Price War - Thursday

Sat outside another identikit Executive detached home built in a bland, non-regional, style by one of the National house builders, about fifteen years ago. The only thing I know for sure, apart from the fact that the architects responsible for these charisma-free homes, never actually live in one, is the asking price is too high.

Negotiator S saw the fifty-something couple in the office and managed to deflect their initially combative approach, and palpable dislike for estate agents, in to a valuation appointment for me. She’s good like that.

They may think I’ll miss it, but I can see the opposition estate agent’s sun-bleached for sale sign tucked down the side path, a path with the minimum width allowed before the next house was built slap bang against it. Land with planning permission was at a premium a decade and a half ago, just as it is now. They’re not making any more of it, and it’s the reason several local planning officers are rumoured to have - paid for in cash - holiday villas in Spain.

‘They wouldn’t say how much they’re on the market for.’ S had told me after she’d booked me the appointment. ‘But I’ll find out.’

‘It’ll be too much.’ I told her gracelessly.

It took her fifteen minutes and my thoughts were confirmed. Six months with the shitesters across the high street. £50,000 more than it was worth and a long, restrictive sole agency, finally finished. Got to love a challenge.

‘Come in.’ Says the husband flatly, a look of distain on his face. His wife hovers in the background but I’m pretty sure she’ll be more forthcoming when I tell her what the house is really worth. We’re not in Mayfair and I’m guessing a Russian Oligarch with state-plundered funds, isn’t going to be that impressed with the local schooling and transport links. There’s certainly not enough room in the garden for a helicopter pad and digging a basement would just turn up the old rubbish tip again….

Cursory tour of the accommodation and a glimpse at the garden, completed, I sit opposite them on the sofa. I have the floor-plans of these house types on file and unless they’ve diminished the saleability with some garish interior designer decor, I could tell them the price without leaving my office. The garden is north facing, which won’t help, but doubtless it “didn’t bother us” when they bought.

They say valuing property is more of an art than a science, and it’s true when it comes to unique, one-off homes but with the advent of Land Registry data and the transparency of prices paid, the arty bit isn’t quite as important as it was. Mostly Jackson Pollocks…

I’m fencing and pontificating and can feel they couple aren’t really taking in the comparable sales data I’m gently feeding them. Unless you’re on a riverboat cruise in Egypt, denial isn’t that attractive.

‘Yes, but ours is much nicer than those two down the road.’ Argues the wife. It isn’t and they’ve actually moved, lady. But at least she’s showing her true colours now.

‘It was more about that other bunch of useless idiots.’ Contributes the husband sourly. He’s referring to my competitors, whose board is down the side alley. They couldn’t mask the well-entrenched hole in the front garden though. If the for sale flag had been there any longer it would have sprouted leaves come the spring.

‘Yes, they completely duped us and they never kept us updated.’ Chirps the wife. ‘All they ever wanted us to do is reduce the price.’

Yes, that’s how they operate, I think dejectedly. Still no minimum standards in the industry - any low-life can lease a shop-unit and put a fascia up and don’t even start me on, so-called, on-line estate agents.

I’ve flogged more dead horses that a sadist in a knackers’ yard, but I’m beginning to feel this is another waste of time. These people want more than their home is worth and will only buy if someone undersells their own property. I decide to try just the £25,000 reduction.

‘We’re not giving it away.’ They chorus familiarly.

No. You’re not.

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Our Survey Says - Tuesday

‘Seen the latest property survey?’ Asks assistant manager T when I walk in to the office wearily.

‘Do you want to narrow it down a bit?’ I snap back sarcastically.

‘Appointment didn’t go well then?’ Counters T.

As it happens, no. The owner had already sought the “ expert” advice of three of our competitors and had been horribly mislead on price by two of the usual culprits. Blinded by the numbers they just wouldn’t accept my comparable evidence of recent , similar home, sales around them. But then if they follow property price surveys…

‘Which bunch of shysters was it this time?’ I ask T, shrugging my suit jacket off and loosening my tie a tad.

The problem is, so many conflicting price surveys are issued that it’s no wonder the home owning and home buying public are confused.

T names a well known lender and a none too well respected newspaper.’Well what do you expect?’ I tell him rhetorically. He nods gloomily.

With a 24 hour hunger for news and property prices a raw and emotive subject, no matter what the marker is actually doing, the need for something to say - anything - is relentless. Consequently you can get three conflicting reports within the space of one week. Lenders with a narrow loan base to draw their date from and with no access to cash buyers’ figures, seem to be the worst offenders. The government data is at least partially accurate although in common with all the others, is slewed by London prices - and in the Land Registry Data’s case, out of date by the time it hits the news’ stands.

‘People just seem to pick the survey that suits their position, buying or selling.’ States trainee F superfluously. Of course they do. It’s human nature, and as one wrinkled surveyor sage once said to me when I could still make 32 inch waist trousers. ‘The job would be great without the public., young fella.’

Not sure he thought that one through, but then the surveyors official mouthpiece are another culprit when issuing price forecasts on a perilously low, finger in the air style, survey.

