You Move Me - Monday

‘Can you help us? Our solicitor and agent are useless.’ Pleads the red-eyed woman sat at my desk.

It’s not the first time I’ve heard that particular request. They say moving home is the third most stressful life-event after death and divorce - and I’m not convinced death fully-qualifies as a life-event….

‘They’re a bunch of idle f***wits.’ Says the husband, to a scowl of disapproval from his tearful wife.

I’m tempted to raise the old adage that public and government contract-awarders alike tend to forget - you get what you pay for. This couple are my buyers, so my duty isn’t to them it’s to my vendors, the people paying my fee, but unless I sort this mess my clients won’t move and I won’t get paid.

‘Our agent just never answers the phone and the cowboy who came round and over-valued our house has just disappeared.’ Moans the woman. Cowboys tend to get shot, I think fleetingly, but in this case I suspect he’s just ridden off into a purple-hazed sunset.

‘And the outfit he recommended as solicitors seems to be staffed by an ever-changing bunch of schoolboys who don’t do their homework.’ Spits the husband.

‘Like dealing with a call-centre?’ I venture mischievously.

‘Precisely.’

No surprise there. Maybe next time employ a traditional estate agent and a proper, local lawyer?

‘So why couldn’t our lot do that?’ Asks the wife an hour later, after I’ve spoken to the whole chain, three sets of solicitors and a reluctant lender, agreed an expedited mortgage offer and a proposed completion date. Because you paid a cheap fee up-front and they have no incentive to do anything, other that look for the next mug-punter to sign up? I think angrily.

‘If we ever move agin I won’t be using an on-line load of idiots.’ Says the husband, offering me his hand as the couple leave. Great, I think, maybe come back and see me next time?

‘Oh we won’t be moving again.’ Interjects his wife. ‘Never!’

Not so great.

Maybe one day, if a UK Housing Minister stays in post longer than a few months, we’ll have a joined-up policy for the industry. But I suspect I’ll be long gone. Other countries demand a minimum standard of education to practice as an estate agent - or realtor - and a sound form of licensing and monitoring. We continue to think cheap is value for money and when engaging a future service, you don’t find out until it’s too late, you’ve been duped.

‘Mrs Simmonds on line three.’ Announces negotiator S, later in the day. She’ll be ringing to say how delighted she is I’ve achieved a full-price asking price on her flat after just a fortnight of intensive marketing, five viewings and two competing offers, I think a little smugly.

‘I’m not really happy with the amount of fee I’m paying you.’ Says Mrs Simmonds by way of a greeting. The wind coming out of my sails is almost audible.

‘You don’t seem do have done a lot for the money.’ She moans and a lengthy diatribe about skill-sets, expertise, exam qualifications and the job being far from over, spools through may head. I should introduce Mrs Simmonds to the couple I had in the office earlier. They left singing my praises and wanting to bear my children - but then again they didn’t pay me a bean…

‘I wonder if I’ve undersold it.’ Continues Mrs Simmonds, in the time-honoured whine of an owner who is unhappy if you sell too soon and quick to change agents if you take too long. I’m tempted to give her the number of the on-line outfit my new friends employed, but they probably wouldn’t answer the phone.

‘What did Mrs Simmonds want?’ Asks negotiator S, after I’ve convinced the woman she won’t be paying me a penny until I nurse the deal through to a successful moving day.

‘What do they all want?’ I snap back.

‘Something for nothing?’ Ventures S, with a beguiling smile.

There you go.

--------

Waste Disposal - Wednesday

I’m early to the office again. Sleep patterns seem to become more erratic with age, either that or the stress of ever-climbing sales targets finally upset the bio-rhythms.

‘Morning.’ Says the man sweeping up the takeaway detritus from the previous night’s leisure activities. He just beats two overfed pigeons to the remains of a Kentucky Fried Chicken box. Not sure if that would qualify as some sort of avian cannibalism, but as the mad bag lady who keeps feeding them doesn’t seem to grasp, pigeons are basically flying rats.

