You Move Me - Monday

‘Can you help us? Our solicitor and agent are useless.’ Pleads the red-eyed woman sat at my desk.

It’s not the first time I’ve heard that particular request. They say moving home is the third most stressful life-event after death and divorce - and I’m not convinced death fully-qualifies as a life-event….

‘They’re a bunch of idle f***wits.’ Says the husband, to a scowl of disapproval from his tearful wife.

I’m tempted to raise the old adage that public and government contract-awarders alike tend to forget - you get what you pay for. This couple are my buyers, so my duty isn’t to them it’s to my vendors, the people paying my fee, but unless I sort this mess my clients won’t move and I won’t get paid.

‘Our agent just never answers the phone and the cowboy who came round and over-valued our house has just disappeared.’ Moans the woman. Cowboys tend to get shot, I think fleetingly, but in this case I suspect he’s just ridden off into a purple-hazed sunset.

‘And the outfit he recommended as solicitors seems to be staffed by an ever-changing bunch of schoolboys who don’t do their homework.’ Spits the husband.

‘Like dealing with a call-centre?’ I venture mischievously.

‘Precisely.’

No surprise there. Maybe next time employ a traditional estate agent and a proper, local lawyer?

‘So why couldn’t our lot do that?’ Asks the wife an hour later, after I’ve spoken to the whole chain, three sets of solicitors and a reluctant lender, agreed an expedited mortgage offer and a proposed completion date. Because you paid a cheap fee up-front and they have no incentive to do anything, other that look for the next mug-punter to sign up? I think angrily.

‘If we ever move agin I won’t be using an on-line load of idiots.’ Says the husband, offering me his hand as the couple leave. Great, I think, maybe come back and see me next time?

‘Oh we won’t be moving again.’ Interjects his wife. ‘Never!’

Not so great.

Maybe one day, if a UK Housing Minister stays in post longer than a few months, we’ll have a joined-up policy for the industry. But I suspect I’ll be long gone. Other countries demand a minimum standard of education to practice as an estate agent - or realtor - and a sound form of licensing and monitoring. We continue to think cheap is value for money and when engaging a future service, you don’t find out until it’s too late, you’ve been duped.

‘Mrs Simmonds on line three.’ Announces negotiator S, later in the day. She’ll be ringing to say how delighted she is I’ve achieved a full-price asking price on her flat after just a fortnight of intensive marketing, five viewings and two competing offers, I think a little smugly.

‘I’m not really happy with the amount of fee I’m paying you.’ Says Mrs Simmonds by way of a greeting. The wind coming out of my sails is almost audible.

‘You don’t seem do have done a lot for the money.’ She moans and a lengthy diatribe about skill-sets, expertise, exam qualifications and the job being far from over, spools through may head. I should introduce Mrs Simmonds to the couple I had in the office earlier. They left singing my praises and wanting to bear my children - but then again they didn’t pay me a bean…

‘I wonder if I’ve undersold it.’ Continues Mrs Simmonds, in the time-honoured whine of an owner who is unhappy if you sell too soon and quick to change agents if you take too long. I’m tempted to give her the number of the on-line outfit my new friends employed, but they probably wouldn’t answer the phone.

‘What did Mrs Simmonds want?’ Asks negotiator S, after I’ve convinced the woman she won’t be paying me a penny until I nurse the deal through to a successful moving day.

‘What do they all want?’ I snap back.

‘Something for nothing?’ Ventures S, with a beguiling smile.

There you go.

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Accidental Landlord - Monday

Loose lettings lush B, has a grumpy-looking middle-aged couple sat at her desk. It’s fairly obvious the expensive German saloon car with personalised plates illegally parked outside the office window, is their car. The latent socialist insider me, wants to despise them, but I’ve learned the hard way not to be too quick to judge. There are two sides to every story.

‘First thing you need to know.’ Says the man to B, assertively. ‘Is I won’t entertain any tenants on benefits.’

‘I get that one-hundred percent.’ replies B, with feeling. ‘They are the bane of my life.’

‘We’re on the same page then.’ Responds the man. ‘I’ve spent too much on lawyers and court fees to have another single mother with a sob story and three kids by three different men, spend the rent money on alcohol and tattoos and not pay me.’

Now I hate stereotyping and there are plenty of decent people who have fallen on hard times, who need help. The trouble is there are too many for the taxpayer to cope and an awkward minority turn private landlords away from renting to them, by trashing their properties and spending the state-paid rent money on anything but the rent.

‘We will only consider proper couples, in decent jobs with cast-iron references.’ Says the woman, leaning in towards B, as if she doesn’t want anyone else to hear. I am, of course, listening fervently. For a moment I thought she was going to say they wanted to exclude potential tenants on racial grounds. We’ve come a long way since landladies put signs in their front windows stating, No Blacks or Irish, and thank goodness for that. Although her undertones tend to suggest they might want us to profile people on their sexuality. It’s illegal and won’t be happening on my watch.

I really want to dislike this couple, but then they may have become accidental landlords like thousands of others when past chancellor, Gordon Brown, ransacked their pension pots, by moving the tax goalposts. And if I could afford any savings, money that didn’t make any tangible interest, maybe I too would want a sensible return by buying a second property. I certainly wouldn’t want some irresponsible scumbag, who trashed the decor, alienated the neighbours and didn’t pay the rent in there. And, I suspect, neither would you.