The local media outlets tend to ring from time to time wanting anecdotal tales of what the market is doing and of course we suck up to them for our 15 mins of fame on air, or in chip paper print. Not that we think it through that well. With a radio clip to tape, or a  print deadline to meet, most agents just want some free advertising to heighten their profile and impress the client whose home might be featured. They’ll say pretty much what the caller wants to hear.

‘I don’t know why people buy that rag.’ Says T referring to the national paper in question. Actually you never buy a paper, I think ungraciously, you always read mine. But he is right, some media outlets just crave a property story like a junkie needs a fix. They seem to run any spurious tale some desperate PR has pumped out to promote a vested interest. It doesn’t make my job any easier.

‘What do we say if people ask about this stuff?’ Questions F, wide eyed and still innocent - at least where property is concerned. Rumour has it he indulges in some pretty niche activities with that flaky girlfriend of his, but that’s a whole other survey.

‘Depends if they are buying or selling.’ I tell him dryly.

‘If they are selling they’ll want more money.’ Says F brow furrowed.

‘So rubbish it, tell them it’s London distorting the numbers.’

‘Err and if they’re buying…’ Falters F.

‘Well?’ I say, palms outstretched.

‘Uhm, make them chase their solicitor for an exchange, as they’re getting a bargain?’ Falters F.

Maybe he’s going to make it after all.

‘Another one.’ Says T mid-afternoon as he stares at his computer screen.

As I’m with him in the front office I’m guessing he hasn’t just completed a hand of on-line Solitaire.

‘What this time?’ I ask.

T names a different lender whose data has come up with the opposite conclusion their competitors drew earlier.

‘So is the market going up or down? Asks F exasperated.

Time will tell.

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Sleight Of Hand - Friday

‘Guess who I just saw moving out? Asks assistant manager T as he hurries back into the office, face like thunder. The choices are wider than I’d like, with upwards of twenty other estate agents working my area. T needs to narrow it down a bit.

‘Give us a clue.’ I tell T, conscious that everyone else in the office is listening. Sales people get paid predominantly on commission and want to know who is taking: food from your mouth, rental payments from your landlord, credit card fees from your lender...

‘You hated them.’ Says T earnestly.

‘You’ll need to narrow it down for him love.’ Suggests B from her lettings enclave. She can be cutting, but it’s normally third party damage rather than self-harm – although the excessive drinking and serial shagging is pretty destructive.

‘Have a look in there.’ Instructs T, grabbing the viewing book, flicking back through the pages then plonking it on the desk in front of me. I glance down at the smudged entries, unable to stop myself from getting angry over the largely empty column where the vendor feedback should have been noted. I recognise one wobbly entry though.

‘Not number thirty-three?’ I ask, hackles rising as I read my note stating the viewers I took round on the soggy Saturday in question, were having a second viewing direct with the owners on the Sunday.

‘The very same.’ Answers T smugly. ‘And the removal van is outside now, bold as you like.’ I scowl and feel the frown lines deepen further. Any longer in this business and I’ll need decorator’s filler rather than that scent-free “man cream” my wife bought me and I refuse to wear.

‘But they took it off the market and said they weren’t selling any longer.’ Says negotiator S naively. She’s still got a lot to learn, some of it I can help with but the more tactile lessons are off-limits.

‘Not selling with us you mean.’ Counters T sarcastically.

I knew something didn’t smell right - and not just the daughter’s hamster cage. The viewers had been almost evangelical in their praise for the house when I showed them round, suit dampened, hair dripping. All the buying signals were there, plus a second viewing direct with the owners on the Sunday. Then, after the weekend, the viewers told me rather curtly they’d found something else and asked to be taken off the mailing list.

‘We need to find out who has bought that house.’ I say sternly.

‘Pretty sure no other agent had it on their books.’ States T. With property portals easy to access, agents no longer have to fraudulently register as buyers on the opposition mailing lists, we just point and click to see who has what.

‘Maybe they’ve rented it out.’ Suggests B with a disinterested shrug.

‘Were any competitors offering it?’ Asks S, just ahead of me.

‘How should I know?’ Snaps B. The opposition awareness has passed B by, unlike the gin bottle and at least one rumoured STD.

‘Finally stopped raining.’ I say cheerily as I wonder up the drive of number thirty-one, leaflet in hand. The owner is fortuitously in the garden raking, or spiking, or hoeing the lawn. I never did have very green fingers - apart from that time I tugged another agent’s long-standing for sale board out of the ground, after dark.

‘Oh they’ve moved. Sold it to a lovely couple.’ Says the horticulturist to my seemingly innocent enquiry about next door.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Answers the man to my next question. ‘A black BMW on a new plate. Do you know them?’

In passing.

‘So the vendors have cheated us out of the commission.’ Says S incredulously, back at the office.

‘It happens.’ I tell her, adding. ‘Only with open Land Registry access it’s easier to catch them than it used to be.’

‘You’ve had it before?’ Questions S. ‘What do you do?’

‘Try the reasonable approach and ask for the money, then get my Magistrates’ suit out.’ 

‘Well?’ Asks T after my brief phone call, everyone watching.

‘Said they can’t pay, as they sold cheaply with no agent’s fee to settle.’

‘Bastard.’ Says T angrily. ‘What did you say?’

‘See you in court.’

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