‘Busy night again.’ I say to the street cleaner, nodding at the collection of franchised food outlet boxes, he is retrieving. I used to be a punk rocker, and railed agains society for a while, until I needed somewhere to live and a mortgage offer. But the sort of scumbags who can’t even be bothered to find a bin to dispose of their unwanted artery-clogging foodstuff, bring out the angry from middle-England man in me. Obviously, I would never buy the Daily Mail though…

‘They’re a bunch of animals.’ Says the unshaven council employee, with vigour. He’s technically accurate: pig, chicken and a beefy-looking kebab carcass, all in plain sight. The vegetarian take-away doesn’t open late, clearly when you get the boozed-up munchies you want something that used to have a heartbeat to satiate yourself. In any case, the veggies always use the bins, or take their containers home with them. You could almost forgive Linda McCartney for singing on Band On The Run.…

‘What’s the country coming to?’ I ask rhetorically, hoping to move on and get the office opened and the post too.

‘I’d shoot the bastards.’ Suggests the cleaner vehemently. Little extreme. I’m sensing a Brexiteer with a dislike of foreigners and their food. Next time I’ll not engage in platitudes and walk straight past him, like most commuters do. If he dislikes me, I’ll just show him a business card. Nobody loves an estate agent.

‘You are going to have to move mate.’ I say to the prone figure, swathed in cardboard who is slumped in the office doorway.

‘I’m homeless pal, have  a heart.’ Pleads the whiskery man, a waft of cheap alcohol rising from him like cider-laced steam.

‘Sorry, I need to open up the office.’ I tell the vagrant, patience thinner than a supermodel. I sometimes toy with putting some of those anti-tramp spikes in the doorway to solve the rough sleeper problem, but my industry’s image is already poor enough and knowing my luck I’d just impale one of our elderly clients. They hang around the office long enough, without being stuck in the doorway, pinned to the floor and shuffling unsuccessfully like an crumbly extra from The Walking Dead.

‘You lot are part of the problem.’ Says the man, as I finally get him to gather up his meagre belongings and shamble towards one of the charity shop doorways. They won’t open for a while and it’s an amusing test of their benevolence to see if they’ll move him on.

We’re not part of the problem actually, I think, as I pick up the post and feel a stinging pain run down my leg. F**k, bend your knees you idiot. How many times do you need to be told?

‘We just reflect the market.’ I say to the empty office, my voice bouncing round the void. The talking to myself is becoming an issue. ‘It’s supply, demand and the availability of finance.’ I continue, as I fill the kettle and line up everyone’s mug. I’m probably the biggest one. I don’t know why I’m still here, and I don’t know what to do about it.

Glancing at the office diary, my mood sinks a little further. Selling isn’t for the faint-hearted. You need the resilience of any rough sleeper, you just get screwed over in a warmer environment.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m sat on my own, tea cooling, morning meeting notes prepared. I glance at the clock, they’re all cutting it fine today. That recurring fear that everyone will ring in sick on the same day rises.

It’s rubbish.

---------

Nearly New - Tuesday

The company car has been running on the drive for a good ten minutes. It’s probably de-frosted by now and the bag of nails rattling sound indicates nobody has stolen it, so I guess it’s time to go.

‘Good luck.’ Mutters my wife with a chilly peck on the cheek.

‘For today? In general? Or for the year?’ I fire back icily.

She raises her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Whatever you want it to be.’ She eventually offers, with a slight shrug. I’m in fourth gear and just about able to see out through the misty screen, by the time I realise I’ve been a complete arse again. But then as an estate agent you do have certain stereotypes to live down to….

Sales people hate the new week, month, quarter and most of all year. It’s when the targets are at their most distant and your progress towards them zero. As another year begins I can’t help that overwhelming wave of melancholy.  It’s so much more than just post-Christmas regret at the excess of sweets and mince pies, and the forthcoming dispiriting trip to Marks and Spencer to queue at the returns counter, after all the mis-judged purchases were either inappropriate or the wrong size.

One year I came in to the office, already depressed by the fact the week was short and my sales on nought, to find two deals had fallen through over the Bank Holiday. So I began the mountainous climb, on minus two. Think I comfort ate all the remaining Bounty bars in the office tub.

