New vs Old - Tuesday

Still on our sunshine break in Palma, we head back to the Airbnb apartment. It was a leap in to the unknown, a bit like the first time I downloaded the Uber app and unwittingly brought a nice chap named Mohammed to our door, when I just wanted to see what the trip cost might be. He was very nice about it and didn't seem to swear much - not in English anyway…

As it turned out the apartment’s description and views were as published. They don’t seem to have a property mis-description act in Spain, or overzealous trading standards officers as far as I can ascertain. The new computerised business model, seems to work for both rental properties and taxis. I’m not so convinced it will work for on-line estate agents though - that’s still a very personal, hands-on experience.

‘Look the other way.’ Shouts my wife, grabbing my arm again like an angry lollipop lady at a school crossing.

‘I blame Napoleon.’ I mutter unconvincingly, as I turn my head and spot two lanes of fast moving Seats and Fiats. ‘If he hadn’t changed the side of the track horse and carts travelled we’d be able to drive on the proper side of the road in Europe and America.’

‘Ridiculous.’ Pronounces my wife, as she leads me across the road, straight towards the Teutonically clinical property premises, near our destination.

‘Are there any Engel and Volkers in Britain?’ Asks my wife, indicating the pristine white fascia of the German-owned estate agency operation.

‘Don’t think so,’ I mutter looking though the window enviously. ‘Some towns are still rebuilding after there blitz.’

‘That’s racist.’ Snaps my wife.

‘Try telling people in Plymouth.’ I respond.

I’ve unwittingly stopped outside the window again, gazing in at the desks devoid of detritus. Still no coffee mugs, no sales files, no half-eaten sandwiches. Just clear space, eye-bleedingly bright 4k retina display screens and one of those aluminium track pads I still can’t get to grips with. I nod self-consciously to the aryan man in the front desk. He blanks me completely and an absurd desire to sing a dubiously correct song from my schooldays, about two world wars and one world cup, overwhelms me.

‘The thing is folks don’t understand property is a people business.’ I opine to my wife, as we head towards our accommodation.

‘Hmm.’ She answers disinterestedly.

‘You see firms flinging money at unproven schemes like on-line agency, when they don’t realise you need local knowledge and experience, not a call centre in Rhyl staffed by schoolboys who flunked their GCSEs.’

‘We’re not going on a rant are we?’ She queries.

‘I thought the tapas tour might be more fun.’ I quip back.

She doesn’t laugh. Not so much now, anyway.

‘I’ve seen agents come and go, some of the kids now have never seen a property recession.’ I continue, warming to my theme as we halt outside another handbag shop.

‘Just a moment.’ Says my wife, dreamily.

‘You wait,’ I continue as she scans the overpriced cow-product. ‘A downturn will cull all these johnny-come-latelys and you won’t have anything left of the call-centre agents, other than purple faces….’

‘Is that supposed to be funny?’ She asks.

You’ll have to wait and see.

The truth is property downturns are as inevitable as corrupt politicians. Japan has been in a slump for several decades and America has seen mass foreclosure both sides of the millennium. A brutal Darwinian culling swept the high street in the two property collapses I’ve lived through and there’s not much doubt the same will happen again. Only, it will include spotty oiks on Welsh switchboards and ill-advised investors in unproven business models, next time.

‘What about Century 21?’ Quizzes my wife as we pass another property purveyor.

‘Never caught on in the UK.’ I tell her with some satisfaction.

‘But it is expensive to use an agent.’ She fires back. Should I mention those fees are paying for the super-sized jug of sangria we consumed at lunch time? Best not, the sofa bed doesn’t look too comfy.

‘Fundamentally, with all the variables moving entails, people like the certainty of no-sale, no fee.’ I conclude, as we arrive.

Mostly.

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If Not Now Never - Thursday

‘So have you been searching for property long?’ I ask, gazing into the car rear view mirror trying to gauge the response. I don’t do many viewings. The sharp end of property sales is securing the instructions to sell a client’s home. But today the rest of the team are booked solid, so I have a mid-fifties couple in my motor and I’m not sure they’ve been qualified properly.

In a world of uneven demand and supply, exacerbated by a burgeoning population and several decades of ineffectual UK housing policy - and a swing door for inept, under-briefed ministers - you need to target your efforts. Such is the pull of property porn and the non-stop diet of tv programmes feeding the addiction, you could spend every working day ferrying round dreamers and fantasists without the intention, or wherewithal, to actually sign a contract on the dotted line.

‘Well we’ve looked at over fifty properties.’ Says the woman, as I catch a hint of despair in the husband’s eye. I’m not far behind him. Time-wasters are the bane of an estate agent’s life. With more buyers than sellers through the majority of the property market cycle, you can only sell each home once and spending time with people who believe they are serious, but in reality will never be the best buyer for your client’s house, is ruinous to your health - and bottom line. 

‘Oh, why is that?’ I ask as neutrally as possible. This pair are booked to look at three homes with me and it will be at least ninety minutes until I can dump them back at the railway station, like some sub-Uber taxi service.

‘Well it’s you lot isn’t it.’ Continues the woman, as I hear the hint of a groan from her long-suffering partner. Terrific, not only are they getting a free guided tour round town but now the saggy-necked old goat is about to insult my profession.

‘Not now dear.’ Whisper her husband flatly.

‘Why not?’ She enquires aggressively. ‘They need to know if they’re not giving the right service.’

I feel my hackles rising. Out of towners: so no home for us to sell and no sister office where they live. No funding required and their own insurance advisor and they won’t take a solicitor introduction. That just leaves trying to source  an introductory commission from the local removal van company, but as this pair have been looking to move since God’s dog was a puppy, I won’t be spending the Harrods voucher any time soon.

‘What seems to be going wrong?’ I ask, as a boy with facial hair - so old enough to know better - skateboards the wrong way down the road I’m negotiating. All I need now is some fully-formed adult, with headband, 1980’s shorts and a set of roller blades and I’ll be tempted to risk the paperwork by running them into a ditch.

‘Well you never listen to what we want.’ Whines the woman, as I wonder if I can dump them at the wrong platform just in time to see their train leave on the other side of the station. Little things and little minds.

‘What she means is by the time we hear about a suitable home you’ve usually sold it to someone else.’ Clarifies the man, in a semi-conciliatory tone. That’s because they are in a position to proceed, or at least have shown some commitment by placing their own home on the market, I think acidly.

‘Have you thought about marketing your own house first?’ I say by way of some mild entertainment as I can’t have the radio on. Of course I know the answer.

‘That’s out of the question.’ Replies the woman, true to form. ‘We won’t be rushed into anything.’ Not even after several years on everyone’s mailing list?

‘Anyway,’ she continues. ‘Very often there’s nothing as nice as our own house.’

‘Let’s see if we can change that.’ I tell her, with little enthusiasm.

‘Oh no this won’t do at all.’ Says the woman, in the first dining room. ‘We’d never fit our furniture in here. It’s completely failed the table test.’

Derailed again.

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