Neighbourhood Watch - Tuesday

‘So anything else I need to know about your home, something I may have missed?’ I ask as I sit in the living room, details and measurements taken, sales pitch to come.

‘What do you mean exactly?’ asks the husband defensively as his wife frowns. ‘Have you heard something?’

I ask these questions to personalise property details. To take them away from the anodyne, safe from prosecution, but boring to the point of self-harm when read, particulars most agents produce. A little nugget about the home’s history, a previous well-known owner, a tale about former uses, anything interesting - apart from ghost stories. Something is amiss here. I just hope it doesn’t include claims of the supernatural. They never help a sale - just flush out more weirdos.

‘Tell him.’ Urges the wife eventually, after the silence has become uncomfortable. I nod encouragement and the husband takes a deep breath.

‘Well,’ he begins. ‘I don’t want you to tell prospective buyers, but the man next door is a complete wanker.’

‘Language dear.’ Chides the wife, blushing beguilingly.

‘Well he is.’ Counters her husband. ‘He’s a world class tosser and we’ll be glad to see the back of him.’

Now I have a dilemma I could do without. Ignorance can be a drawback in the industry - just look at F, my intellectually challenged trainee - but occasionally being unaware of an issue, can be bliss. With nanny state legislation designed to help the lowest common denominator I’m obliged to flag up all sorts of potential problems to buyers. It’s not clear which ones - you have to wait until you are in court for clarification - but I need to know the nature of this animosity.

‘How long have you got?’Asks the husband, as I hear the wretched cat flap clatter in the background. An evil-eyed moggy slinks in, looks at me with distain and jumps into the wife’s lap. I can already feel my nose twitching faster than the cat’s tail. The allergy will have my nostrils weeping like the front row at a funeral before I’ve explained the sole agency form.

‘He’s just a nasty, evil man.’Offers the wife, stroking the cat lovingly. I can see hairs floating towards me in the sunlight and my back is beginning to itch already. I really don’t need this - except I do with properties hard to come by. If they have a neighbours’ dispute going on it will come up sooner or later. If not by virtue of awkward questions from viewers, it will be flagged-up when the buyer’s solicitor sends out standard pre-contract enquiries.

‘Could you enlighten me a little.’ I probe, sniffing back a thin trail of mucus which has started to flow. Seemingly, just by virtue of the visual clue the purring hairball sent me on entrance.

‘He hates cats.’ Answers the wife indignantly. I paste on my most neutral face, one the Swiss ambassador would be proud of.

‘How so?’ I ask, trying not to look at the pulsing mass of sneeze-inducing fur. The feline is eyeing me furtively. They know, even if the owners don’t.

‘The bastard tosses cat shit back over our fence.’ Snarls the husband, eyes blazing.

‘And Tabitha only ever does her business in a litter tray.’ Adds the wife. I’ve been round the bungalow and there were no signs of human offspring. I’m hoping Tabitha is the cat’s name and there isn’t an incontinent daughter somewhere, yet to be potty trained.

I’m guessing the dopy duo think their lump of snot-causing, itch-making, allergy irritating fur-bag doesn’t rip baby birds to shreds when they’re not looking, either. Something about cat lovers I just don’t get. And don’t even start me on the single women who keep them as hirsute baby, or a boyfriend substitute.

‘There’s no way it’s Tabitha’s do-do.’ Asserts the wife, before adding, ‘And he blocks our car in on the drive.’ I was coming to that thorny issue. Post war homes with shared drives are a nightmare. Planners were just glad a German tank wasn’t on the lawn back then. Nobody thought families would own two cars.

‘Any joy?’ Asks assistant manager T on my return.

Snot a lot.

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Nine Lives - Wednesday

‘Couple of messages in the book for you.’ Announces negotiator S as I come through the office door weary, vaguely conscious I’m feeling and smelling stale.

‘Anything good?’ I ask more in hope than expectation. The business being predicated on steps forward and back, and the hope you’ll have actually made progress during each working week.

‘Not really.’ Answers S with a smile and a compensatory shrug. She’s an asset - and more desirable than some of the over-priced tat alongside her in the window.

As I sit at assistant manager T’s vacant desk, I read the tasks that await me. A chain is wobbling with a seller threatening to pull out unless completion dates match their holiday requirements. A buyer has a survey that they want to discuss – read demand a reduction – after damp and roof spread has been indicated, and a vendor wants to see me and discuss why her home is not selling.

‘Why does she want me to go round?’ I moan.

‘Who?’ Asks S, putting aside a pile of sales files, one not as big as I’d like with my targets.

‘Mrs White-Young.’ I reply, referring to the woman who wants a personal visit to tell her to drop the price to the level I recommended five months ago.

‘You know what she’s like.’ Says S with a rueful look. ‘Maybe she just fancies you?’

The wrong one’s always do, I think, as I click on the activity report and feedback for Mrs White-Young’s house.

I definitely don’t fancy Mrs W-Y. She’s the sort of desperate divorcee who has been through more than one husband and only retains their house and their surname each time. I felt uncomfortable when I was there the first time. Against my better judgement and short of properties to market, I foolishly allowed her to instruct me at a price I knew was unachievable even before I made the front gate.

‘It’s the right location. If you can get her to see sense.’ Encourages S as I gather up my briefcase and comparables, later. She’s right, far better to have a run-down property in a good area than the best one in a grotty one. But only if the price reflects the work required and only if there aren’t better homes, more attractively priced, available elsewhere. The supply and demand curve never lies.

‘Haven’t seen much of you recently.’ Begins Mrs White-Young acidly, as I offer my hand having negotiated the overgrown front garden and managed not to snag my suit trouser on any of the wildly rambling rose bushes trying to snare unwanted callers, or her next unsuspecting husband.

She ushers me though a cluttered hall with faded paintwork and I smell the stench of cat even before we make the scruffy sitting room. The smelly hairball sees me immediately and slides from the hair-encrusted couch and starts to wind its way round my legs. It’s all I can do not to kick the purring feline away, as I feel my suit gaining several pounds of moulting fur and the first prickle of an allergic reaction rising in my throat.

‘So you can see we’ve extensively marketed your home.’ I tell Mrs W-Y as her pet torments me – they always know – by trying to jump into my lap, despite my efforts to fend it off with my clipboard and the owner’s half-hearted attempts to stop her.

‘Now leave the man alone.’ Chivvies Mrs W-Y as her cat leaps up beside me while a line about two annoying pussies whirrs unhelpfully in my head. ‘I know why it hasn’t sold.’ She continues, before pausing dramatically.

The clock ticks noisily while the moggy eying me seductively, vibrates like an idling six cylinder car. I run through my data internally: Three local paper adverts, several hundred on-line views, twelve actual, real-time, real people visits, constant availability on four different web portals, one low offer she should really have taken - all not to be sneezed at.

‘It’s because you are sending round the wrong type of people,’ Mrs W-Y eventually elucidates, as my nose starts to leak. ‘It’s too cheap. We need to put the price up.’

Not a cat in hell’s chance.

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