Higher And Higher Baby - Wednesday

‘Ugh, I feel like I need a wash after that place.’ Says the pretty young woman as she clambers into the back seat of my company car. A wicked inner voice tempts me to drive off now and leave the lummox of a boyfriend at the kerbside, but I keep the engine ticking over while the musclebound hunk with the tattooed arms squeezes in behind me. How is it the most beautiful women always seem to be on the arm of a neanderthal thug? It’s not as if he’s a professional footballer - or they wouldn’t be looking in this price range.

‘I wouldn’t keep me dog in that place.’ Pronounces the protein shake junkie, as I feel his knees knocking against the back of my driver’s seat. There’s another notch back on the runners and I’m wondering if I can shift the seat back to the end of its travel without him noticing.

‘I hope the other two we’re looking at are better than that flat.’ Says the girlfriend disconsolately. They are, I’ve shown them the grottiest unit first, by the time they get to the last, and priciest, flat they should be less likely to carp on cost or carpets. I won’t let this pair out of the car until I’ve exhausted every possibility of a sale, plus all the time they’re with me they can’t be with an opposition agent. 

‘So what is the market really doing?’ Quizzes the female as her less verbose half grunts and swipes at his smartphone which I’m guessing is a lot brighter than he is. 

If I knew the answer to that one I’d have a buy-to-let portfolio and an exit plan, I think glumly. Hindsight is a wonderful thing but I’ve missed more boats than a seasick asylum seeker.

I give the two of them a generic, fat-free, answer about interest rates, affordability, supply, demand and confidence. It can be tailored to suit buyers or sellers and altered for a rising or falling market. Tell people something with enough conviction and they’ll believe anything , and to date I’ve had no convictions…

‘That one wasn’t much better.’ Says the woman as we head back across town to the flat I wanted to show them all along. The Hulk is on his phone again muttering in some sub-English shorthand about what appears  to be a night out with the boys. With a beautiful girlfriend like his, he’d be better advised to stay at home. At least if I flog them something I might get the re-sale when they split up.

‘The next one you’ll love.’ I tell them catching her eye in the rear view mirror and seeing a look of mistrust she’d be better off delivering to Conan The Barbarian beside her.

‘I hope so,’ she replies. ‘I’m beginning to think we’ll never catch up with the market.’ Isaac Newton knew what goes up must come down, but I’m not about to tell her that and it looks like her partner has already been hit on the head with something much heavier than an apple.

I sense a deal with this pair and I’m not letting them go. I’ve already established the young woman’s parents are contributing the cash deposit to unlock more attractive loan rates, and allow them to grab the bottom rung of a retractable ladder. I read somewhere that two-thirds of first time buyers now get financial help for the deposit from their parents. The bank of mum and dad as it’s now known. All the benefits of an inheritance without the family squabbles and funeral arrangements.

‘I’m not sure,’ says the woman after the tour of my target flat. ‘What do you think Luke?’ Tough question, I’m not sure Luke has developed much further than a single cell organism. ‘Dunno.’ He mutters. It’s the best they’ll get with their spending power. I need to close the deal.

‘If we saved for another six months, what could we get for, maybe, another £10,000?’ Asks the woman.

‘This flat, only with a higher asking price.’  I tell her bluntly.

Don’t blame the messenger.

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Turn Round At Earliest Opportunity - Friday

‘Not a great day out there.’ Pronounces assistant manger T somewhat superfluously. The rain is cascading down the window in a passable imitation of Victoria Falls and the wind is blowing umbrellas inside out providing a modicum of entertainment in the absence of any internet sites to look at, that haven’t been blocked by head office.

‘Not likely to be many buyers about today then boss?’ Asks idiot trainee F. I decide to enlighten him, might as well pass the experience along even though he has the retention qualities of a sieve.

‘Funnily enough,’ I begin to what sounds like an ill-suppressed sigh from B the lettings lush. ‘The time-wasters will continue to come at a steady rate, no matter what the market or the weather. And the deadly serious buyers will also keep searching, despite a monsoon.’

‘Just tell them not to offer on a new-build on a flood plain.’ Says T with a chuckle.

‘Yes,’ agrees negotiator S with a warming smile. ‘Meadow View, or River Walk should have been all the clues you needed.’

‘Serves them right.’ Says B sourly. ‘It’s better to rent than buy when the market is artificially high.’

‘Or the water table.’ Laughs T.

I should pick B up on the negative spin on the property market. Refer her to one of the numerous surveys - commissioned spookily enough by banks and other lenders mostly - forecasting an upwards only trend for average home values. Isaac Newton wouldn’t get much change out of those particular mortgage floggers – particularly as a self-employed inventor without a sizeable deposit and three years of audited accounts.

The truth is my forecasts on where prices will go have proved woefully inaccurate over the years, despite a couple of market crashes along with rampant price inflation at all odds with conventional wisdom. The local market, with its insular motivators of demand, supply, schooling and employment never bares that much resemblance to national figures anyway and the central London market might as well be on the dark side of the moon.

‘What about this woman?’ Questions F, looking at late-fifties matriarch struggling against the gale but looking to cross the road in our direction. I look the subject up and down. You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover but you can speculate on the contents without needing an Amazon review. Particularly as that website is blocked too.

