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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Help The Aged - Tuesday

‘Is that Mr and Mrs Lattimer looking in the window?’ Asks negotiator S softly.

I look up from the jammed again colour printer - having narrowly resisted thrashing the wretched machine, like Basil Fawlty, primarily due to the lack of convenient shrubbery.

I spot the elderly couple, I recognise the elderly couple, only without S’s wonderful memory - and mammaries now I come to mention it - I’d never have recalled the name.

‘Yep, it’s them,’ I whisper like a poor-quality ventriloquist, all the while grinning inanely towards the ancient pair. ‘Only what the hell do they want this time?’

‘Perhaps they just want to pop in for a chat?’ Suggests S, half-heatedly. She knows it’s unlikely. If people want camaraderie and a sympathetic ear it’s the pub before the property man, or failing that a phone call to the Samaritans.

Now sales trainers - the folk who can tell but not sell - will have you mining that invisible seam of repeat business everyone searches for. It can work in lettings, where relationships build, develop and might prosper, but according to recent research the average British homeowner only moves every 21 years. Looking at the Lattimers they haven’t got that long.

They were good clients when they sold with me - please don’t call vendors customers, any more than my office is a shop - but if there is another move in them it will be straight out the door on the undertakers gurney, or a squeeze into a sheltered retirement home. Not much difference square footage-wise, except for the brass handles on the box.

The Lattimers are all smiles as they greet me, so they obviously want something for free. They also remember my name and use it. I’d tell you, but it would mean the end of a beautiful friendship and a contract that would definitely complete.

‘We wanted your advice.’ Gushes Mrs Lattimer with a lipstick-smeared-teeth smile. She looks like a wrinkly velociraptor in drag and compounds my distaste by keeping hold of my outstretched hand and leaning in to plant a slippery smacker on my cheek. Yuck.  Not even close family get a kiss on the cheek unless I’ve been drinking heavily, and don’t even start me on those vapid city types who think they are part-Parisian and need to air-kiss on both bloody sides.

With the elderly pair ensconced in my office, somewhere I prefer more and more to avoid, particularly after the intranet server blocked the more entertaining websites, I ask how I can help?

Before they can answer there’s a tap at the door and S appears with a tray and three steaming mugs of something hot and tasty. Take away the decrepit Lattimers and lose the drinks and I’d be happy to accommodate S, but that’s another story…

‘Well we’re in a bit of a dilemma.’ Begins Mr Lattimer, as I think welcome to the club, while still silently cursing S for bringing in unrequested drinks. If this pair are wasting my time I’ll need an asbestos-lined gullet to drink the tea as quickly as I’d like and even then they’d still be sipping and pontificating. The retired have no real concept of time when they’re stealing it from you, yet never stop moaning how quickly it hastens them to the grave. I’ll be different, of course.

‘We’re thinking of an equity release scheme on our house.’ Reveals Mr Lattimer, after unsolicited news of their offspring and an imminent grandchild.

Don’t do it. I yearn to say abruptly, while mentally holding the door for them. But it’s complicated. It’s always complicated.

They explain, as if I’ve never heard it, how they are worried how long they’ll live and if their funds will last and how long they can stay in their home without help and a stairlift. Then they reveal their children are tapping them up for a bank of Mum and Dad handout.

With UK house prices often defying gravity it’s a relatively new way of kids getting cash without waiting for their parents to croak. 

What was my advice?

Well you can book a free, no obligation, consultation - if you can find me.

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Funding Gap - Thursday

‘Any luck?’ I ask fat finance man M, after a young couple leave his office. He still didn’t see them to the door, but unless you’re an impoverished French butcher, I still see no point in flogging a dead horse.

‘Not enough deposit saved yet.’ Bemoans M with a shake of his jowly jaws, before adding.’Makes you wish for the days when you could source a cheeky liar loan and tuck them up with an endowment policy.’

‘That’s disgraceful.’ Chides negotiator S with a pretty pout. I forget she’s so young she didn’t have to flog insurance policies, with dubious benefits to buyers, just to please corporate masters. It was about the time the line between the estate agent’s duty to the vendor became permanently blurred. I’ve worn glasses ever since.

‘You’ll follow them up though.’ I tell M pointedly. He won’t. The only time he shows any forward momentum is when there’s an unfinished packet of biscuits in the office kitchen.

‘They know where to find me.’ Counters M, heading for the aforementioned location.

Yep, and so do we.

‘Not sure I’ll ever be able to afford my own property and I spend all day selling them.’ Announces S sadly.

‘Bank of mum and dad is what you need.’ Says assistant manager T, referring to the one source of finance that will lend, without a raft of fact finding paperwork and a twenty-five year indenture.

