Friday On My Mind - Friday

‘For crying out loud does she think I was born yesterday?’ I snarl at the phone, as the handset rocks in its cradle again.

‘Problem boss?’ Asks trainee F perceptively.

‘F***ing solicitors.’ I tell him, with a resigned look towards the office swear box. F looks at me studiously.

‘Not literally.’ I say, realising F has taken a statement at face value again. Although we do have to kiss lawyers’ arses quite regularly, I’ve never gone the whole way.

The legal fraternity and estate agency have a love hate relationship, we have to pretend we love them - they hate us. The two professions grudgingly recognise an unwelcome mutual dependency but agents generally think lawyers are too tardy and not pro-active enough when it comes to conveyancing. Whereas lawyers see our commission invoices and in common with the rest of the public, think we charge too much.

‘They don’t like being rung on a Friday.’ Says negotiator S soothingly. She’s right, and as she does the majority of the office sales progressing, has a fairly good relationship with most of the legal practices in town. It’s the out of town outfits, who will probably never deal with you again, that tend to duck your phone calls chasing progress reports, or try to fob you off with some neutral comment like, “it’s all going well.”

‘Partner is in court?’ Asks S, eyebrows arched attractively.

‘With a client?’ Contributes assistant manager T with a grin.

‘Only works part time?’ Offers F, joining in the guessing game as to why I’ve nearly broken another phone.

‘Put the request in writing?’ Says fat mortgage man M waddling across the office unpleasantly.

I crack an unlikely smile. ‘Something like that.’ I concede. ‘Just, I knew the secretary was lying.’

Now, when I entertain a solicitor - an increasingly rare event since my bean counter boss started forensically scrutinising every expense claim - the legal-luncher is often at pains to point out they don’t like being bothered on a Friday. It’s the day most sales tend to complete (the moving day) and often - a few weeks before - when contracts are finally exchanged.

I accept that plea from the more pro-active practitioners. The firms who ring you back, willingly give progress reports to you, and by proxy their client. The type of organisation that move 

as swiftly as the antiquated English and Welsh conveyancing process allows - the Scottish are a whole different ball game. But as often as not, ducking my phone call is a result of not having touched the file in days, sometimes weeks, and the reluctant recipient hiding behind a “delayed local search” or protracted “mortgage offer”smokescreen

‘I think we should always deal with the solicitors we know.’ Says S emphatically. ‘They get our recommendations and give us reciprocal business.’ Once again she’s right, but the big corporate estate agency chains want group agreements with soulless outfits that run call centres and centralised conveyancing pens. In my experience the service is poor and the fee kickback goes to a central fund rather than the local office. But then my boss thinks I’m a luddite, or he would if he knew what one was…

‘Bean counter’s secretary on line three.’ Says S late afternoon. ‘He wants to know why our weekly stats are not in yet.’

Because I’m still chasing two much-needed exchanges and the sodding solicitors won’t return my calls, I think angrily.

‘Can you say I’m with someone?’ I asks S limply, realising even as I say it I’m parroting the fob-off I’ve been given several times today by my legal friends.

‘Don’t think she’ll believe me.’ Says S hesitantly. 

Of course not, but it’s hard to prove as long as S has punched the hold button securely and not just put her hand over the mouthpiece as that idiot F keeps doing.

‘Say I’ll call her back.’ I offer. The irony not lost on me.

‘We had a blinder of a week.’ Crows the ringleader of our opposition, as the two groups jostle at the bar. It’s a Friday night ritual - come good week or bad.

‘Smashed it.’ I reply loudly.

Cracked the phone handset actually, but it’s a brief exchange…

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I know, Robert hasn't worn well. In the meantime - or in between days - just time to nominate this Blog for UKBA15 Awards. Self-nomination is so tacky and not really worthy of an estate agent...

Link Below

http://www.blogawardsuk.co.uk/enter-ukba15-here/

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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