False Bonhomie - Wednesday

‘Anyone want to go and collect a set of keys from that lot over the road?’ I ask, nodding towards one of our, less loved, competitors. Not that there’s a lot of love lost towards any rival outfit trying to take money out of your bank account. Unless that rumour of B, our looses lettings lush, shagging the assistant manager of the cut-price fee cowboys, after the last annual Estate Agents’ Dinner, is true…

‘Rather not.’ Says S, with a winning smile.

I look at T, my own assistant manager, who is so laid back he wouldn’t shag anyone - unless they did all the work.

‘Got a viewing in a minute.’ He says, unconvincingly. I could check the system to see if he’s lying, but I get enough conflict with those outside the office, without bringing it indoors.

I look hesitantly at F, our dozy trainee. He seems to gently chewing, in that bovine manner that indicates a lower form of intelligence. He can’t be chomping on gum again, because he’s on a final warning. F eventually feels the weight of my gaze.

‘What?’ He asks, looking up gormlessly. At least he’s confirmed there’s no chewing gum in his mouth. I look at him and, not for the first time, wonder what I was thinking of when I recruited him? Best of a bad lot, probably..

‘He was asking if you could collect a set of keys from those tossers across the road.’ Says S helpfully.

F looks out the window and focuses on a middle-aged couple about to cross to our side. His face creases up.

‘Never mind.’ I bark. ‘I’ll go.’

There’s an uneasy truce between estate agents at the best of times. It’s witnessed on Friday night’s, when traditionally most firms adjourn to the pub to disseminate sales and to bray as loudly as they can towards the opposition huddle, about what a great week they’ve had. There’s more bullshit flying around than a fight at a stud farm, but some of it sticks.

The gritted-teeth politeness tends to continue at business functions and the aforementioned annual Estate Agents’ Dinner, where several score of property pugilists wrap themselves in alcohol and diner jackets and try not to start fights until they’re in the car park.

The fragile truce is strained to Lebanon levels, when you enter a rival’s office to relive them of keys to a home they’ve failed to sell, prior to you taking up the marketing. You feel as uncomfortable as most men - apart from the crossdressers - do when they make their furtive annual trip to the M & S lingerie section each Christmas. ‘Well, she’s about you size actually, Miss….’

I can see them  watching me through the window even as I move to their side of the street. If looks could kill no amount of adherence to my old Green Cross Code would save me from a nasty accident. Pausing as long as I can, to scan their window display and to try not to fret further at the sight of two homes I tried to list, still on display and still 20% over-priced, I bustle through the door. False smile pasted on.

The manager looks at me as if a large unwanted turd has just popped back around the u-bend.

‘Alright?’ He says, more by way of a challenge than an enquiry into my wellbeing.

I can feel his staff looking at me, almost physically.  There can’t have been this much tension in the air since the last time the founder members of One Direction were together in one room.

‘I’m here for the keys to number twenty-three. Mr and Mrs Stephenson.’ I tell him flatly.

‘You’re welcome.’ Sneers the shitester in a suit, nodding towards a minion, who scuttles off to the key safe. ‘They are pair of wasters.’

Only because you misled them on price and spent the next twelve weeks trying to get them to reduce by £25,000, I think sourly. I obviously don’t say that. There’s a facade to be maintained, not to mention some expensive dentistry to be protected.

Still smiling.

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Rights And Wrongs - Friday

‘This is a pretty crap area really isn’t it?’ States trainee F as I weave the company car in and out of ageing Fords and Vauxhalls parked half on the kerb, half on what’s left of the grass. I hesitate to point out to him that this may be crumbling ex-local authority housing stock but the prices are still way out of his reach.

We’re on our way to measure up a voluntary repossession, the keys and instructions from the lender nestling in my briefcase. At least I know the outgoing owners will be long gone this time, it’s when they are still inside it gets messy. A scruffy brace of teenagers, hoods raised, look at us menacingly as I slow to walking pace to ease between a huge flatbed 4 x 4 and a rusty Citroen Saxo with more differing coloured panels than Joseph’s Technicolor Dreamcoat.

‘How come some houses have all new windows and roof tiles and some are all rundown?’ Asks F pertinently, as I spot the 1950s built semi in question. As if to underscore F’s question, the house we’re about to enter is scruffy, with the exception of a low-level picket fence to the front and a naff-looking windmill, while the adjoining home has updated UPVC and tiling.

‘The next door place is still owned by the council.’ I tell F as we clamber out of the car and I feel several pairs of eyes watching from behind net curtains. The dislike is almost palpable. At least if they key the car it’s not my long-term problem.

‘So they are actually in better nick than the one’s people bought?’ Questions F, brow furrowed.

‘Often.’ I tell him. ‘The people with mortgages can’t afford the upkeep.’

F shrugs and stands aside for me, his bovine brain clearly working on another question more rickety than the gate he’s just opened.

The house is typical of the era. Open-plan front garden, no garage, hence the on-street parking issues. To the side, is a narrow, wire-fence-bounded walk-through to a concrete shed, once for coal, more often full of bikes and rusty prams now.  We stop outside the front door. A door I now open with the shiny new set of keys, as I wonder if the ex-tenant, now ex-owner, regrets exercising their options.

‘So this was, like, one of those right-to-buy jobs then?’ Asks F uncertainly, as we check out, first the cramped under stairs cloakroom, with the temperature of a morgue, then the through lounge/diner to the rear kitchen, fitted with a cheap-looking DIY kitchen units, not quite level. A tap drips mournfully as I glance at the 100-foot garden, wildly overgrown, with the odd discarded push-along toy rising from the grass like some avant-garde entry at the Chelsea flower show.

‘Yes.’ I tell F as I unpack my clipboard and begin scribbling my notes on autopilot. I know the floor plan by heart and could probably guess the measurements it wasn’t for fear of prosecution under that pesky Property Mis-Description Act.

‘It was a mixed blessing.’ I tell F as I continue to jot down the home’s particulars and wonder how I’ll get a decent picture without using PhotoShop.

‘So they all just turned a big profit then moved on?’ Asks F, as we make the upstairs landing and I see the cramped third bedroom and undersized bathroom, and then check out the two bigger bedrooms, both with cheap louver-fronted fitted wardrobes, circa 1970.

‘Those that didn’t run out of money and couldn’t make the payments.’ I tell F.

‘It was that women who invaded the Falklands that done it, was it?’ Says F, throwing me briefly, until I realise he’s talking about Margaret Thatcher. Sometimes I feel really old. Ignoring F’s tenuous grasp on history, I tell him that, as with most things in property, there are winners and losers - and no easy solutions.

‘So this place will be cheap then?’ Concludes F when we are back out by the gate and I’ve taken several snaps, none of which will hide the obvious without artifice and a risk of prosecution. I tell him my suggested number and he almost chokes.

If I’m right, he won’t be buying.

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