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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Seasons In The Sun - Wednesday

‘You feeling alright?’ Asks assistant manager T as he becomes the first staff member to arrive at the office - twenty minutes after me.

He doesn’t often sense moods that acutely, until I shout at him or thump the desk in frustration, but I’m guessing he’s noticed my washed out appearance. I’ve been awake, coughing and sneezing since about 4.00am. My eyes are red-raw from rubbing and crustier than a bakery floor.

‘I’m okay.’ I lie wearily.

‘Only it looks like you’ve been crying.’

Terrific. I’ve three valuations today and the sympathy sales pitch never lasts past the moment you tell them how much their home is really worth. The fee discussion is not to be sneezed at either.

‘It’s the pollen count.’ I tell T with an unpleasant sniffing sound resembling a badly blocked drain clearing.

‘Hay fever?’ Asks T with head to one side.

No, another survey the bean counter boss wants to do, I feel like saying sarcastically. Similar to a board count but with more bronchial mulch.

‘I never used to get all these allergies as bad.’ I tell T mournfully. The whole office knows about my reaction to dog and cat hair, never a good ailment when you are constantly entering homes where delusional pet owners think their house doesn’t smell and it’s okay to have felines on the kitchen work surfaces, and canines lying on the bed.

‘Maybe it’s an age thing.’ Muses T, sitting at his desk with a thump and firing up his flatscreen. No chance of making me another cuppa, I think tetchily? The half-full mug beside me has gone cold and I don’t fancy swigging the slightly bitter, grainy dregs of another tepid LemSip  I wonder if you can overdose on over-the-counter snot-busters? There must be cheaper ways.

‘You’d think you’d build up an immunity after half a lifetime of animal hair and tree pollen ingestion.’ I tell T, who doesn’t appear to be listening any more. I thought you could check your Facebook on your phone.

‘Says here the pollen forecast is very high today.’ Announces T. I’ve maligned him unnecessarily. Luckily it wasn’t out loud this time and in any case I’m beyond blushing now - coughing, sneezing and choking yes, but beyond blushing.

I walk across to glance over T’s shoulder just as fat finance fiddler M waddles in to the office, clutching another grease-flecked Greggs bag.

‘Someone died?’ Asks M stopping in front of me.

I raise a quizzical eyebrow and a tear spills down my cheek.

‘He’s got hay fever.’ Enlightens T, as I reach for my last tissue and trumpet a runny venting. Unlike my erstwhile drinking buddy, I refuse to use a linen handkerchief. He’ll happily blow his nose, then dip straight into the communal bag of crisps we’re sharing. I should widen my circle of friends but it’s not easy, being an estate agent.

‘That’s alright then.’ Says M moving away. ‘As long as it’s not one of my policyholders. Reams of paperwork if they croak and I don’t get any renewal commission.’

The property industry took a turn for worse the day insurance companies, banks and building societies started buying up estate agency firms.

‘God, you look awful.’ Says negotiator S, as she comes through the door and glances at me.

‘It’s hay fever.’ Shouts M from his office. ‘He’s not sobbing about the office sales figures.’

‘Have you tied anti-histamine tablets?’  Asks S, waking her computer and also showing no sign of making drinks.

‘I positively rattle with them.’ I tell her grumpily. ‘They are expensive and don’t really work that well.’

‘Like solar roof panels.’ Says T with a hearty chuckle.

Everyone’s a comedian. We’ll see if they’re still laughing when I arrange a leaflet drop for this afternoon. T’s right about the ugly solar slabs though. Not many people want to buy a house with those monstrosities ruining the roofline. Built in obsolescence, in a cloudy country with more rain than the forests we’re supposed to be saving. I sense another mis-selling scandal.

Back at my desk, I check my emails. 

I’m going to need another box of tissues.

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Bearer Of Bad News - Thursday

‘Bad news boss.’ Announces trainee F before I’ve even crossed the office threshold. In the property game - where one in three sales is destined to fall-through no matter what the market does - you get used to a greeting like this.

‘You really need to narrow it down a bit.’ I tell F familiarly, as I walk to the message book.

’It’s not in there yet.’ Says F hurriedly. I turn towards him. Now in sales you train yourself to mask emotions with a neutral smile and demeanour, but F isn’t buying anything from me - other than a one-way ticket to the job centre - so I’ve clearly failed this time.