On the grid-locked dual carriageway, I once again see the same blank faces, slightly chubbier around the jowls maybe, but empty in every other way. The only people exceeding their sales targets this week will be the impossibly trim and cheery waifs flogging gym membership at the health clubs and fitness centres. Come March they won’t be so unstintingly upbeat.

My mobile rings insistently and I realise I haven’t connected the wretched Bluetooth headset I can’t abide. As the traffic has stopped again, I risk a quick glance at the screen and see trainee F’s number flashing. If he’s calling in sick because he’s drunk too many pints of Jagermeister, or whatever vile un-naturally coloured alcohol he sinks, I’ll finally bite the bullet and start the torturous dismissal procedure.

‘Yes?’ I demand, having swiped to answer.

‘Happy New year boss.’ Says the imbecile, with an discernible croak to his voice. Unless it’s terminal, I’m not going to be happy.

‘Don’t tell me you are calling in sick.’ I say bluntly. There’s a long pause and some sort of hand over mouth muttering. It sounds like his flaky on-off girlfriend is in the room. I don’t even want to imagine if she’s on, or off. 

‘Well?’ I demand, as the traffic starts to move and I get a disapproving look from a woman in a four-by-four. At least I’m not killing polar bears lady, I want to scream - until I remember my lengthy de-icing period while my car chugged fumes into the atmosphere and I chugged  Cornflakes with too much sugar.

‘Err, no.’ Answers F unconvincingly. ‘I just wanted to be the first to wish you a Happy New Year.’

‘You didn’t - and you’re not the first.’ I reply uncharitably.

‘…and to say I might be a bit late,’ continues F. ‘It’s not my fault though.’ He volunteers, in the now time-honoured default position of anyone under thirty. ‘The car is iced up.’

My cold blast of sarcasm vented, I punch the call to a close and we’re off again. Stop-starting all the way in to town where I find the car parking charges have gone up again. This clueless council won’t be happy until the whole town consists only of coffee shops, charity units and whichever estate agents make if through the inevitable freeze.

‘Spare some change for a cuppa?’ Pleads one of the park bench winos, as I slip-slide towards the office. Any money extorted won’t be for tea and as I’m doing Dry January you can too, I think as I step gingerly on. Not sure what he and his pisshead mates will do when everyone is using contactless payment, probably get a card reader and a decent 4G signal.

The office window looks as I left it, except one of the timers for the lights seems to have failed again and at least one bulb in the working side is out. I could leave it until February and I doubt anyone else in my office would notice. Instead I make a mental note to order some new halogen units before they stop making them, those things eat power.

The office feels cold and unwelcoming as I hurry inside.

And so it begins.

-------

Speculate Accumulate - Thursday

‘Here comes the tosser you can’t abide.’ Warns assistant manager T, glancing out the office window.

‘You’re going to need to narrow it down a bit.’ Chips in loose lettings lush B, with a chuckle.

‘Funny.’ I tell her, with a scowl, but she is probably closer to the truth than I’d like. Several decades of dealing with people’s property problems and my milk of human kindness is more curdled than bottles on a dead pensioner’s doorstep.

‘Who is it?’ I hiss at T. I can’t walk to the window without being exposed - and people still won’t let me forget that time I absent-mindedly adjusted my trousers while changing bulbs on the illuminated display.

‘That slimeball of a speculator.’ Answers T.

‘Yuck, I hate him.’ Says negotiator S with a shiver. She’s a pretty good judge of character - most of the time.

‘Well he won’t be wanting to talk to me.’ Predicts B. ‘He’s lets all his grotty homes in multiple occupation himself, too much of a cheapskate to use a proper agent.’

Everyone looks at B in unison.

‘What?’ She demands, but it’s too late, the office door is opening and a chancer oilier than a leak at an olive factory, slides in.

I dislike speculators with a passion. They prey on distressed sellers and corruptible estate agents. Hoping to buy a property below the market value then sell it on with minimal cosmetic improvement, at a huge mark-up. They are not adverse to offering the infamous “brown envelope” to crooked agents - cash in hand for favourable access to a property to the exclusion of other competitors. It’s illegal and one of the few principles I’ve refused to compromise over the years. I act for the vendor, they pay my fee and I never forget it.

