Local Knowledge - Tuesday

A high-velocity run of expletives bounce round the office like a rubber bullet. I look up from my computer screen to see assistant manager T with a face like thunder. It could be the charges for the office swear box he’s just incurred but it’s likely to be something more costly. I suspect my sales pipeline has sprung another unwelcome leak.

‘What is it?’ I ask wearily, having heaved myself from my chair and left the office profit and loss figures to mercifully fade out when the screen saver kicks in.

‘The deal on Crescent Road has just fallen-through.’ Replies T angrily.

‘What?’ Questions fat finance man M, before I can. ‘Was I doing the mortgage?’

‘You might have been if you’d bothered to ring back the buyers.’Snaps T moodily.

M looks briefly embarrassed, before saying unhelpfully. ‘Well you should have booked them in for an appointment.’

As M waddles away an unpleasant chafing of man-made material follows the lazy lump of lard as he sways back to his office. They must make his suit trousers from the same fire-retardant material they manufacture children’s nightdresses from, or we’d have experienced a spontaneous combustion Bear Grylls would be proud of, by now.

‘Forget him.’ I tell T, with the sort of instruction I could do without getting back to the bean counter boss. ‘Tell me what happened.’

‘Their solicitor told them they can’t access the garage at the back.’ Replies T, arms outstretched. ‘But I’ve been round the back there myself.’

‘I know what it’s about.’ I tell T flatly.

Now people don’t often value my experience, or accumulated knowledge, when I price their home. Focus is often on how much they can ask and how cheap I’ll make my fee. But the reason you pay for a decent dentist or a switched-on solicitor, is they’ve demonstrated through study, exam and practice they are worth paying for. Estate agents don’t have to sit exams, or demonstrate a minimum standard of competence, though God knows I’d like them to, so consequently they all seem the same - until the problems start.

‘They were built by a speculator-builder in the late thirties.’ I tell my, now assembled, sales team. Trainee F briefly starts to raise his arm then thinks better of it. Even he realises I’m not that old.

‘And of course,’ I continue. ‘Not many people had use of a car then.’

‘Buy they have that access track round the back.’ Interjects T. ‘Where some people still have sheds.

And I’ve driven round there, seen the garage.’ He pleads indignantly. T should have thought of this potential problem when he took the property on - or I should have spotted it.

Old title deeds explained, and the Land Registry only being involved when homes change hands discussed. I ask who the buyers’ solicitor is?

‘Some out of town cheap and not very cheerful bunch.’ Replies T flatly.

‘And?’ I ask like a schoolmaster. To a simultaneous, and rather pleasing, chorus of:

‘You get what you pay for!’

‘So if I can convince your solicitors there is an established right of way,’ I tell the wobbly buyers later. ‘Would you still want to buy it?’

‘Of course, we love it.’ Answers the woman, who I know is the decision maker. ‘But we have to listen to the legal people.’

‘Leave it with me. I know what to do.’ I tell her, trying not to sound smug.

‘So if the old boy that lives next door signs an affidavit confirming he’s used that rear access for decades without problems it’ll be okay?’ Quizzes T later.

‘If it can constitute an established use.’ I answer. ‘The hard bit is convincing the buyers’ cheapo battery-farm legal outfit to back down.’

‘They seem pretty clueless.’ Responds T.

Yep, that’s what happens if you use a bucket shop lawyers’ firm. It’s the same with these joke on-line estate agencies. Use EasyPeasyProperties dot com, or whatever they call themselves, and it will probably cost you in the long run.

End result. Sale saved and back on course.

The profit and loss account is a different matter though.

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Down And Out - Wednesday

‘Whoaaa!’ Bellows assistant manager T, disturbing my study of the stock list. ‘We’ve got another faller.’

I look up from the record of every home we have on our books, some of which are coming up for their birthday, and see all eyes are staring through the office window. Putting the printout aside and  doing likewise with the thought of having to ring some of the more recalcitrant owners for price reductions, I move to the focus of attention.

‘It’s a bleeder too.’ Announces T staring out towards the pavement where I can now see an elderly woman sprawled in an undignified face-plant-to-paving-stone position. A couple of passers by have stopped in a sort of slow motion shock, although plenty of others are hurrying on by, pretending to be pre-occupied by phones and urgent transport connections.

‘We should go out.’ Says negotiator S, concern in her voice.

We should, I think rapidly, only the last few have bled on the carpet and sat for upwards of thirty minutes sobbing, or telling us their extended life stories, before the ambulance finally arrived.

