Stop Pressing - Tuesday

‘Some reporter from the local paper rang while you were out,’ says negotiator S as I bustle through the office door. ‘ Wants some quotes about the property market.’

‘It’s f••ked.’ Suggests assistant manager T, with a sneer.

‘Swear box.’ Says S, admonishingly.

‘Alright, it’s screwed.’ Continues T. ‘ Too many people, not enough houses being built, overpriced new homes when they do sling them up and a load of Nimbys complain whenever someone wants to built on a bit of crappy common land that they use to let their dogs shit on, without scooping.’

‘Wow. Who pulled your chain?’ Asks S.

‘Every tosser and time-waster that comes though the door, pretty much.’ Concludes T, heading for the kitchen. And I thought I was the cynical one.

‘Did you tell the hack I can’t give quotes without running them by head office, any more?’ I ask, S.

‘Well I wasn’t sure if you would want to speak to them.’

‘The paper, or head office?’ I ask.

‘Either.’

To be honest I’m surprised the local rag is even printing still. When I first started they had a huge circulation and a vast property pull-out, every week. But since people started getting their news and property porn, for free on-line, the paper has been in terminal decline. As a wannabe writer I should be  saddened, but in truth they shafted me for years with over-inflated advertising rates and a virtual monopoly they rinsed relentlessly. I hoped that would all end with the rise of on-line platforms, but like a hooker who swapped pimps, I’m still getting used - just by another abuser.

‘You could tell him the rental market is still strong.’ Suggests B from her lettings desk.

‘Until the government meddle with it and start altering tenancies in favour of left-wing wasters who don’t like being evicted when they trash the property and spend the social money on fags and drugs, instead of the rent.’ Says T, popping his head round the corner. The kettle is starting to rumble but he’s already at boiling point.

‘Maybe you could suggest what the politicians could do to start solving the housing crisis.’ Says S, sweetly. She has more faith in me than I do.

‘They wouldn’t listen.’ Says fat finance man M, joining the conversation. ‘They are only interested in short-term posturing and legislating for idiots who whine when they’ve made a bad investment.’

‘Like an endowment mortgage?’ Asks S, pointedly.

‘That wasn’t my fault.’ Responds M, with a jowly pout.

‘Are you going to talk to the reporter?’ Asks T, returning to the office clutching a steaming mug. No sign of making one for anyone else.

‘What’s the point?’ I say, semi-rhetorically. ‘ By the time I’ve got a response from one of those jobsworths at head office, the paper would have gone bust. Either that, or any comments would have been so heavily redacted it will look like an affidavit from Richard Nixon.’

‘Who’s Richard Nixon?’ Asks trainee F. God I feel old, some days.

‘Like Donald Trump, only more credible.’ Says B.

‘Is that right?’ Asks F.

‘Pretty much.’

‘They could do with a few people like you on a housing committee.’ Persists S. They couldn’t. ’People with years of industry experience who could make them understand how the property market works.’

‘Those wastrels wouldn’t listen.’ Sneers T, slurping his tea loudly. ‘ And most of them are gone by the time the shit hits the fan. They are too busy fiddling with their expenses and their interns.’

‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’ I ask T. His head sinks.

‘The Richardsons’ chain broke when you were out, ‘says T flatly. ‘Bad survey, massive down-valuation and the first time-buyers at the bottom have decided to go backpacking instead.’

‘F••k!’

‘Is that a quote for the paper?’ Asks M, with a wobbly-bellied chuckle.

‘Swear box.’ Says S, nodding towards the over-used tin container.

‘Can it be saved?’ I ask desperately.

‘Old news,’ says T. ‘ Seems it happened last week and both solicitors involved neglected to tell us.’

Nobody would print the next bit.

----------

Local Knowledge - Tuesday

A high-velocity run of expletives bounce round the office like a rubber bullet. I look up from my computer screen to see assistant manager T with a face like thunder. It could be the charges for the office swear box he’s just incurred but it’s likely to be something more costly. I suspect my sales pipeline has sprung another unwelcome leak.

‘What is it?’ I ask wearily, having heaved myself from my chair and left the office profit and loss figures to mercifully fade out when the screen saver kicks in.

‘The deal on Crescent Road has just fallen-through.’ Replies T angrily.

‘What?’ Questions fat finance man M, before I can. ‘Was I doing the mortgage?’

‘You might have been if you’d bothered to ring back the buyers.’Snaps T moodily.

M looks briefly embarrassed, before saying unhelpfully. ‘Well you should have booked them in for an appointment.’

As M waddles away an unpleasant chafing of man-made material follows the lazy lump of lard as he sways back to his office. They must make his suit trousers from the same fire-retardant material they manufacture children’s nightdresses from, or we’d have experienced a spontaneous combustion Bear Grylls would be proud of, by now.

‘Forget him.’ I tell T, with the sort of instruction I could do without getting back to the bean counter boss. ‘Tell me what happened.’

‘Their solicitor told them they can’t access the garage at the back.’ Replies T, arms outstretched. ‘But I’ve been round the back there myself.’

‘I know what it’s about.’ I tell T flatly.

Now people don’t often value my experience, or accumulated knowledge, when I price their home. Focus is often on how much they can ask and how cheap I’ll make my fee. But the reason you pay for a decent dentist or a switched-on solicitor, is they’ve demonstrated through study, exam and practice they are worth paying for. Estate agents don’t have to sit exams, or demonstrate a minimum standard of competence, though God knows I’d like them to, so consequently they all seem the same - until the problems start.

‘They were built by a speculator-builder in the late thirties.’ I tell my, now assembled, sales team. Trainee F briefly starts to raise his arm then thinks better of it. Even he realises I’m not that old.

‘And of course,’ I continue. ‘Not many people had use of a car then.’

‘Buy they have that access track round the back.’ Interjects T. ‘Where some people still have sheds.

And I’ve driven round there, seen the garage.’ He pleads indignantly. T should have thought of this potential problem when he took the property on - or I should have spotted it.

Old title deeds explained, and the Land Registry only being involved when homes change hands discussed. I ask who the buyers’ solicitor is?

‘Some out of town cheap and not very cheerful bunch.’ Replies T flatly.

‘And?’ I ask like a schoolmaster. To a simultaneous, and rather pleasing, chorus of:

‘You get what you pay for!’

‘So if I can convince your solicitors there is an established right of way,’ I tell the wobbly buyers later. ‘Would you still want to buy it?’

‘Of course, we love it.’ Answers the woman, who I know is the decision maker. ‘But we have to listen to the legal people.’

‘Leave it with me. I know what to do.’ I tell her, trying not to sound smug.

‘So if the old boy that lives next door signs an affidavit confirming he’s used that rear access for decades without problems it’ll be okay?’ Quizzes T later.

‘If it can constitute an established use.’ I answer. ‘The hard bit is convincing the buyers’ cheapo battery-farm legal outfit to back down.’

‘They seem pretty clueless.’ Responds T.

Yep, that’s what happens if you use a bucket shop lawyers’ firm. It’s the same with these joke on-line estate agencies. Use EasyPeasyProperties dot com, or whatever they call themselves, and it will probably cost you in the long run.

End result. Sale saved and back on course.

The profit and loss account is a different matter though.

---------