will be there. We don’t have a key and it wouldn’t be the first time the imbecile has sent another staff member to a home we don’t have access to. Viewers can get pretty pissy if all they can see is a widescreen view of the hall via the letterbox alongside an assurance that it’s very nice inside too.

‘Glad to finally have someone coming to look.’ Announces Mrs Brown a little frostily, once I’ve arrived ten minutes early and gone inside to complete this week’s vendor contact – without the touchy-feely bit obviously. She’s overweight and over fifty and even estate agents have some standards.

We bat some rather stiff small talk back and forth as I notice she’s vacuumed the carpets and sprayed something fresh smelling round the lounge in the time it took her to rush home from work.

The best time to sell a home is when it’s new to the market. A month of marketing means price, position and those ghastly pot plants out front are putting people off. In Mrs Brown’s mind though it’s doubtless my fault.

‘They’re not coming are they?’ She finally asks twenty minutes after the arranged time and five minutes after I’ve run out of excuses.

Once again my profession drops below journalist on the most hated list. It was good while it lasted.

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