‘It only just happened.’ Says F pointing at his phone as if that inanimate object is likely to plead his case. I glance at negotiator S. The conflict flashes across her face almost imperceptibly, but I see it, with S it’s hard not to keep looking. S shakes her head from side to side and does that balancing thing with her hands - it’s not quite so successful where her tits are concerned, but I digress.

‘So just tell me.’ I instruct F, tearing my gaze away from S. I don’t want to seem creepy or I’ll end up on another awareness course blue skying asinine ideas onto yellow post-it notes and pretending I care.

‘Number 12.’ Begins F and my stomach lurches even before the reveal. There’s half a month’s worth of commission riding on this sale, tell me it’s recoverable. ‘Bomber is doing the mortgage valuation.’ Continues F with an apologetic shrug. The expletive is still pinging off the filing cabinets even as I place a pound coin in the office swear box and grind my teeth expensively.

Every town has one. Some several. Surveyors who routinely lop about ten percent off the agreed sale price just to cover their bony arses. It doesn’t seem to change much, no matter what the market is doing. Rising, falling - according to the papers it’s never stable - these little weasels in sports jackets and grubby coloured trousers conspire to wreck weeks of marketing, days of fractious negotiating and hours of assiduous finance placing. And we have to pretend we like them.

I know I’m not alone in this, my twitter feed confirms they are all over the UK. Their modus operandi doesn’t vary much. They just ask the sale price, request some comparable evidence of similar sales - then take off a number they’ve already thought of. Our particular bette noir just happens to bear the nickname “Bomber” but I’ve heard of: Dr Death, The Wrecker, Demolition Man and Poison Pete to name but a few. Same pimp, just different coloured trousers.

There was a time, when I first started in house sales that I aspired to becoming a Chartered Surveyor. Back then, all the senior partners were qualified with RICS after their name. In fact it used to be the only way you’d be invited to become an equity partner before the banks and insurance companies moved in and bought estate agency firms in a frenzy of overpaying. Some of the ex-partners are still sunning themselves and playing golf even now. I was born too late - plus I didn’t fancy several years of studying…

Now the surveyors we see are just as haunted as the house sales people. Targeted and monitored to within an inch of their next nervous breakdown. Spending your days rushing from dusty loft space to dusty loft space then dictating your survey, or more often now, downloading the pre-populated report on your tablet computer, while sitting in a mid-range Vauxhall with pastry crumbs in your lap I can do without. We tend to run Fords…

‘Hello all.’ Says Bomber when he arrives for the keys. I can almost taste the hatred, he has the skin of a rhinoceros.

‘Any comparable sales?’ Asks Bomber as I hand him No 12’s keys and a set of our sales particulars.

‘We had a lot of people wanting this one.’ I urge. ‘It’s worth every penny.’

‘We’ll see.’ responds Bomber as he leaves.

‘Stick the For Sale board back up boss?’ Asks F before the door has closed.

He’s learning.

Behind The Green Door

‘That twat from number 21 was on the phone when you were out.’ Announces assistant manager T before I’ve taken my coat off.

‘The repossession?’ I query, feeling another problem growing along with the incipient ulcer bubbling away in my stomach.

‘Yes, he doesn’t seem to understand it’s not his house any more.’ Grumbles T.

‘Give him a break.’ Counters negotiator S, looking at me for the support her bra is struggling to give. ‘He’s lost everything.’

‘Should have kept up the monthly money then.’ Says T callously.

‘Or taken out some payment protection insurance with me.’ Adds moribund mortgage man M to looks of disbelieve.

‘It never pays out.’ Snaps S, turning her ire on M.

‘Pays pretty good commission, or used to.’ Chuckles M, his jowls vibrating like jelly on the Circle Line.

‘What does he want?’ I ask T, trying to avoid a full blown internal argument when I can take my pick from half a dozen public spats, daily.

‘To speak to someone in higher authority.’ Says T his eyebrows rising towards the heavens where I’ve found nothing but a thinning ozone layer, to date.

I’ve detested repossessions since my first round of snatch-backs in the late eighties. A certain, there but for the grace of a God, feeling has dogged me on every appointment with bailiff and locksmith. The, I’m only following orders and if I didn’t do it someone else would, line wears a bit thin when you’ve pasted scores of goods and chattels notices on newly secured front doors, giving the ex-owners 28 days to remove their remaining possessions before the house clearance lads turn up with a skip and a steam-cleaner.

‘Couldn’t you sort it then?’ I ask T wearily.