‘Leave it.’ Says fat finance man M dismissively. ‘It will only be a load of grief.’

‘You callous sod.’ Says S with remarkable restraint. ‘Just because she’s too old for a mortgage.’

‘And it might be a bit late to flog a critical illness policy.’ Muses T. ‘Existing conditions are excluded aren’t they?’

‘Hilarious.’ Responds M sourly, before waddling towards the kitchen.

‘Shall I call the ambulance?’ Asks S urgently. Two of the passers by are now bending down to see to the dazed old lady, and another slightly shadier character has picked up her handbag. I watch him, even as I make the mental calculations as to how much grief bringing the bruised pensioner inside will cause, on a busy day.

‘That bloke in the hoody looks like he’s about to do a runner with her bag.’ Says T nodding towards the man I’ve already spotted.

Terrific, now it could be the police as well as the ambulance service I’ll be reporting to. But one decision is taken out of my hands, as the potential bag-snatcher confounds expectations and places the bag alongside the stricken pensioner before walking off. Book and covers, again.

‘Well?’ Urges S, a little peevishly. 

I know what I’m going to do, I’m just angry the council don’t respond to requests to mend broken paving slabs but still sting us for obscenely high business rates, then never collect the commercial waste on time.

‘Why is their skin so paper thin?’ Asks trainee F as I walk towards the door. The old woman is bleeding, like a burst crimson water main, from a nasty head wound. Groggily, she begins to sit up with the help of the two bystanders who had time and the inclination to stop.

‘Get some paper towels.’ I tell F irritably. ‘ They just get fragile after a long life.’ I say as I grab the door handle and wonder how many more years dealing with home moves before, I too, start leaking claret with every fresh hit?

‘I don’t want any fuss.’ Croaks the ancient lady once she’s sat at reception and the two good Samaritans have vanished faster than a summer mist.

S is ministering to her gently, boldly mopping up blood without the gossamer thin protection of any latex gloves. Human Resources dictated the First Aid Kit couldn’t have aspirin or paracetamol in it some time ago, so protection against HIV positive Grannies, or Ebola leaking holiday makers, isn’t available in the echoing red container.

‘Ask her if she’s thinking of selling her house for a sheltered flat now she can’t cope?’ Hisses M as he sways past me, while I wait for the daughter’s phone to be picked up. Before I can scowl at M, the answer phone kicks in. Reluctantly I leave a message that I hope doesn’t sound too disconcerting.

Finally, after learning about the five grandchildren who can’t visit too often as they are very busy, I hear the distant wail of an emergency services’ siren.

No fractures just bruising - same with the old woman.

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Stairway To Nowhere - Wednesday

‘What’s this shared ownership all about?’ Asks trainee F as I bustle through the office door hoping for a cuppa, rather than a tricky explanation.

‘It’s a bloody nonsense.’ Answers tubby finance flogger M as he balloons past munching something sweet.

‘I don’t think it is necessarily,’ counters S my negotiator. ‘They have to do something to help people get onto the housing ladder.’

‘Maybe,’ muses M showering her desk with sugary particles. ‘But not by making them pay top dollar for only 65% of the equity.’

M has a point, I think, as I set about explaining the schemes - often a condition of granting new planning permission - which offer buyers the chance to purchase a percentage of a new home then rent the remaining portion. M’s gripe is based around the difficulty in getting lenders to provide finance, the reduced opportunities to flog pricey insurance products and the fact that more often than not, the headline price for only a chunk of the new home’s equity, is very top heavy.

‘So,’ muses F painfully slowly as I eye the kitchen and wonder if I can sneak in there and make a cup of tea just for myself. ‘You end up paying nearly full price but you only own part of it.’

‘Pretty much.’ Concludes M with a sneer, before adding unnecessarily. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’

M does his best to perpetuate the public perception of property people.

‘It’s not that simple.’ I counter weakly. Truth is no estate agent likes trying to value a shared equity home for re-sale. It’s complicated by the occupier not owning 100 % of the bricks and mortar. They have to agree a split with the authority that owns the remaining share upon which they have been paying rent. If they have the capital, they can buy out portions of that share - or indeed the whole amount - in a process known as stair-casing,. Usually they can’t afford to.

‘However you stack it.’ Continues M, warming to his theme. ‘Some mug punter has paid 90% of the real value for only about 50% of the equity. They usually end in tears.’

‘And it’s wrong.’ Says S earnestly. ‘The whole point is to try and get people on lower wages to gain access to decent housing.’

