Release Me - Tuesday

I’m sitting in a late-middle aged couples’ lounge, with a tea tray, best china and some enticing looking biscuits. These are good signs. Most people despise estate agents and wouldn’t give you the time of day, let alone some freshly-brewed darjeeling, the Royal Doulton and chocolate Hob-Nobs.

‘We called you in because we’ve used you before.’ Says the husband with a warm smile. Yes you did sir, and I remember. I might struggle with siblings’ birthdays and wedding anniversary dates, but I pretty much remember every client I’ve ever dealt with.

‘And we trust you.’ Adds the wife warmly. I sit back in the glow of unaccustomed appreciation. Hopefully they won’t quibble too much when it comes to the sole agency fee. Not that I’ll rip these nice people off. I just know they’ll be prepared to pay a fair fee for a good job. Those who’ve moved home a few times know the value a good agent can bring to the smooth conclusion of a sale, in an often fraught marketplace.

‘You’ve been around the block a few times.’ Continues the wife. ‘ Not like some of these kids in shiny suits.’ Okay, that’s probably enough praise now.

‘We wanted someone who knows the ropes and will give us straight answers. You’re long-enough in the tooth not to try all that sales and smokescreens bullshit.’ Adds the husband, leaning forward to pour the tea.

I sit back and sip the brew, waiting for them to speak. Silence can be a strong weapon in a sales situation. Too many of these, fresh out of school unqualified youngsters, forget it can be better to listen. They just talk at the potential client without engaging. I’ve done the walk round the house, have some provisional details ready to draw-up and a price in mind. Prior preparation, prevents poor performance.

‘Of course we really don’t want to move.’ Says the wife, with a shrug. I just manage not to spray their off-white carpet with milky tea.

‘You don’t?’ I splutter , hesitantly. Surely this isn’t another fool’s errand? If these people just want an insurance valuation and are too tight to pay for one, I might actually soil their carpet.

‘You see we keep seeing these adverts on daytime television.’ Says the husband by way of incipient explanation.

Funeral plans for those not suspecting a sudden death, by way of angry estate agent? I think absurdly.

‘And there must be a catch.’ Adds the wife.

Of course there is lady, it’s daytime television. They’re not appealing to anyone lucid and in gainful employment.

‘What do you know about equity release?’ Asks the husband, finally revealing why I’m here. Obviously most financial advisors now charge for advice - and if they don’t you have to ask questions about the product they are advising you purchase. This pair want the benefit of my long property experience for the price of a cuppa and some of McVitie’s finest. 

People who haven’t saved sufficiently for their retirement and think the uplift in property prices is the answer to their financial incontinence, see this wheeze as a way to stay in their home and fund a few round the world cruises and party lifestyle, until the health gives up. The debt is often the disappointed beneficiaries’ problem. 

‘You realise you are just deferring the interest cost and have no method of repaying it other than selling up when you can no longer cope with the house.’ I say cautiously. I already come across families in distress from the last time this method of ‘free-money’ from you home was popular. Elderly people who didn’t think they’d live as long and now are being pressed to sell to repay a long-spent loan, for a kitchen and a Saga holiday. The next big miss-selling scandal?

‘But we can have all this money and stay in our home.’ Counters the wife. Until they ask for it back or the interest wipes out any equity you have left and gives your children a debt to repay along with the funeral costs, I ponder sourly.

‘So you don’t really get something for nothing.’ Concludes the husband at the door.

Only me.

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Falling Backwards - Wednesday

‘I never really get this changing the clocks business.’ Announces trainee F with that faraway look I’d like to facilitate.

‘He never really gets any business.’ Mutters assistant manager T.

‘Never really gets me any business.’ Grumbles mortgage man M as his vast stomach does something similar.

‘Why’s that?’ Asks negotiator S sweetly, turning towards F and nearly knocking her monitor off the desk. She’s too big-hearted for this business.

‘Well, like it’s too dark to do anything after about five o’clock.’ Says F pensively. You could try ringing round the mailing list get some of the dreamers off I feel like saying, but the conversation moves on.

‘That’s the Jocks fault,’ pronounces M sourly, ‘bunch of cheapskates. Never want full cover life insurance, act like rate whores when you try to place a loan for them and now they want to leave the rest of the UK because they think there’s some oil they can cash in on.’

Everyone looks askance at M wondering where that diatribe came from. Perhaps the bloke that ran off with his wife and kids had a secret kilt collection?

‘What?’ Asks M sneeringly, as he sees the opprobrium and I try to work out if it’s racist to rib those north of an arbitrary border some cartographer and a bunch of in-bred royals drew in the heather.

‘You can’t talk about people like that.’ Complains S. ‘My cousin is from Glasgow.’

‘Do they live there still?’ Probes M.

‘Not any more.’ Concedes S reluctantly.

‘There you go.’ Concludes M with a flourish. ‘They all come here because the weather and job prospects are better yet expect us to swap our time zones around every autumn just because a handful of knock-kneed shepherds want to shag their sheep in the daylight.’

‘Isn’t that the Welsh though?’ Queries F, as I lose the will to live - wherever the sun is situated.

‘Can someone hold the chair?’ I ask wearily as I reach for the office clock and find myself wobbling again. T grabs the seat squab and I pull the ancient analogue unit from the wall.

‘Computers, mobile phones and everything update automatically.’ Says F, as I spin the hour hand back, when I’d really like to shove it forward until the weekend.

‘Health and safety know you’re doing that?’ Mocks M as he heads for the kitchen where he’s half way through a packet of Hob-Nobs. The choices are endless, but I’ve two valuations to get to and I like to be on time.

‘Tell you what duck.’ Opines the wrinkly pensioner I’m sat with later.

‘Yes?’ I venture. I can’t be here all day and she’s the type who has agents out just so she can talk to someone. The garden is too big for her but the absent family don’t want her downsizing to a retirement flat while there’s a potential building plot out back, as long as she dies without racking up too many care home bills.

‘These dark nights really get me down.’ Continues the old girl. ‘I can’t get out to do the pruning and the curtains are all drawn by half-past four.’ She looks at me sadly. Please don’t say that, I think. Not again. The alternative isn’t too peachy. But she says it anyway.

‘Don’t get old will you son? It’s no fun at all.’

‘How was the last valuation?’ Asks T as I come in from the gloom, office lights blazing onto a darkened pavement.

‘Time-waster.’ I tell him flatly. ‘Just lonely.’

‘Not moving?’

‘Only in a box.’ I tell T, as F comes back from the gents’ toilet, awkward damp patch on his trousers.

‘I’ve booked a viewing on the repossession in London Road at six o’clock.’ He announces proudly. The groans echo like a bad Halloween party.

‘What?’ Pleads F.

‘The power is off you numpty.’ Spits M, along with some oat-flecked crumbs.

‘They said they couldn’t see it any other time.’ Counters F sulkily.

‘They won’t see it this time love.’ Says S gently.

‘Would they re-arrange?’ I ask F after he’s made the call.

‘No. They got pissy and said, did we want to sell it?’ Replies F.

The torch batteries were dead.

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