‘Idiot says he needs several hours there.’ Replies T. ‘I told him we can’t wait around that long while he loads bin-liners. There’s sod-all worth keeping there anyway.’

‘It’s probably sentimental value.’ Suggests S with a rather magnificent pout. Don’t go there, says the internal voice admonishingly – it’s someone else’s property.

‘He says we can leave him with the new key and he’ll drop it back.’ Continues T, before adding sneeringly. ‘As if we’re that stupid.’

It’s not unheard of for evicted non-payers to break back into homes after the court order has been executed. I’m guessing the lender wouldn’t take too kindly to more lengthy legal proceedings if we hold the door open while a squatter takes up residence, no matter how altruistic the intent. The corporate department wouldn’t be too pleased either. They nurture cosy reciprocal agreements with banks and building societies involving much mutual back-scratching and long expenses paid lunches. I take the number, appropriately enough a mobile one, and ring the man. If hate could pass across the airwaves I’d be long dead. I agree to stay for an hour maximum.

‘F***ing parasite.’ Will have to pass for a thank-you.

‘You lot love this. It’s an easy sale.’ Snarls the dishevelled ex-owner later, as he and his tattooed partner lug bags of threadbare clothes, some forlorn looking children’s toys and a few ropey electrical appliances on to the front lawn. Their man with a van hasn’t arrived and it looks like rain judging by the blackening sky.

‘You know you are selling this way too cheap.’ Says the heavily inked woman. I tell her the asking price has been set after two independent surveyors’ valuations, but she’s far from convinced. Granted three others in the road are on the market for twenty grand more, but they won’t be selling in a hurry.

‘I’m never buying again.’ Spits the man as I look at my watch surreptitiously. No you won’t be mate, but not for the reasons you’re thinking. His credit score will read like a Greek budget report.

‘I don’t know how you can do your job.’ Sneers the woman, eyes colder than a dead fish. ‘You are all part of the conspiracy.’

I’m not that sophisticated lady I ache to say. I’m just trying to keep a roof over my own family. But sometimes you need to know when to stay silent.

‘Good day?’ Asks my wife. I just shake my head and open a beer.

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Divided Loyalty - Monday

‘I’m going to need a price chop on flat four.’ Announces morbidly obese mortgage man M at the morning meeting. Immediately I bristle. Not visibly, I got that under control after a few months in the business, but inside I’m angry.

‘Why’s that?’ I ask in a studied tone of neutrality. Only I’m not neutral, I’m old school estate agency. I want my clients – the owners – to have the best deal possible. They’re the couple that entrusted me with their home sale. Who chose me over at least two other agents pitching for the instruction. I have a duty of care and a certain amount of stubborn pride that hasn’t been eroded by years of ramped-up targets working for faceless financial institutions, more interested in the buyer than the seller.

‘Crap survey.’ Reports M derisively. ‘Needs new window frames soon, communal parts aren’t up to much and the sale agreed figure is too high.’ That’ll be the price the buyers were happy to pay four weeks ago then, I think sourly. Before M tucked them into a nice loan deal and some high-commission generating life insurance.

When I first started half a lifetime ago, when a Ford Orion Ghia and paisley ties were fashionable, it was simple. The estate agents acted for the seller and the buyer was pretty much the enemy. Then a raft of banks, building societies and insurance companies bought into partnerships with the sole aim of tapping into naïve first time buyers. The object was to snare them for life as a customer before another institution did. Endowment mortgages were flogged with ruthless singularity and it wasn’t unheard of for buyers to be favoured as long as they used the financial products the paymasters wanted flogged.

‘I’ve got at least two other buyers who’d pay the price agreed.’ I tell M wearily, still not wishing to junk all my principles despite my own moribund repayment vehicle – yep, I have an endowment too.

‘Yes but if it’s not worth the money.’ Repeats M dogmatically. He still seems to think chartered surveyors know values. They just chop a bit off the agreed price and churn out a survey so shot-through with caveats it actually says nothing actionable, to the practiced reader.

‘I’ve got an introducer’s fee due on the buyers.’ Says negotiator S with a rueful smile. She is good at channelling purchasers into M’s chubby paws and my bean counter boss loves bolt-on fee earning opportunities. But it’s a difficult square to circle and I often wonder if the punters – sellers or buyers – are getting the best deal. Then I remember I need to make some pretty chunky payments each month. It’s not easy to love yourself in this industry.