‘Haven’t seen my dad for years.’ Answers S mournfully.

‘All the more reason to tap him up for a ten percent deposit.’ Says T jauntily. ‘Push the guilt trip buttons.’

S just shakes her head and looks achingly sad. And all these couples squabbling over the matrimonial home value, still convince themselves separation is in the children’s best interest and won’t harm them at all. It’s still harming me thirty-five years down the line.

‘Didn’t look old enough to buy anyway.’ Contributes B from her lettings’ desk. Didn’t stop her eying up the boyfriend though. I saw her. At least I was more discrete with the girlfriend.

‘You’ll buy eventually.’ I tell S with as much conviction as I can muster. It will probably take another property crash and I’m not sure I’m looking forward to my third one. But the market is cyclical - always has been.

‘Do you think prices will come down then?’ Queries S.

Hell yes. I have for some time, but then with a burgeoning influx of population fuelled by migrants, and pensioners who refuse to die at the appointed age, it may take a while yet. We could build a lot more homes of course, but planning restrictions, green belt policies and greedy landowners aren’t exactly helping things.

‘They can’t keep accelerating.’ I eventually tell S. She doesn’t look convinced.

‘More mug punters for me to let crappy converted flats to.’ Says B, unhelpfully. S scowls at her and so do I, but inwardly, B’s figures help pay my own rent and as an estate agent I don’t need extra enemies.

‘Is it just me,’ asks M, returning with a mug of coffee. ‘Or are buyers looking younger and younger?’ It’s the exact opposite actually, with the average age of a first time buyer being pushed towards middle age. I see countless overgrown children still squatting it their parents’ homes like cosy Cuckoos, but I know what M means.

‘It’s like when policemen start looking young enough to be your baby brother.’ Announces B all glassy-eyed.

‘They’re not real policemen if you just persuade them to dress up like that, for some sweets.’ Snipes S bitchily.

Ouch.

Before a cat fight breaks out - and rather disappointingly - the door opens and some pre-pubescent boy in an ill-fitting Next suit comes in and asks for the keys to a property we have on multi-agency, along with several of our competitors.

‘Who was that spunk bubble?’ Asks M slurping his drink loudly, after the young lad has left.

‘New trainee negotiator for that lot across the road.’ Answers S.

‘Didn’t look old enough to shave.’ Replies M.

‘I could show him something on my register.’ Says B ambiguously.

I’m really feeling my age.

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Dark Weekdays - Wednesday

‘They looked quite young to be at your desk.’ I say to negotiator S as a fresh-faced couple leave the office clutching several sets of sales particulars.

She looks at me and smiles. ‘What instead of being across at the lettings desk?’ And she nods towards B’s vacant station. B has been missing for several hours, ostensibly to do a landlord’s check out, but with her it might just as easily be a liquid lunch - then doing a landlord.

‘They have the Bank of Mum and Dad on their side.’ Says S ruefully.

The phenomenon of parents helping children with their first home deposit is not new, but with rising prices it’s become much more common. If your parents have never been able to option a right to buy on their council house, have failed marriages and the accompanying financial hit behind them, or are just plain skint, it’s not quite so easy to place a tentative foot on the property ladder.

‘Did you get a FS lead?’ Says a muffled voice from behind me. I realise M the portly purveyor of dubious financial services has snuck up behind us, while eating something crumbly.

‘They were all fixed.’ mutters S unconvincingly. 

I should press her on the oversight, after all there are office targets as well as personal ones. But in truth I’ve never liked the conflict of interests flogging products to buyers produces, when you are acting for the homeowners. Probably why my career in corporate agency hit a ceiling so low I’m stooping prematurely.

‘You could have got me in there for an alternative quote.’ Grumbles M shedding flaky pastry on the office carpet again. He’s right. The consultants are trained to do a bit of disturbance selling and to knock competitors out of the equation with promises of “exclusive rates” only available to them. Traditionally, it involves smoke and mirrors and insurance products designed not to pay out, or to wriggle more than a snake in a bag, once you try to make a claim. I still remember the endowment policy and payment protection plan fiascos.

‘They were adamant.’ Counters S with a rather fetching pout. I almost believe her.

‘I’m not happy.’ Mutters M waddling away. Try some more comfort eating then, fat boy, I think sourly before turning back to S and asking.

‘Did you book any viewings for them?’

'Three on the trot this afternoon.’ Says S with a triumphant smile.

I could almost kiss her - almost.