‘Is that your car?’ Says assists manager T, pointing at the Mercedes with the blinking hazard lights, as he hurries through the door.

‘Yes.’ Says the landlord warily.

‘Only the traffic warden is on his way up the high street, with a glint in his eye.’

‘Blimey,’ says T with a chuckle as the door rattlers in its frame and the disturbed air swishes around the office. ‘Didn’t think old people could move that fast.’

‘They weren’t that old.’ I counter defensively, as the car disappears from view, just as the trainee nazi traffic warden skulks past. He looks in threateningly. God, it’s no wonder there are so many empty commercial shop units in town.

‘I’m glad they are gone.’ Says negotiator S, with an attractive pout. She’s magnificent when angry.

‘Thanks a bunch.’ Snarls B, as she watches a potential client drive away.

‘They were pair of bigoted old bastards.’ Snaps back S. ‘There are laws about people like that.’

‘Would you like some drunken-slapper in your house, not paying the rent.’ Asks B, without a hint of irony. She freeloaded at the last boyfriend’s flat for six months, drinking his sauvignon in return for sex, until he changed the locks. 

If the last ten UK Housing Ministers had the hint of a strategy and had stayed in place long enough for the sign-writer to put their name on the Westminster door, maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess. Reliant on a pressurised private sector of landlords to plug the gaps. For years this country has had too few properties, over-inflated prices for the average worker and no sustainable social homes building policy.

Given half an hour and a box of bird feed I could train a budgie to do a better job - but I’ve got to fly.

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Right To Rent - Thursday

‘She’s prickly today.’ I whisper to S, my negotiator, as I see B the loose lettings lush arguing with a young couple, at her desk. The pair are giving as good as they get, albeit in a sort of guttural slang English, peppered with language richer than they appear to be.

‘She’s been moody all day.’ Confides S, nodding towards B, as the heavily tattooed and heavily pregnant female she’s arguing with - an earlier production model in a pushchair alongside - starts to spout a line about unfair treatment. I grind my teeth. You don’t need accusations of that kind, no matter how false. The paperwork wipes out rain forests…

‘They can’t, like discriminate us, ‘coz we’s on the social.’ Spits the woman, as her neanderthal partner grunts in agreement. He has multiple piercings and a big ring through his nose that I’m thinking might come in handy if I need to lead him, forcibly, from the office. His tattoos are less inky than his girlfriend’s, but do extend up his neck in a fetching manner, that he might think fashionable, but pretty much precludes him from working in any public-facing position.

‘What a pair of retards.’ Offers fat mortgage man M, in a wheezy stage whisper as he waddles past us, en-route to the kitchen.

‘You can’t say that.’ Replies S, bristling, turning to me and adding. ‘Can he?’

Best not to tell her what I was thinking - pretty much a mantra to stick to all the time with S, as it happens.

‘They do seem a little agitated.’ I say to S soothingly. B is now spouting some line about her landlords not wanting tenants who don’t have their own income and employment, to cover the rent. It’s not an unreasonable request, and one I’d want to make if I could ever afford a second property as an alternative to my pitiful pension.

‘It’s f***ing guaranteed.’ Shouts the female, swooping to pick up the soiled dummy her child has spat on the floor. The chubby girl is too old to be sucking on the comforter but as her mother - and possibly her father - are still locked on to the State’s virtual tit, it seems ironically appropriate. 

Actually, when the state paid rent direct to landlords it was a fairly safe vehicle for buy-to-let landlords, but once the benefits were diverted to the tenants first, the problems started. The off-licence and the drug dealer, sometimes got the cash before the landlord. It’s a cliche, but most cliches are rooted in unfortunate fact.

‘You shouldn’t pre-judge people.’ Says S softly, as the argument continues across the office. My money is on B, if the two feisty bitches start to fight. I reckon I can take the pig-nosed bloke if it kicks off, he’s wearing enough ironmongery for me to get painful purchase.

‘We try not to.’ I reply in a conciliatory fashion. And I don’t; I’ve sold enough homes to scruffy-looking individuals who turned out to be loaded, just with poor fashion sense, to know that. But the endless stream of deadbeats, who seem to know more about their rights than contraception, are starting to test, even my loosely liberal, ideals.

‘They just need somewhere to live.’ Continues S. ‘It’s not their fault housing costs in this country are a joke.’ I nod in agreement. She is right, and successive UK Housing ministers who last about as longs as an epileptic virgin on his wedding night, haven’t helped the problem. But this angry couple must have spent six month’s worth of rent on their absurd inkings, they don’t come cheap. And the over-sized baby in the pricey pushchair has managed designer boots and pierced ears, before she has jettisoned the dummy and been potty-trained.

‘I tell you what, I’ll swing for some of these people one day.’ Growls B, after the punchy pair have left, and the office door still rattles in its frame

‘Couldn’t you have found them somewhere?’ Asks S.

‘Would you want scum like that in your flat?’ Snaps back B.

‘I haven’t got one.’ Says S, haughtily.

‘Hypothetically.’ 

Probably not.

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