‘Get me a copy of the report and I’ll talk to the owners.’ I tell M gloomily. I’d love to tell the buyers to twist, and wheel in another purchaser possibly at more money to show the owners I’m on their side, but in reality that sale might come up against the same hurdles, only a couple of months down the line – and my mortgage needs paying every four weeks.

I remind M that there may be money to fix the windows in the maintenance sinking fund, but I know the management company in this block is as suspect as my allegiances. The original developer is rumoured to own the company charged with the upkeep of the building and like many, is using the arcane leasehold tenure system as a cash cow to milk ground rents and inflict skyrocketing service charges. I’d never buy a flat without a share in the freehold – come to think of it I’d never buy a flat period. Not again anyway.

‘This is blackmail.’ Wails the lady vendor when I tell her the buyers need three thousand off, or they’ll be off. I warned her at the beginning not to start packing until contracts were exchanged, but the room is full with cardboard boxes.

‘They shouldn’t be allowed to do this.’ Continues the joint-owner balefully. She looks at me as I think, don’t ask for a fee reduction lady, but instead she says: ‘What would you do?’

Take the money and run.

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Repeat Procedure - Tuesday

‘Booked you a valuation this evening.’ Says trainee F with puppy dog enthusiasm. I decide not to remind him it should be called a market appraisal now. I still think of the exercise as a valuation myself as do the public. It’s the lawyers who advise against calling a price recommendation a ‘valuation’ to stop litigation when some of the more disingenuous players get called to account for absurd price inflation, just to get homes on their books.

‘Well done.’ I tell F as he basks in my, praise in public criticise in private – or at least on an anonymous blog – management theory. I stroll to the diary, hoping he hasn’t booked me in after hours. I often think I was born too late for this industry. In the seventies some tool decided Saturday working would be a good idea for a momentary marketplace advantage. The opening days and hours mushroomed faster than house prices after that. Then all the partners sold out to Insurance Companies, Banks and Building Societies in the eighties and while I learnt how to flog dodgy endowment policies and payment protection, they grew fat on the golf course. Not that I’m jealous, I have other handicaps…

‘Oh no not them.’ I say body sagging audibly as a couple more discs collapse on to vertebrae.

F looks at me as if I’ve just ravished his girlfriend over the franking machine. It’s an act M our fat mortgage man picture-painted the other day and an image I’m trying hard to shake. Those financial services boys know all about disturbance selling.

‘Do you know them then?’ Asks a crestfallen F. I can see S my well endowed negotiator looking sternly at me behind F’s shoulder. She knows I’m always cajoling staff to book valuation appointments, the first step to fresh business. I’m in danger of falling in to that bad manger trap of expecting people to do as I say, not as I do. Plus a much more entrancing image of S looking sternly at me, only without that nearly superfluous blouse, is doing its own disturbance routine.

‘They have been looking to move for the last ten years.’ I tell F as gently as I can manage. ‘They refuse to put their own house on the market until they’ve found something.’

‘They said we could have theirs if we get them a bungalow at the right price.’ Continues F doggedly. It’s not his fault. It’s mine for having stayed this long. I know to about 99% certainty that these time-wasters will never move. And in the unlikely event I find a bungalow at the right price, in the right location, they’d either want too much for their house, or someone in a stronger position would beat them to the punch. But there’s still that nagging 1% chance - even with a 6.45pm appointment.

‘Good evening.’ I say pointedly, as the door opens and the familiar weasel face greets me, mousy wife just behind his shoulder and the soon to be serial killer oddball teenage son, lurking in the background.

‘You’ve been before haven’t you?’ Asks the man. He’s had more agents round his house than friends visiting in the last ten years I’ll warrant and the creepy son has probably never had a live girl – or boy – in his sterile, no wall posters, room.

‘We told your man in the office we won’t be bounced into putting our house on the market until you find us something suitable.’ Reiterates the charisma-free owner, as his wife trails behind faithfully. I have to physically stop myself from turning regularly to check the son isn’t stalking me, with a knife and a bin bag.

The house is dated but spookily tidy and after seeing the garage with individual hooks for each tool, the outline of the item drawn on the wall around each place, I get an unwanted vision of the man stencilling the missionary position on the bed sheet and checking his wife’s buttock placing with a spirit level, before he commences the act.

‘Just need one more beer mat under your right cheek before we get going love.’

I finished late with no happy ending.

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