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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Numbers Up - Friday

‘How did it go?’ Asks negotiator S, as I come back into the office wearing my disappointment like a tramp’s overcoat. I thought she was better at reading body language, most women are, but then again it might be just as well she can’t tell what I’m sometimes thinking…

‘Some people just won’t listen.’ I tell S dejectedly, as I walk towards the message book with trepidation. Bad news tends to hunt in packs, and after a pair of idiots convinced the market will support £50,000 more than their bog-standard end of terraced house is worth, I’m not expecting a call from The National Lottery. 

‘I think people get the estate agent they deserve.’ Opines S pensively.

‘The greedy gits do.’ Agrees  assistant manager T,  joining the conversation as he re-enters from the direction of the gents’ toilet. Terrific, I was hoping for some contemplative time in there with the dog-eared copy of FHM, now I’ll need to leave it a while.

‘Those tossers across the road had been in before me.’ I say nodding toward the opposition agents, not  wanting to read the message book quite yet. ‘Told them their house was worth fifty grand more than it is. Ignored the fact that two identical homes in neighbouring roads have both completed at £10,000 less than my suggested asking price, in the last three months.’

‘Let them waste their time marketing it.’  Suggests T insouciantly. ‘Nobody will pay that sort of silly money.’

I hope not. But then demand is strong, supply is weak and there are an awful lot of idiots out there.

‘Even if they did,’ says S. ‘Their surveyor would down-value the sale price and everyone would be back to square one. Complete wast of time.’

Time-wasters are never in short supply - sadly, sensibly priced homes to sell usually are.

I finally glance at the message book. A couple of vendors to call back, a survey finally booked on a long-standing sale in progress - not bad - then a note to call back my bean counter boss. Sales falling through, feel like a sickening kick in the stomach. Everyday house moving problems, like a slow drip Chinese water torture. And a pedantic, figure-fiddling, frustrated accountant with about as much real-life knowledge of the property market as the last couple I’ve just visited, questioning your every move, is akin to someone grasping your gonads and slowly, incrementally, twisting.

‘What did he want?’ I ask rhetorically.

‘He didn’t say.’ Answers S, with a shrug and an endearing half-smile.

‘Board penetration not high enough?’ Suggests T with a shake of his head.

‘Financial services ratios too low.’ Offers fat mortgage man M divisively.

‘Lettings department doing more business than sales?’ Contributes B, from her one-woman dating desk, unhelpfully.

‘Perhaps he just wants to see how you are?’ Pipes up trainee F, to riotous laughter all round. ‘What?’ He says, crestfallen. 

My God, he’s got a lot to learn.

‘How is he?’ I ask the bean counter’s secretary. You need to cultivate the gatekeeper and although I would’t shag her, I’ve done my best to stroke her ego for the last few years.

‘Bit of a grumpy mood.’ Answers the frumpy middle-aged woman, who if I didn’t still believe I was twenty-five inside, I’d concede is younger than me.

‘Any idea what it is this time?’ I say flatly.

‘Well he’s been hunched over his laptop all morning.’ Replies the woman.

Porn or the P and L accounts then. Either way it’s going to be hard.

‘Your available stock figures are worryingly low.’ Reveals the bean counter after the cursory, insincere, pleasantries. No shit Sherlock. I hadn’t noticed every time I go to the filing cabinet for property details, then return empty-handed like some malnourished Oliver, to apologise to hopeful buyers about the dearth of homes to offer. Hadn’t twigged we were slowly starving. Hadn’t realised the opposition were deliberately mis-leading sellers to win the initial instruction.

‘Increase your suggested asking price by another 10% each time.’ Says the bean counter. ‘I want market share.’

I have market despair. 

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Here Hear - Wednesday

‘That’s marvellous,’ I say gushingly, using an adjective I tend to reserve for those over pensionable age. ‘I just need to do the tedious bit now.’ I continue. ‘The paperwork.’

‘What’s he saying?’ Questions the elderly husband who is slumped in a worn armchair staring at me with those rheumy eyes that indicate a light slowly dwindling. The wife. a grey haired, slight but formidable lady, turns towards her ancient husband, ex Royal Navy, and ups the decibels several notches.

‘He needs to put everything in writing.’ She hollers, as the old boy fiddles with his hearing aid again.

I’m in a dated but well-proportioned 1930s built semi-detached house on the outskirts of the original town. The sort of strip development that filled fields pre-war as the population recovered after the Great War, before being decimated again by Mr Hitler and his henchmen. Doubtless, as now, people grumbled about new housing being built in their back yard. nothing much changes - other than the asking prices.

We’ve agreed the asking price for this home moments earlier, it’s bullish but reflects the market and the potential the house offers. It’s rife for modernisation and boasts the sort of garden no current day developer would leave behind. Maximise price, minimise square footage being the accountant-driven mantra of today’s builders.

I engage in neutral chit-chat while I try to complete as much of the paperwork as I can while the old man’s hearing aid whistles and chatters in the manner of a land line when it picks up an incoming mobile phone signal.

Price and vendors’ full names and the address completed I re-iterate, hesitantly, the agreed fee.

‘Oh don’t give me percentages dear,’ says the wife briskly. ‘How much in pounds and pennies?’ Shit. No agent ever likes to articulate the exact amount. Reluctantly I tell her.

‘Ooh, that’s not much less than we paid for the house.’ Says the woman wincing. ‘And I’m afraid it’s plus VAT.’ I say trying not to visibly cringe.

‘How much more is that?” Quizzes the woman, turning frostier by the moment.

‘Twenty percent.’I whisper

‘In English.’ Demands the wife. I tell her.

‘Stone the crows.’ She gasps. It’s an option…

‘I can’t hear what the lad is saying.’ Grumbles the old fella at ornament-rattling volume.

‘He says it’s going to be bloody expensive Arthur.’ Replies his wife loudly. No point reminding them it is No Sale No Fee at this juncture, or that those who move subsidise all the time-wasters who don’t.

‘Now I just need some proof of identity and address.’ I say flatly. Seems the Government has contracted out of just about every state function to the lowest, and often, least effective bidder. Or in my case a dupe who is made to provide the function for free. Estate agents are now quasi Border Control and Income Tax administrators as I need to ensure these ancient crumblies haven’t just crawled out from under the Lidl delivery lorry, or are masterminding an illicit drugs cartel from their tumbledown greenhouse.

‘What’s he saying?’ Bellows the old man in frustration as his hearing aid whistles like an asthmatic kettle. If I articulate any louder the next door neighbour will be able to join in.

‘He needs our passports and a utility bill.’ Soothes his wife.

‘Eh? What the devil for?’

‘What for love?’ Quizzes the wife with a wry smile.

‘Border Control and Money Laundering.’ I tell her apologetically. She repeats the phrase at what I imagine is the mythical number eleven on an amplifier. 

The old boy looks at me with distain.

‘Eh?’ He snarls angrily. ‘He wants the border and my lawn doing? Tell him we have a gardner Liz,  and if they don’t like us as we are they can lump us.’

Slight confusion over, unpaid civil servant role reluctantly carried out, I get towards the finishing line, feeling as lost and worn out as the ancient mariner.

‘We don’t want a For Sale board do we Arthur?’ Shouts the wife. The bean counter boss has been riding me weekly - not a pleasant picture - over my board rate penetration. My plea falls on deaf ears.

Low key, high volume marketing then.

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