‘Alright guys.’ Calls the thirty-something man, dressed in expensive designer jeans and a t-shirt that probably cost more than my suit. I can now see his personalised number plate Range Rover, bumped up on the kerb across the road. There’s never a traffic warden around when you need one - get caught up on a difficult telephone call when you’ve rushed in to collect a set of keys though, and they appear like flies round a turd.

‘You got anything for me?’ Continues the Armani-clad vulture. ‘Repossessions, deceased estates anyone desperate to sell?’

I pride myself on getting the best possible price for any owner that entrusts their home to me, so by definition, flogging their property to a speculator wanting an immediate mark-up isn’t fulfilling my part of the contract.

‘Nothing.’ I tell the man bluntly. ‘Not with an earn in it.’

‘Oh come on.’ he wheedles. ‘You lot never find me anything.’

There’s a reason for that, I think spikily. I may have compromised on some of my youthful principles - the endowment selling scandal wasn’t my finest hour - but I have never knowingly undersold a client’s home.

‘Nothing that would suit you at the moment.’ I tell him, my body language about as unfriendly as it can be, but this guy has a hide like a rhinoceros. Don’t say it, I think as I see the words forming. If I wanted to be insulted I’d just video the sales charts at the monthly manager’s meeting and play it back endlessly…

‘I’ll make it worth your while.’ He spouts, with a salacious grin. He said it.

‘Give you any re-sales,’ he adds, then looking across at B. ‘Or the chance to find me some tenants.’

B smiles back in a sickly fashion. ‘No scumbag social security spongers though,’ continues the man as I see S’s hackles, and breasts rising. ‘They are nothing but trouble.’

‘Well done.’ Praises S as I watch the speculator jog across the road and drive away, as seconds later that hated traffic warden wanders round the corner. Typical.

‘You told him where to get off.’ Continues S with a smile that could melt glaciers faster than global warming.

‘He’ll be back.’ Predicts T. ‘People like that are impervious. He’ll do anything for a quick profit.’

True. But my pride is intact - until the next sales meeting anyway.

----------

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Band Aid - Tuesday

A scream echoes round the office and nearly gives me a heart attack. At my age and with celebrities sharing the same birth decade dropping like flies, I can’t afford too many sudden shocks. As it turns out, F the idiot trainee, is the one risking electrocution.

‘What have you done now?’ I demand, as I enter the main office and see F hopping around his desk like some epileptic frog. 

The question is rendered as redundant as he should be, when I see a pool of hot coffee spread across his desk, seeping into his keyboard, as the free mug from a lending institution I really dislike, sits on its side almost empty.

‘He’s spilt his drink.’ Says negotiator S, as she moves to F’s work station and starts to dab at the puddle with some tissues.

‘Careful you don’t short-out the circuitry.’ Cautions assistant manger T, making no attempt to help. My circuitry is close to meltdown, I think uncharitably, and I can’t just be mopped down then switched off and on again.

‘How did you manage that?’ I demand, as F stops jerking around and patting at his sodden shirt sleeve. He won’t know.

‘I don’t know.’ He confirms, clutching at the dampened material, before saying pitiably. ‘I think I may have some sort of burns.’

‘Well it won’t be first degree.’ Suggests loose lettings’ lush B. She knows F flunked an expensive private education and is also well aware you don’t need any qualifications to become an estate agent.

‘You’ll be alright.’ Soothes S as she finishes clearing up the spilt beverage and begins to lift the dripping keyboard.

‘Careful.’ I tell her. ‘It might give you a shock.’

‘It’s low voltage. Shouldn’t be dangerous.’ Opines T still sitting in his chair, some distance away from any potential electrical arc.

‘I’ll get the first aid box.’ Says S, dropping the stained tissues into F’s waste paper bin and heading for the kitchen.

‘Slim chance of anything useful in there.’ Says obese mortgage man M. ‘Health and safety Nazis took everything out of the box, last visit.’

M is right. The paracetamol and Ibuprofen I left in the red plastic container were confiscated. The cream for minor cuts and abrasions removed, in case of allergic reactions and the scissors taken - presumably to stop me from stabbing someone from head office with a job title as meaningless as Esperanto.

