Complaint Box - Thursday

‘We’ve got a complaint.’ Announces assistant manger T before I’ve even closed the office door. I often wonder what the assistant bit is supposed to signify, if he isn’t going to help me.

‘Is it justified?’ I ask, shrugging off my jacket and resisting the urge to head for the sanctuary of my office and shut the door. To be honest the blinds don’t completely meet and they’ve never let me forget that time they spotted I’d nodded off over a slimline sandwich and a cup-of-soup.

‘Are they usually?’ Fires back T with a shrug.

He has a point. People are a lot quicker to complain than they used to be and most of the time, if we’ve done our job properly, it’s a frustration with the buying and selling process rather that a wilful attempt to mislead - or worse.

‘It’s the unsuccessful bidders on Orchard Road.’ Says T wearily. ‘They think they should have got it rather than the other buyers.’

‘They should have offered more then.’ Says negotiator S, joining the conversation. She has been dealing with the successful purchasers and whilst we strive not to show bias or favour, invariably one buyer will be in a better position that another, whether if be financial position, strength of any associated sale and chain they are involved in, or a combination thereof. 

‘They think we’ve discriminated against them.’ Says T flatly.

‘Not in a racial way?’ I say urgently. It’s illegal to favour one buyer over another on race, sexual orientation, disability and….well there must be others…. It’s a shame you don’t have to be qualified to become an estate agent.

‘Nah.’ Replies T dismissively. ‘Unless you count being an obnoxious Yorkshireman as a racial thing.’

It could be. I really don’t need to fall foul of any new legislation I’ve yet to interpret. The sort of well-intentioned, ill thought out law making that brought us the unloved, now defunct, Property Mis-Description Act. A ludicrously lengthy and clunky piece of lawmaking you only knew you’d fallen foul of once the Trading Standards’ pen pusher and the local magistrate, had prosecuted you.

I’m all for tightening up the property industry. I’d gladly see the back of some of the rogue agents who flout rules, cut corners and slash their commission rates below us. But everything has a cost and the powers that be still refuse to enact a minimum entry standard or licensing, for those that sell or let your home.

‘I assume you’ve explained to them it wasn’t our decision as to which buyer to go with, it was the vendors.’ I say to T semi-rhetorically.

‘They just won’t listen.’ Answers T. ‘Wanted to buy it on the cheap, then grizzle when they’ve missed it and now have a dog in the manger attitude by trying to scupper the sale we’ve agreed.’

People - and legislators - still forget we are employed by the sellers to get the best possible price for their property. They pay the bill. Of course, that basic tenet has been undermined over they years by conflicts of interest, particularly if you are arranging the buyers’ finance, or getting a kickback from their conveyancer for an introduction. It’s a murky business.

‘Have they offered any more money?’ I ask T, a migraine building.

‘Not yet.’ Says T with a groan. He knows we must present all offers in writing to the vendors and it can get very messy if a further bidding war develops. Inevitably someone is going to be unhappy.

‘I don’t think they will.’ Says S. ‘They can’t afford it, so it would just be a spoiler bid.’ Part of an agent’s duty of care is to present all offers to our clients, but also to vet the potential purchaser, not just financially but also for money laundering risks and legal status to reside in this country - since the government abdicated responsibility for those tasks…

The next step, if I can’t resolve the complaint amicably, will be the property Ombudsman. The compulsory dispute resolution scheme all selling agents belong to. In reality, most of the problem is down to supply and demand.

Which might, on reflection, be why there’s more than one Ombudsman to choose from….

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Ladies And Gentlemen

I’m in a client’s house, keys in my hand, looking at Bomber the local surveyor. He’s earned the nickname, as every sale he gets involved in tends to explode horribly.

Now I understand property purchase is an adversarial business. Buyer pitched against seller, surveyor set against estate agent. But Bomber seems to revel in picking holes in every property he inspects for purchaser and lender. There’s a certain type of surveyor - and every town has one - who is so afraid of making a mistake, so petrified of being sued for negligence that they point out every defect, real or imagined. Rumour has it that Bomber is so scared of his own shadow he won’t be spotted on sunny days.

‘Do you like to watch then?’ Asks Bomber incongruously. I’m brought back from my internal reverie to see him looking at me curiously. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck rising and I’m starting to feel unnerved. It’s a given that he’ll rubbish this well-maintained semi-detached house. A guarantee, that he’ll tell the buyers the home isn’t worth as much as they’ve agreed to pay - find out the sale price then subtract 5-10% seems to be his rule of thumb. But much as I’ve studied Bomber, with a mixture of distaste and almost pathological hatred, I’ve never noticed he wears lipstick.

‘The vendors have had problems with estate agents before.’ I answer, mind spinning around a tale of closet transvestites with folding ladders - and stocking ladders.

‘Who hasn’t?’ Replies Bomber, with a rictus grin. One that confirms, via his vermillion smudged incisors, that he’s wearing some mouth-enhancing lady product. Unless it’s blood? I think woozily. It would explain why he can’t come out unless it’s cloudy.