You’ve got to love her - only it’s frowned upon in working hours…

‘It seems a good idea though.’ Persists F. ‘You know, for people like me who don’t earn much.’

‘If you sold a bit more you’d get more commission.’ Snipes B from her lettings desk. The hangovers are getting rougher and rougher. I decide to ignore her. If I wanted a shouting match followed by tears, I’d have it in my own time.

‘It is as good idea.’ Argues S, eyes shining zealously. ‘It’s just been highjacked by greedy developers conning vulnerable people.’

‘They are a nightmare to try and re-sell.’ I tell the group cautiously. I’ve never managed to get a consensus between all the interested parties.

‘So they can’t sell on if they want to upgrade?’ Quizzes F.

‘Not easily.’ I concede.

‘Not ever in my experience.’ Carps M.

‘So you wouldn’t recommend I try and see if I’m eligible?’ Asks F flatly. 

‘You’ll need a decent employers reference.’ Says M woundingly. F looks at me and I don’t exactly administer first aid.

‘I’d wait until you have a decent deposit.’ I tell F neutrally. ‘Then buy a conventional way.’

‘That might be for ever.’ Answers F, eyes blinking rapidly.

If I wanted to work for The Samaritans I’d volunteer for their switchboard - at least someone might make me a cup of tea.

‘Anyone who buys on a shared equity should remember the old adage.’ Says M. ‘Caveat Emptor.’

With all the hand-holding consumer regulation and little Latin taught at school, the phrase Buyer Beware isn’t always recognised. F looks confused and M pounces.

‘You don’t know what Caveat Emptor is, do you?’ He mocks cruelly. I look at F, just for once I hope the dullard paid attention in class. He hesitates and the office falls silent. Finally he’s ready.

‘Is it one of those Pokemon characters?’

About 50% is missing.

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Rain On My Parade - Friday

‘They’ve got to be having a laugh.’ Announces assistant manager T dryly, as I hurry in to the office damply. My umbrella wasn’t in the car boot where I left it, but I can see it now, all primary coloured, golfy, sponsory and fashion-free, as it sits in the corner mocking me.

‘Who used my umbrella?’ I demand testily, but I know even as I say it. F the trainee with the single-figure IQ, is looking the colour of the rain-protecting freebie even as I scan the appointments diary and realise he was the last one to use my company car.

‘You used it to walk back from the car park earlier didn’t you?’ I state rhetorically.

F blushes a deeper shade of crimson, then nods sheepishly.

‘Why didn’t you put it back?’ I demands, vaguely aware I’ve gone off topic, but too soggy to see sense.

‘Uh, it was raining.’ Responds F.

No shit, Sherlock? Seems like a viable option, but if he cries again it will mean more paperwork and the involvement of Human Resources – the only sustainable boom in housing, or any other industry, from my experience.

‘To be fair,’ soothes S my negotiator, a woman who could pacify for a living – only without the giant dummies and over-sized nappies, that would just be weird. ‘How would he have got back from the car himself without being soaked.’

Sometimes you don’t need logic, even from someone as uplifting as S.

‘You need two umbrellas,’ slurs lettings lush from her cluttered desk. She sounds like she’s been daytime drinking again. ‘One to leave in the office and one to leave in the car.’

Everyone ponders that one for a while. After multiple furrowed brows, F begins to raise his hand.

‘Don’t.’ I tell him, as gently as I can.  After the last trip to the dentist I’ve got to cut down on the teeth gnashing.

‘I’m on a corporate jolly next week,’ Says rotund finance-fiddler M as he waddles across the office towards the kitchen. ‘I could see if I might snaffle a few of their golfing brollies.’

Who is it?’ I ask, still thinking I should be addressing something other than clunky rain protection, which inevitably inverts catastrophically the moment a breeze wafts above 1 on the Beaufort scale.

M tells me the lender’s name and I bristle.

‘There’s no way I’m advertising that bunch of shitesters,’ I snarl back, still remembering the mortgage offer they withdrew at the eleventh hour, on a chain of three sales. ‘I’d rather drown.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Says M unperturbed. ‘You won’t be wanting any of their goody bags with the free pens and pads either.’

‘No I won’t.’ I fire back primly. To be honest I’ve a cupboard full at home and now the boys are at university….

Finally it clicks.

‘Who is having a laugh?’ I ask T, turning to face him and feeling the crotch of my trousers sticking damply as I move. My shoes are soaked; the leather soles are slipperier than a politician on Question Time and my jacket shoulders appear to be gently steaming in the office warmth.

