Some Help To Buy - Wednesday

‘Who has he got in there?’ I ask, nodding towards fat finance man M’s office, where a fresh-faced couple are listening earnestly to him.

‘Couple of first time buyers.’ Answers assistant manager T, with a theatrical rubbing of hands.

‘He’ll eat them alive.’ Suggests loose lettings lush B, with a smirk.

‘Literally?’ Asks trainee F, with a worried look. He’s been watching too many cannibal holocaust films.

‘No, figuratively. ‘ I tell him, to no appreciable enlightenment.

‘Just because he’s big-boned, you can’t make fattest comments like that.’ Reprimands negotiator S, in an unexpected show of sympathy towards the portly policy peddler. 

‘He’s just a greedy pig.’ Corrects B.

‘He says it’s hormonal.’ Defends S, wavering slightly.

‘They all do.’ Responds B dismissively.

‘What do you think boss?’ Asks F.

What? I wonder. Do I imagine M is a morbidly obese glutton with no off-button? Yes. Do I think he’s more interested in his commission, than the naive young buyers, or perish the thought, the client of ours whose flat they might be buying? Yes. Will I do anything about it with finance sales’ targets and a year end objective that seems further away than manned flight to Mars. Definitely not.

‘He has to fill out a fact find and an audit trail to demonstrate he’s given the best advice.’ I parrot, almost word for word from an unconvincing sales’ meeting chaired by the company’s financial services supremo, an ungracious man with an attitude and an abacus. 

‘Bollocks.’ Scoffs T. ‘You don’t believe that for one minute after all you’ve said about endowment policies he miss-sold and don’t even start me on PPI.’ 

‘Boom.’ Exclaims F excitedly.

I look at him quizzically, not for the first time.

‘He slam-dunked you there boss.’ Says F, grin faltering.

‘Bit mean to send F out on a solo leaflet drop in this weather.’ Says S, ten minutes later.

‘It’s all part of the learning process.’ I counter, watching as the young couple start to rise and leave M’s office, clutching enough paper to take out a small rain forest. They look bemused, which is probably just what M intended.

‘Can they buy the Devonshires’ flat?’ Asks T, almost before the office door has closed.

‘No. Can’t afford it, they need to buy new. I’ve signed them up for a Help To Buy scheme, they’ve seen a new build for £300,000.’ Says M with a greedy grin.

‘But, the Devonshires will take £250,000 or near as damn it.’ Says T bemused.

‘Got to be a new build.’ Replies M. ‘That way they get 20% on a deferred interest loan from the Government. You should know that.’

T looks a little crestfallen, as the young couple were introduced to M, by him. Now they will be helping a developer to obtain a price they wouldn’t get without the Government’s deeply-flawed, but well-intentioned, Help To Buy Scheme. I’m not great with figures, but it seems they are paying 20% over the odds, and over what they could otherwise afford, just to keep the Chairman and shareholders of a major developer, in Tuscan villas and Range Rovers.

‘I’ll never be able to buy my own home.’ Grumbles F.

‘You could with Help To Buy.’ Counters M.

‘How long is the  Government equity loan deferred for?’ Asks T.

‘Five years with nothing to pay.’ Crows M, smiling.

‘And their deposit?’ Questions S.

‘Only need to find five percent, instead of ten.’

So propping up unsustainable prices for builders. I think sourly. I’ve seen two property crashes and my team still don’t believe it ever happens. It does.

‘Boss, do you think it’s a good deal?’ Queries F. All eyes turn towards me.

‘How long is the mortgage term for?’ I say to M, deflecting for time. M has the good grace to look slightly embarrassed.

‘Erm, thirty-nine years.’ He mumbles through a cough.

‘F**k me, did you flog them a funeral plan as well?’ Demands T.

Now I know I’m old fashioned, but if you can’t buy a home over twenty-five years, you shouldn’t be buying it.

‘Don’t stress it.’ Says M. ‘ Their parents will be dead by then and they’ll inherit.

Best advice.

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Ok Yah - Friday

‘Do you mind if I ask about your funding for a purchase?’ I say to a youngish, rather well-spoken couple, sat before me. I’ve ascertained what they’d like in terms of accommodation and location and they seem to be fairly confident about their budget.

‘Is that any of your business?’ Challenges the man, with an aggressive tone.

Yes it is, young fella. If I’m going to spend time and effort showing you homes, I’ve lovingly brought to the market, having fought off all the other shitesters out there - with their false promises, cheap fees and unrealistic prices - I’m going to want to know I’m not wasting my time. Plus, I have a duty of care, morally and in law, to find out if the people I’m introducing to my clients have the wherewithal and determination to actually buy their home.

I gently explain the reasons for my enquiry and the young woman nods in acceptance, but the spoon-in-the-mouth man, who I suspect is another of those over-privileged toffs who’ve been educated beyond their ability at a private school, still bristles. 

‘I know what you lot are like.’ He states in his plummy accent. You don’t Giles, you really don’t.

‘You just want to flog me some insurance policies and a mortgage you get a kick-back on.’

Ok, maybe you do Giles. But I don’t enjoy it. I was here before all the corporates piled into the estate agency business, when the sole reason for existence was to act for the vendor, and earn my commission from him. The big banks, building societies and insurance companies clouded that picture when they bought estate agency firms lock stock and barrel. They screwed it up, of course, but the legacy remains.

‘Look I’ve got my mortgage sorted out through a family friend.’ The man eventually concedes, grudgingly. I can see M, our tubby finance-fiddler prowling in the background wearing the carpet out. He wants to get to grips with this pair. I’d like to think recommending him would be in their best interests, but he’d probably eat them alive and he did sell a lot of discredited endowment and PPI policies.

‘I didn’t come in here to be grilled about my finances, I just want a suitable property for our first home.’ Continues the man angrily. His fiancé puts a restraining hand on his arm, she’ll possibly need a restraining order a little down the line.

‘My mother and father have provided the deposit for me, if you must know.’ He barks, eventually.

‘Now can we get on with finding me a house? There are plenty of other agents in the high street.’

‘He was an arse of Olympic proportions.’ Says assistant manager T, after the pair have left clutching half a dozen sets of particulars but with no commitment to view any of the properties, despite my encouragement, once I knew they were genuine and had funds to back their interest up.

‘Any lead for me then?’ Says M, having crept up behind me. Not an unimpressive feat, considering his bulk.

‘Mortgage arranged by the family accountant.’ I tell M, secretly pleased, although it won’t hep me hit my financial services’ target.

‘Alternative quote?’ Pushes M, his breath in my face, with the reek of old cooking oil and stale cheeseburger. 

‘Not interested.’

‘I hate people like that.’ Says negotiator S, earnestly. She’d make a better Labour MP than most of the present, never had a proper job, incumbents.

‘Silver spoon in their mouth and another, heated up under their nose.’ Says T, with a sneer. I thought you had to inject the liquid, but then what do I know? I’ve been too busy selling to pay my way to do recreational drugs. The only thing I’ve put up my nostrils is Vicks inhaler, every flu season.

‘I’d take him off the mailing list.’ Suggest T. ‘ Those bank of mum and dadders make me sick.’

‘Is that the only way young people are going to be able to buy their first home?’ Asks S, with sad eyes. ‘By being subbed by rich parents?’

With too many people and not enough homes. Quite likely. 

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