‘It’s best if the couple are together.’ I suggest watching the woman’s laboured progress.

‘That’s a bit sexist.’ Snaps B, possibly hung-over, possibly pre-menstrual it’s hard to tell.

‘Yes,’ agree S unhelpfully. ‘Women buy property on their own too, you know.’

‘Only if the divorce settlement has come through.’ Sneers tubby mortgage man M with feeling.

‘Women are usually the decision makers when it comes to buying a home.’ I soothe, not wanting an argument, or any more forms to fill in from Human Resources Department. ‘It’s just you are more likely to have a chance to clinch a sale if both parties are out looking.’ I sense an uneasy consensus as the unwitting subject of our discussion braves a gap in the traffic and heads our way.

‘Probably just wants to use the toilets or ask if we have free Wi-Fi?’ Grumbles M. Granted it is an annoyingly regular occurrence, particularly as the local council seem intent on shutting all the public conveniences down and sending the cottagers and junkies who can’t afford Starbucks rates, into estate agents who made the mistake of providing coffee machines in a management consultancy-led dash to a brave new Fair Trade World that doesn’t include us - or a minimum standard of competency.

‘I’m guessing she just wants a free map.’ Speculates T. ‘She looks too old to have a smartphone and Google earth.’

‘Well we haven’t got any left.’ Says B. ‘We just ended up giving them to day-trippers and lost kids doing their Duke of Edinburgh’s Award.’

We didn’t. Not the latter at least. Nobody in their right mind would try camping out round here. All the shop doorways are full by 9.00pm.

The woman finally arrives at the window, looks each side of the door, shrugs then moves on.

Bit of a damp squib.

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Last Call For Gate 13 - Saturday

‘Terrific.’ I groan sitting knees wedged against the coach seat in front, flight bag balanced on knee. ‘Here comes the jocular Geordie’. My wife looks up from her Kindle. How does she do that read peacefully and not fret about the travel arrangements thing?

‘Just don’t listen if she bugs you.’ Suggests my wife before looking down again. I can’t help it. The false-smiled woman hasn’t been seen around the hotel, bar the welcome meeting, since we arrived. By the look of her tan she’s been on her back most of the week on a sun bed she didn’t have to reserve before dawn. And by the look she just gave the Greek porter she’s been on her back most evenings too, no doubt enjoying a stifado or two.

‘Hiya everybody.’ Trills the woman over the tinny microphone. ‘Did we all have a great time?’ A few mumbled responses echo round the coach. The representative has that pulled-back, Essex facelift hairstyle going on, and I’m not buying her false frivolity any more than I purchased her over-priced trips to bars where she gets a kickback and a free lunch.

‘Now has everybody got their passports?’ She quizzes with a grin.

‘What sort of cretin wouldn’t check?’ I say to my wife, just as Ms Miserable, the new divorcee, throws a hand to her mouth and rushes to the front of the coach. Luckily she still had the hotel room safe key in her handbag.

‘Just sit back and enjoy the rest of your holiday now.’ Says the Geordie lass, once Ms Miserable is back on board.

‘Enjoy roasting in a coach with wheezy air conditioning?’ I mimic to my wife just as a mum with a seven year old, asks if they can use the hotel toilet before we leave. They’ve already been on board for an hour and a half as the pick-ups are all about what suits the holiday company. We are still going to be at the airport three hours before the plane leaves – not including flight delays.

As the coach trundles through town I see the estate agent outside his office chatting to a shopkeeper, cigarette in hand. They are doubtless bemoaning the state of the market. We do the same, just under an umbrella. It was dark when we arrived and now I get to see what the place looks like beyond the narrow strip of tourist shops. It’s a dump. We pass several closed down shopping centres, windows whitewashed out, not even the British dodge of rent free charity shop leases, to give a pretence of affluence. I spy numerous for sale boards that have clearly been in-situ for months, if not years. It seems having disused white goods in the front garden is popular here too, that and a huge f**k off Alsatian on a long chain, to deter postmen and estate agents doing leaflet drops.

‘Looks like their property market is worse than ours.’ I tell my wife as we pass dozens of half-built units rising from the dust, in a post-apocalyptic-like landscape. Coarse scrub is growing round many of the skeletal properties as nature follows the banks in reclaiming the homes. A sun-bleached hording proclaims luxury villas to be constructed but all I see is several hectares of streets laid to plots, crumbling kerbstones and rusting light-posts - testimony to the folly of expecting property values to perpetually ignore Isaac Newton’s laws of gravity.

‘Just don’t think about work now.’ Mutters my wife distractedly. Then the holiday rep is back on the microphone.

‘I’m passing out a questionnaire’ She trills.

‘Big mistake.’ I say quietly. We find punters use feedback forms as a forum to grumble, or extort compensation.

‘Next it’ll be the charity they’re supporting wanting your leftover Euros.’ I prophesise and sure enough the bag starts to come back over everyone’s heads. I just wish I could predict the lottery numbers so accurately.

‘I feel heavy.’ Says my wife as I pass the sparsely filled bag to the couple behind, unburdened by my contribution. They say travel broadens the mind. It certainly broadens the waist.

‘Diet starts tomorrow.’ She announces.

More slim pickings.

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