But my mind is already running through an Interpol-like suspects list: buyers pulling out, vendors wanting more money as the neighbour has just gone on the market for £20k more than they’ve agree a sale for, bad employers references, a 100% mortgage retention pending re-building works – the list is endless.

‘The buyers of flat 7 want a £15,000 reduction or they are pulling out.’ Says T wearily.

S shakes her head and her breasts go back and forth doing that well-upholstered Newton’s cradle thing again.

‘Remind me.’ I ask T witheringly. ‘Is this the same couple who pleaded with us to take it off the market and not show anyone else round?’ T nods. ‘And said it was their dream home and promised they wouldn’t let us down, that their word was their bond?’

‘That’ll be them.’ Confirms T.

‘Bastards.’

‘Any luck?’ I ask T after he’s spent the rest of the afternoon, trying to save the dying sale.

‘Owner won’t drop a penny,’ answers T, face drawn with fatigue. ‘Say they might take the flat off the market now.’

It never rains but it pours.

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Santa Baby - Friday

‘Don’t be such an old spoilsport.’ Chides negotiator S playfully. She knows which buttons to press.

‘I’m not.’ I counter unconvincingly.

‘We all just buy something for £5 then wrap it up and do a lucky dip.’ Continues S, championing the office Secret Santa idea.

‘What can you get worth having for a fiver?’ I carp. The list is quite extensive as it happens.

‘It’s just a bit of fun.’ Suggests assistant manager T, adding. ‘There’s not much else to do.’

He has a point, the year end target became unassailable back in September, for the last few days the phones have fallen silent and the only footfall has been outside the office window as desperate shoppers seek inspiration for presents that will be re-gifted in the New Year.

‘You can get some great tins of biscuits at Tesco for cheap money.’ Says porky finance man M. He knows about overfilled plates and mortgage rates but has no idea when enough is enough.

We should be talking to existing vendors and encouraging them to trim their asking prices, rather then their Christmas tree. Should be gently suggesting a tacky inflatable snowman on the lawn and more lights than Blackpool can muster, on their front elevation, isn’t helping viewings. Should be chasing failed valuations and telling prospective vendors buyers are waiting if they are realistic on price expectations. Advising them to ignore the skewed surveys showing ever-rising values, driven by central London la-la land and Russian oligarchs trying to launder dubiously obtained profits. But sometimes you have to know when to stop.

‘Can I go first?’ Asks S excitedly, her vast breasts jiggling in acknowledgement of the fact I’m allowing staff to slope off to the shops to do their present buying, in the absence of any diary appointments. I’m still not sure if S’s décolletage is a feature or a benefit, but I’d happily support both.

‘Your turn boss.’ Says trainee F when he returns, several bags in his paws, the one from a countrywide pet supplies store has me worried and intrigued in equal measure. I know his girlfriend is rough, but that’s ridiculous. I decide not to ask and to watch carefully when he places his offering in the Secret Santa sack, later.

‘Excuse me can you point me in the right direction for ladies’ underwear?’ Asks a grey-haired old lady earnestly. I suppress the sort of monumental sigh that might weaken foundations and have ‘Bomber’, our sale-killing surveyor, reaching for his seismometer and ordering an engineer’s report.

‘I don’t work here madam.’ I say, for the umpteenth time. It happens whenever I go to Marks and Spencer in my business suit. I don’t usually get an argument though.

‘You look like you should work here.’ Persists the old girl doggedly. I haven’t got a lapel badge on, I’m not wearing a green tie and I’ve not tried to flog her a store card, so I could beg to differ. Instead I send her in the direction of returns, where the queue is already building even before the Boxing Day sale.

‘Can I help you sir?’ Asks a female voice and I jump as if someone has tasered me. I let go of the silky nightdress I was unconsciously fingering and feel my cheeks go a crimson that doubtless matches the Basque and panty set I discounted moments ago. The shop assistant does have a name badge, and is about nineteen years old.

‘I’m looking for a present.’ I stutter, feeling like I did on my first ever valuation – hopelessly out of my depth and a bit of a tit.

‘For your partner?’ Asks the girl neutrally. Nobody assumes you’re married any more, or heterosexual, or even a man wanting lingerie for someone other than himself. Progress of sorts, I guess.

‘Do you know what size she is?’ Cajoles the young woman artfully. I look at her, at the nightgown and try to stop an uncomfortable visualisation. The underwear version of the video house tour would just about cover it. Then my download freezes.

God knows, why I said: ‘She’s about your size.’

Now it’ll be me queuing at customer services on the 26^th December.

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Have a great Christmas and a Happy New Year and thanks for reading.