‘Yep, he’s right.’ Confirms S, as she lifts the lid of the first aid box and pulls out a couple of faded bandages and square of linen that might double as a sling for a petite pantomime performer, should Snow White be playing at the local theatre.

‘About as useful as a chocolate tea pot.’ Confirms M, with a hearty chuckle.

‘That could cause even more nasty burns.’ Says T, with a smirk.

‘Good one.’ Says T.

If they high-five each other, I might really need to call casualty.

‘They’ve even removed the safety pins.’ Says S, with a shake of her pretty head, as she empties the useless contents on to the desk.

‘But surely….’ Begins F, still waving his arm around piteously.

‘Don’t even go there.’ Says T.

‘No point.’ Adds M, smugly.

Put your hand in the air and you’ll be needing a first responder, I think, scowling at the blubbery buffoon.

‘You’ll be wanting this.’ Suggests B, as she tosses an embossed A4 sized stationery item at me, while S tenderly inspects F’s arm, now his soggy sleeve is rolled up. Fleetingly, I wonder if I can produce a spillage she could attend to. Best not.

I Frown at B. She’s given me the company accident book. A journal where all incidents, no matter how trivial, must be recorded - for personal protection and insurance purposes. Translation: to cover the companies corporate arse cheeks, should someone wish to sue, retrospectively.

‘If I fill anything out there’ll be a load of pointless paperwork.’ I grumble.

‘Your shout.’ Says M, ducking responsibility with surprisingly agility, for one so bulky.

‘I think I’ll live.’ Says F, stoically.

I’ll be the judge of that.

I take a chance. 

If the ambulance chasers turn up, I’ll feign illness.

---------

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The Human Touch - Tuesday

‘Oh give me strength.’ Says negotiator S, as she replaces the phone receiver and puts head in hands.

It’s a familiar pose. When you deal with people and property, stress and disappointment is a permanent companion. It’s a wonder everyone’s cranium isn’t constantly cupped.

‘Vendor or buyer?’ I enquire, knowing either party is equally likely to disrupt a sale and just a likely to pull the plug on a deal with impunity - bar the lawyer’s bill.

‘Down the Hall’s chain.’ Replies S, referring to one of our owners whose sale has been moving at a geriatric mollusc’s pace. ‘Some numpties are using an on-line agent.’ Continues S, with a shake of her head.

‘Bit of a misnomer.’ Interjects assistant manager T. S raises a quizzical eyebrow and, distractingly, one breast.

‘Well,’ clarifies T. ‘A call centre with an automated switchboard and a cheap for sale board, isn’t a real agent, is it?’ He states semi-rhetorically.

He’s right. People have been predicting the death of the traditional, high street estate agent for the last twenty years. Ever since some spotty oik, with an algorithm and no sex life, thought writing a programme in his bedroom, would replace real people, with real knowledge and a wealth of experience. 

I’m not one to blow my own trumpet - not least because I’ve heard it’s anatomically impossible - but I’ve lost count of the number of sales, I’ve saved over the years. Where the easy part is agreeing the transaction and the hard bit is progressing the deal to successful completion.

‘Some idiot thinks they are saving money by using a cheap outfit,’ continues S angrily. ‘And they are trying to do all the sales progressing themselves.’

‘Not good.’ Says T, unnecessarily.

‘And now they have pissed off everyone in the chain, the solicitors refuse to talk to them and the first time buyer at the bottom is threatening to pull out if they can’t complete before their planned wedding date.’

‘Even I know it’s a false economy.’ Says trainee F, as he opens a packet of own brand, basics biscuits, from the local supermarket. I haven't got time to point out the irony. They can train dogs to fly planes now, but flogging dead horses won’t keep me stable…

‘Someone needs to talk to them and explain you get what you pay for.’ Suggest T, walking over and helping himself to one of F’s biscuits. More irony than what’s left of the British steel industry, in my office.

‘I know,’ agrees S. ‘And remind them you only pay a proper agent a fee, when they get the deal done.’

‘Work your way down the chain and speak to as many people as you can.’ I counsel.

