Alive Still Kicking - Friday

‘Don’t get old will you.’ States the grey-haired man rhetorically as I sigh internally. If I’ve heard that statement once, from an elderly owner, I’ve heard it a thousand times. But you have to humour potential vendors if you want their business - particularly if you’d like to sign-up a sole agency before the complications of probate and bickering beneficiaries. 

‘I just don’t know where the time has gone.’ Ruminates the old fella, as I glance at the overgrown garden and think; well you didn't spend it cutting the shrubbery back.

‘I sometimes forget how ancient I’ve become.’ Continues the man, eyes focused in the middle-distance. Yes, yes. Here we go.

‘And then I look in the mirror and hardly recognise the old fool looking back at me,’

That I can relate to, granddad. 

Ageing and the housing needs of the baby boomers who are suddenly becoming unsteady on their feet, is a massive demographic ticking-time bomb. I don’t think over-priced, shrunken-square footage, sheltered homes are the answer. Particularly with onerous leases, unfair clauses for re-sales and spiralling service charges just when the owners are running out of funds. 

‘The family keep telling me I can’t cope with this place.’ Continues the man waving his hand towards the overgrown garden. ‘But I've had the best times of my life here. I don’t want to go and live in a box that smells of cabbage, where old women play whist all afternoon with daytime television on at volumes even I can hear.’

I’m warming to this sparky pensioner, something I try to avoid. Liking your client is dangerous. Particularly if you are tempted to tell them to stay put and get a home help in three times a week - until you fall over on the nightly piss run, too often. I’ll always do my utmost to get a good result for a vendor, it’s a matter of professional pride, but becoming fond of them is a luxury I can’t afford.

‘I told you Patricia is in one of those ghastly care homes, didn’t I?’ Says the old man. ‘Only I’m becoming forgetful.’

He did and I don’t blame him for trying to forget it. His wife is apparently totally unaware when he visits, being kept alive for no real hope or reason, and it’s costing this poor old man £1500 a week.

‘Two years she’s been in there, young man, God alone knows what its cost me.’

£1444,000. And it’s the reason the family think he needs to downsize. If he’d been profligate and not bought his own house and had savings of less than about £23,000 the local taxpayer would be funding his wife’s care. Its a funny old world.

I pitch a price and my fee and he becomes sharper than before.

‘My son says I can get it done for just an up-front fee with one of those inter-web things.’ He means an on-line agent - or call-centre, as professional agents name them.

I start to counter this argument, with cautionary tales of impersonal, non-local service, dearth of industry knowledge and a lack of motivation to see the deal through, if you’ve been paid irrespective of result.

‘Oh you don’t need to tell me that.’ Says the man decisively. ‘ I’ve been around long enough to know you get what you pay for.’

Care homes, excluded, I think fleetingly.

‘I don’t want some kid in shorts dealing with my property.’

That’s the stuff, sir..

‘I want someone a bit long in the tooth - like yourself.’

Not so flattering….

‘What do you think about those sanitised boxes, with the pull cords and a communal lounge?’ Asks the man as my pen hovers, in his trembly hands, over the sole agency agreement. I hate them with a passion, they rip-off vulnerable old folk and are often worth less than the dead parents paid for them, when the grieving family come to sell.

I feel a bit sick as I leave. I’ve indulged in more fudge and had an unwelcome glimpse into my future.

Still, a sole agency and a For Sale board can’t be bad.

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Call Me - Wednesday

‘I’ve booked you a valuation this afternoon.’ Announces negotiator S, with that devastating smile. If the estate agency career ever goes pear-shaped she could make a passable living doing toothpaste adverts, either that or some sort of pay-as-you-go webcam based business…

‘Details,’ I prompt rubbing my hands with glee, like some latter-day Ebenezer Scrooge. ‘Details.’

‘All on the market appraisal form.’ Answers S a little smugly. She’s been well trained and will have all the information I need to get a competitive advantage. You might not need any qualifications to be an estate agent, but I’ve spent years learning my craft - and have the qualifications too.

‘Who am I up against?’ I quiz. Knowing that knowledge is power.

‘That’s just the thing answers S hesitantly. ‘Two of the usual suspects. Cheap fee Charlie and the corporate over-valuers.’

‘And?’ I ask, sensing there is one.

‘And one of those ridiculous, fee up-front, on-line outfits.’

Assistant manager T groans and says. ‘Rather you than me boss. They’ll be cheapskates who can’t see past the pound signs.’

T has a point. The on-line operators - most in the industry baulk at calling them estate agents as they don’t have a high street presence and little local knowledge - hence the call-centre tag, tend to attract the industry-naive sellers. They get the money up-front, unlike the traditional model where you only pay for a successful sale and completion, then have no incentive to continue promoting the home, or negotiating hard through the protracted sales’ process.

‘I don’t know why people fall for it.’ Says S. ‘The people they send out have no idea of the local market, tend to get the price horribly high, then disappear like mist on a May morning.’

‘Well it’s con isn’t it.’ States T, semi-rhetorically. ‘Mug them at the start for the money, tie them in to some slapdash battery-farm solicitors firm operating from a barn in Wales, then rely on the small print when they start to complain.’

T isn’t entirely wrong. The backlash against the several high-profile operators who advertise on television, funded by vast amounts of, less than savvy, investors’ start-up money, has begun. And if the market hardens, the directors who have, allegedly, been heavily offloading shares, will need those Spanish holiday homes to run to.