Yes, everyone likes to rubbish an estate agent. It’s a national sport only challenged by hatred of politicians and paedophiles. In this case my client had tried an cheap fee agent in the past, and entrusted their house keys to the muppets. Several items had gone missing on a supposed accompanied viewing. My pledge to them, to win the instruction to sell, was to ensure I monitored every visitor obsessively. Surveyors are usually handed home keys to carry out inspections alone, as a trusted professional. But my clients are fastidious about security and I’m guessing a cross-dresser with an obsession with damp proof courses - and now it seems ladies’ corsets - isn’t going to be welcome rummaging through their drawers unobserved. And that’s before he down-values the sale price by £15,000.

‘The price seems a bit full.’ Mutters Bomber as he stoops towards his bag, that now I look at it, seems a little effeminate.

He’s setting me up for the hit, flagging up the fact that he’ll be telling the prospective buyers they’ve agreed to pay over the odds, and that’s before he writes a report so shot full of caveats that it won’t be the worth the paper it’s printed on.

‘Not at all,’ I counter. ‘We had two other couples after this one. If your clients prevaricate I’ll have another buyer lined up with just one phone call.’ It’s bit of poetic licence but I’m guessing Bomber likes an Ombudsman about as much as the next guy - or girl…

Bomber throws me an odd look, the sort of unsettling, holding the gaze too long, stare that desperate divorcee used to give me every time I conducted a viewing at her house. Turned out she wanted a slice off the fee, rather than a piece of me, which made things even more uncomfortable.

As the slippery surveyor lifts an instrument from his increasingly girly bag - is that a pink lining I can see? - he grins stomach-churningly. He’s either going to deploy a damp meter or a dildo, I think absurdly. It’s fortunately the former, but still involves batteries and pleasure for just one person.

This will mean time-wasting third-party reports by specialist treatment companies who rumour has it pay back-handers - or in Bomber’s case backless dresses - to intoducers. I want to scream.

‘Are you alright?’ Asks my wife anxiously. ‘You just cried out.’

Bad dream.

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Expletive Deleted - Tuesday

‘It’s not my fault.’ Pleads loose lettings lady B loudly over the phone, with a line familiar to teenagers everywhere. Her tone is rising dangerously. Fortunately there are no punters in the office, but that also means we’re all listening to her conversation. She’s oblivious, in that concentration zone where all you can focus on is the verbal battle you’re partaking in. It’s best not to swear.

The public can be difficult where property is concerned, moving home is the third most stressful life event after death and divorce, and come to think of it the former isn’t strictly speaking a “life” event. People forget the usual pleasantries if their dream home feels like it’s being snatched away by a combination of bad references, dilatory lawyers and awkward owners, add a ballsy bitch from our lettings department and you’re going to hear a few expletives.

‘I don’t make the…the rules.’ Snaps B, using another well-worn excuse. I fear for what she nearly said. I don’t have to wait long.

‘Don’t bloody well swear at me.’ Snarls B, forgetting all those customer service courses she’s been on. A classroom and some sticky post-it notes of soothing responses, never likely to replicate real life. It’s why those that can, sell. And those that can’t train.

I try to attract B’s attention, making clam down gestures with my hands, but she might as well be in a different office.

‘Perhaps if you paid your utility bills on time you wouldn’t have such a crap credit rating.’ Growls B menacingly, as I feel another complaint coming my way. I’ve already had the Ombudsman wanting file copies of a messy deal a few months ago and the Trading Standards officer doesn’t like me that much after she was gazumped last year. Not a lot of love coming estate agents’ way.

‘I could have let this flat three times over in the time I’ve spent on your tenancy agreement.’ Sneers B in what is looking like an unrecoverable spin towards a hard landing. I’m now waving like a signalman trying to stop a runaway train. I may as well not be there.

B is a nightmare to man manage, primarily because she manages more men than me, plus about half a bottle of gin most days. I should get rid of her, but the process of sacking staff, no matter how incompetent, is so convoluted with employment law as it is that the best you can often do is recommend them for a transfer to another office and shift the problem elsewhere. Promotion works well too.

‘If you abuse me any more I’m hanging up.’ Warns B feistily, as I sense a messy ending. She’s had a few by all accounts and her fair share of abuse outside of the office. Some folks attract the wrong people like magnets - some pick them up in wine bars. It probably isn’t B’s fault the deal is going belly up, or that she’ll probably be adopting the same position with a stranger in about seven hours time, but sometimes you need to know when to back down.

‘I’ve told you. I’m just doing my job.’ Continues B the end of her tether now visible to everyone in the office, observing like rubber-neckers at a car crash. I listen and watch, fascinated and horrified in equal measure. I’ve been close to similar meltdowns a dozen times before but somehow have managed to keep my equilibrium It’s just a mater of time. A salesman’s shelf life is finite.

‘You hear this?’ Demands B theatrically, grabbing a sheet of A4 from the printer and ripping it in two. ‘That’s the sound of your tenancy application being terminated.’ My heart sinks as I think of the extra paperwork this action will doubtless generate. No wonder the rain forests are disappearing.

‘And you have a good day too.’ Shouts B before holstering the phone thunderously, with what sounded distinctly like plastic cracking. ‘F***ing public.’ She says with the hint of a sob. She’s been known to do that, I think, uncharitably. And if it helps get a deal through I’d probably turn a blind eye.

After all, selling is the second oldest profession…

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