S looks at me with a hint of distain, before saying.

‘I know, I’m doing that.’ She’s good, I sometimes forget how good with the other distractions.

‘The point is, I shouldn’t have to.’ Continues S. ‘If the industry wasn’t full of shysters and charlatans who can set up and start trading without so much as an IQ test.’

No sale no fee, is a double-edged sword for the estate agent. It encourages reluctant sellers to come to the market with no cost - other than the widely ignored Energy Performance Certificate - yet it means owners can change their minds with no real financial penalty. We, on the other hand, can work for months on a sale only to have several thousand pounds worth of commission disappear with a phone call. It does mean we work damned hard to keep sales together though.

‘How you getting on?’ I ask S, when I return from an abortive viewing. If I had ten pounds for every time I’ve stood on a doorstep, like a poor man’s prostitute, waiting for punters who end up screwing me over, I’d be….well…. I’d be better off than I am now. And not feeling so soiled.

‘I’ve managed to track down the fiancee at the bottom of the chain.’ Answers S. If this career fails, she’d make a great private investigator.

‘And we’ve got a bit of leeway, she’s happy if we can exchange before the wedding and we leave completion until they return from the honeymoon.’

Try negotiating that with an answerphone.

---------

Data Overload - Wednesday

I’m on another unwanted course in another cheap hotel, staffed by eastern europeans who’d really rather be at home, from their body language. 

As a man who started his career on a basic wage so low that the Job Centre wouldn’t carry the advert, I’m all for sensible salaries as not everyone can walk the commission tightrope. But you have to wonder if the guaranteed minimum wage isn’t dragging Svetlana and Bogdan away from perfectly good jobs at the Razgrad Ramada Inn - although maybe they don’t have a demand for shitty under-lit meeting rooms that require stewed coffee and stale custard creams…

‘This will be another colossal waste of time.’ Whispers my vertically-challenged, rival manager H, as he sits beside me and that unconventionally pretty woman from the city centre office goes and sits at the other end of the table. Damn the little squirt, I was hoping for some distraction from another poorly-delivered PowerPoint presentation.

‘You know what they say.’ I mutter through my amateur ventriloquist’s grimace, as a butch looking woman, in inadvisable trouser suit, enters the room clutching a clipboard.

‘What?’ Replies B.

‘You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.’ I croak back, trying to keep my teeth together and wondering just how the fat-arsed woman managed to leave the house without checking her appearance. I’m guessing no full-length mirrors.

‘You didn’t let me finish,’ says H hurriedly. ‘ I meant what the hell is that?’ And he nods towards our bulky guest speaker, about to bore us rigid on the Data Protection Act.

It’s not a chivalrous comment but then nobody at the sharp end of sales has much time for pen-pushing jobsworths who know the minutiae of every laxly-drafted piece of legislation, but couldn’t sell a lifebelt to a drowning man. At least not without  torturously advising him of the health and safety limitations of a non-kitemarked flotation device, as he slowly sinks for the final time.

Strange, how the UK property industry becomes progressively hog-tied by clunky laws that produce unintended consequences often detrimental to the intended beneficiaries, and yet is still one of the few countries in the world where an estate agent can practice without a licence, or any relevant qualifications.

‘We could do with some data protection from that fat backside, way too much information.’ Comments H, as the presenter sets up a projector, bending unfortunately in front of us and nearly blanking out 150 x150cms worth of matt-white, flame retardant/mildew resistant Bi-Office tripod screen.

‘Today I’m going to give you a refresher on the implications and implementation of the Data Protection Act 1998.’ Drones the woman as she indicates her dull first slide, now visible on the just erected screen. I can feel another little piece of my life ebbing away and for a moment I think the gurgling is an audible representation of it, until I see H had got the thermos style coffee pot and is pumping the black button to try and liberate some gravy-like cash and carry coffee. He’ll need it to stay awake.

I wouldn’t mind, but I still don’t quite get how the Data Protection Act and the secrecy required, dovetails with the equally ponderous Freedom of Information Act. Who am I kidding? It doesn’t.

‘Here we go.’ Says H sourly, as a slide listing DataProtection principles pops onto the screen.