My clients don’t pay me, unless I negotiate a successful sale at a price they are happy with. It may be several thousand pounds, but it’s a results-based fee. If I screw up, if they, or their buyers change their mind. If one of dozens of reasons that can scupper a sale comes about - why one-in-three deals fail - they pay nothing. Nada. Not a sausage. 

‘Ah but the internet agent is £1500 cheaper than you.’ Says the potential vendor when I’m sitting in their pokey one-bed flat, later.

‘And they said our place was worth £15,000 more,’ chips in his girlfriend.

Like an incompetent Victorian canal-digger, I’m shoving water uphill again.

‘Where was the man from?’ I ask.

The couple look a bit sheepish.

‘Erm, a couple of hours drive. away.’ Admits the girl, finally.

‘So not exactly a local property expert.’ I tell them, unnecessarily. 

‘But he’s cheap.’ Persists her boyfriend.

Not if he doesn’t sell it and you’ve paid £850 you’ll never get back, I want to scream.

Successive government and a revolving door’s worth of UK Ministers have failed to get to grips with the housing crisis, but even those flawed policies look like a genius’s insight compared to the lack of understanding of the estate agent’s role and the need to ensure some level of minimum competence and perhaps some exams and licensing. I’ll be long gone before that is resolved.

‘We hear what you are saying.’ Says the boyfriend, as he shows me to the door. You don’t.

‘It’s just we’re saving so much money with the on-line lot.’ You’re not.

‘Can we call you if it doesn’t work out?’ Asks the girlfriend. No need. I’ll be contacting you much more regularly than the call-centre will.

Did you get it?’ Asks S, on my return.

I will.

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Fawlty Towers - Tuesday

‘We were hoping for  bit more than that.’ Says the elderly lady, and her crinkly husband nods in agreement. Either that, or he’s fallen asleep.

I’m sat in another dusty, overheated lounge, shelves stuffed with a lifetime’s mementoes. It’s mostly gift shop tat and doubtless will go in a skip when the beneficiaries get to clear out the couple’s last resting place.

‘Well you did say you wanted a realistic valuation, Mrs Glover.’ I counter gently. ‘And the developer will be needing the same.’

‘That’s true dear.’ Mumbles the man. Reassuringly he’s still alive. Probate can really hold up a sale.

‘It’s just….’ Begins the old lady falteringly.

‘Go on.’ I urge.

‘It’s just that the other two agents said much more than you.’

‘They were barely out of short trousers mind.’ Says her husband. ‘Didn’t like the cut of their jib.’

This is a familiar problem. Ever since I entered the industry I’ve been plagued by over-valuers. Agents who mislead potential clients to get their property on their books - often on a long sole agency - then batter the hapless vendors down to a sensible price once competitors, who were honest and accurate with suggested pricing, are locked out.

‘Well, did they show you comparable properties to yours that have actually sold?’ I ask. 

‘Not really.’ Admits the wife.

‘Told you they were charlatans.’ Croaks the old fella. I’m really warming to him. Just hope he lasts the protracted sales’ process.

‘Yes but it’s thirty thousand pounds.’ Continues the wife doggedly.

Not if you’re never going to get it, I want to shout.

‘And the flat we want is ever so pricey, we need every penny we can get.’ Says the old lady, not unnaturally.

‘Thought we were downsizing,’ confides the husband. ‘But we’re going to end up hardly banking anything once we’ve bought the sheltered flat.’

It’s a pet hate of mine. One that grows with every passing year as I move towards the same dilemma this pair are facing. The largely illusionary safety of an old persons’ home, with built-in security and the comfort of a pull-cord to tug when you collapse on the bathroom floor. In reality any shitester can con a resident to buzz them in to the building and the emergency call goes through to a dis-interested call-centre worker somewhere at the cheaper end of the Commonwealth.

‘What do you think we should do?’ Presses the husband. Damn it, and I really like this couple. I could tell them it would be cheaper to stay put, get a gardener and some home help. Avoid paying , way over what I consider sensible for a one bedroom retirement flat. A flat with punitive service charges, an onerous lease full of pitfalls and unfair charges for the beneficiaries when they come to try and sell, and one that will be worth less than their parents paid for it.

I could open a tourist shop with the amount of fudge I’ve dispensed over the years. We agree to market the home at £20,000 more than I’d like, but £10,000 less than the smoke-blowers have suggested. It’s a win, of sorts.

‘Got the developers of the retirement flat, the Glovers are hoping to buy, on line one.’ Says negotiator S, an hour after I’ve returned to the office and before I’ve even uploaded the sales’ particulars. I tense. I don’t like this lot, but then I deal with people I wouldn’t share a drink with, daily. 

‘Cheers. Put them through.’

‘How much could you sell it for, in six weeks?’ Presses the lady sales consultant. 

I offer her a gift-wrapped, metaphorical, 200gms of salted caramel product.

‘We need absolutes.’ She says curtly.

You don’t get those in property, lady.

‘If we take their house in part-exchange we want it sold quickly.’

I bet you do. And you’ll offer them 85% of it’s actual value - my original price not the over-inflated figure - and expect them to pay, what is about 150% of the true price, for your shrunken square-footage box.

Have a feeling I’ll be needing that gardener’s phone number.

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