‘Not sure my Mum will ever sub me for a deposit.’ Says trainee F who has been stuffing envelopes at a snails pace throughout the conversation. That’s because she’s on her fourth partner and wasted tens of thousands on a private education for you, I think. I still reckon she could get a refund. If they can claw back thousands in compensation for mis-sold insurance products, surely a law firm could stop chasing ambulances for a while and try suing the school for turning out a well-spoken dullard, after six years of tuition?

‘Of course it must of been easier back in your day.’ Says F, adding patronisation to crinkling sales particulars in envelopes unnecessarily, on his list of misdemeanours.

‘It didn’t seem like it when my mortgage went up three points to 15% in the course of an afternoon.’ I snap back, referring to the chaotic day when Britain was thrown out of The European Exchange Rate mechanism and my complete sales pipeline collapsed overnight. It was named Black Wednesday and I’ve had a few of those in my career, not to mention Thursdays, Fridays…

‘Fifteen percent?’ Echoes F incredulously. ‘You are having a laugh.’

I wasn’t chortling at the time.

‘Were they really ever that high?’ Asks S gently. I forget how young my team are compared to me - except when we go out for the increasingly rare, sales award evening. Then I feel like their dad and dance like it too.

‘They were.’ I confirm, before adding. ‘I don’t think it’s ever easy to buy when you first start out.’

‘I’m going to wait for prices to crash.’ States F moodily.

Be careful what you wish for.

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Higher And Higher Baby - Wednesday

‘Ugh, I feel like I need a wash after that place.’ Says the pretty young woman as she clambers into the back seat of my company car. A wicked inner voice tempts me to drive off now and leave the lummox of a boyfriend at the kerbside, but I keep the engine ticking over while the musclebound hunk with the tattooed arms squeezes in behind me. How is it the most beautiful women always seem to be on the arm of a neanderthal thug? It’s not as if he’s a professional footballer - or they wouldn’t be looking in this price range.

‘I wouldn’t keep me dog in that place.’ Pronounces the protein shake junkie, as I feel his knees knocking against the back of my driver’s seat. There’s another notch back on the runners and I’m wondering if I can shift the seat back to the end of its travel without him noticing.

‘I hope the other two we’re looking at are better than that flat.’ Says the girlfriend disconsolately. They are, I’ve shown them the grottiest unit first, by the time they get to the last, and priciest, flat they should be less likely to carp on cost or carpets. I won’t let this pair out of the car until I’ve exhausted every possibility of a sale, plus all the time they’re with me they can’t be with an opposition agent. 

‘So what is the market really doing?’ Quizzes the female as her less verbose half grunts and swipes at his smartphone which I’m guessing is a lot brighter than he is. 

If I knew the answer to that one I’d have a buy-to-let portfolio and an exit plan, I think glumly. Hindsight is a wonderful thing but I’ve missed more boats than a seasick asylum seeker.

I give the two of them a generic, fat-free, answer about interest rates, affordability, supply, demand and confidence. It can be tailored to suit buyers or sellers and altered for a rising or falling market. Tell people something with enough conviction and they’ll believe anything , and to date I’ve had no convictions…

‘That one wasn’t much better.’ Says the woman as we head back across town to the flat I wanted to show them all along. The Hulk is on his phone again muttering in some sub-English shorthand about what appears  to be a night out with the boys. With a beautiful girlfriend like his, he’d be better advised to stay at home. At least if I flog them something I might get the re-sale when they split up.

‘The next one you’ll love.’ I tell them catching her eye in the rear view mirror and seeing a look of mistrust she’d be better off delivering to Conan The Barbarian beside her.

‘I hope so,’ she replies. ‘I’m beginning to think we’ll never catch up with the market.’ Isaac Newton knew what goes up must come down, but I’m not about to tell her that and it looks like her partner has already been hit on the head with something much heavier than an apple.

I sense a deal with this pair and I’m not letting them go. I’ve already established the young woman’s parents are contributing the cash deposit to unlock more attractive loan rates, and allow them to grab the bottom rung of a retractable ladder. I read somewhere that two-thirds of first time buyers now get financial help for the deposit from their parents. The bank of mum and dad as it’s now known. All the benefits of an inheritance without the family squabbles and funeral arrangements.

‘I’m not sure,’ says the woman after the tour of my target flat. ‘What do you think Luke?’ Tough question, I’m not sure Luke has developed much further than a single cell organism. ‘Dunno.’ He mutters. It’s the best they’ll get with their spending power. I need to close the deal.

‘If we saved for another six months, what could we get for, maybe, another £10,000?’ Asks the woman.

‘This flat, only with a higher asking price.’  I tell her bluntly.

Don’t blame the messenger.

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