‘A raft of extra paperwork to do and special status for ever minority and freak show member under the sun.’

And I thought I was the jaundiced one. Still H has a point. We are already unpaid border control and tax evasion monitors. You begin to wonder just what these not very civil servants actually do?

Three hours later and the stale sandwiches arrive and the dull woman with the oversized arse cheeks comes towards me. I never attract the pretty ones.

‘How are you finding it?’ She asks me, grabbing the last two egg and cress sandwiches.

Hard to miss, I feel like saying, particularly as I had my eye on the final food offerings. But of course I do what everyone will do with the Data Protection requirements. Lie and prevaricate.

‘Very informative thank-you.’

----------

Same And Old - Wednesday

‘I’ve booked you a valuation this afternoon.’ Announces S when I return to the office. You’ve got to love her - only of course I can’t. Not without an expensive divorce, loss of house, job and love and respect of everyone I love. I’ve seen what feckless fathers can do first hand, and I’m not about to repeat it, no matter what the geneticists say.

‘Not sure how serious they are though.’ Continues S. ‘They’ve been on the market for twelve months and we’ll be their third agent if they swap to us.’ I ask S where the property is and she tells me. I try to suppress a groan of despair, she’s doubtless worked hard to gain the appointment so a negative response isn’t going to endear me.

‘Do you know it?’ Asks assistant manager T languidly. Of course I f***ing know it, it’s my job to, I think angrily. And his too.

‘Its been on the market for over a year.’ I announce sniffily.

‘She told you that.’ Counters T petulantly.

So I list the other two agents who’ve been marketing the home at way too much money, and for good measure I tell T the price it started at, plus the two minor price reductions since. That’s the difference between an on-line agent - or glorified call-centre - and a local property expert. I know my patch as intimately as a nicotine addict trying to ditch cigarettes.

‘Have you primed them for some straight talking?’ I ask S.

S smiles wanly. ‘Well I’ve told them you’ll be frank, but they seem a bit sceptical about estate agents and honesty.’ She replies.

S has a point, yet another recent survey placed our industry near the murky bottom of the public perception for trust, we’ve hauled ourselves above politicians and journalists, but it’s still not great company.

‘They are probably another pair in cloud cuckoo land.’ Predicts T with a sneer. ‘A fiver says they’ll tell you, “we’re not giving it away,” when you hit them with a realistic price.’

‘He won’t take that bet.’ Predicts fat mortgage man M, joining the conversation. Damned straight I won’t. I’ve seen more hopelessly deluded dreamers than Asif, the lottery ticket salesman at the newsagent.

‘Do you know what it’s really worth?’ Presses S.

I do. Of course valuing a home is more of an art than a science, and you need to see a property to gauge, presentation, condition, orientation, grounds etc, but this isn’t a one-off property, that might be hard to price. It’s in a road of very similar homes and I have a wealth of data on comparable sales, ones that have gone through, not just wishful asking prices,

I tell T what I’m predicting and he whistles expansively.

‘Good luck with that.’ H says dismissively, turning back to his phone screen. If he’s on Tinder again I’ll be setting something incendiary under him.

The house is probably still a good £50,000 over-priced and I have a feeling the vendors won’t be that well disposed to a dose of reality. But then you have to kiss a lot of frogs in his business and I’m used to having a sour taste in my mouth.

‘So you see,’ explains the wife, when I’m sitting in their lounge later. ‘We need to get that price for our house as we’re moving to a more expensive area.’ My heart sinks faster than a skydiver with a faulty chute. The impact is going to hurt.

‘Unfortunately you can only command what the area will sustain.’ I explain gently. Their argument is a well worn and irrelevant one. Unless their home is so unique it will create a lot of interest and justify a guide price and competitive bidding - which it isn’t - they need to get real. Or start unpacking.

‘You lot just want a quick sale and a big commission.’ Sneers the husband. He hasn’t endeared himself to me by not turning off the television, so perversely I’m battling some inane presenter trying to convince fat and balding couples to buy something second hand in the sun. I cut to the chase.

‘How much?’ They shout in unison.

Apparently, they’re not giving it away….

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