Forecast Folly - Monday

‘So, predictions for the property market in the year to come?’ I ask, after delivering my morning meeting. There’s a group look of bemusement from my slightly overweight and overwrought team. They were probably expecting a quiet start to the new year, with just a bit of disinterested grazing on the remaining chocolates in the tin the board man gave us, but now I’ve challenged them.

And why not challenge them? I’m going to be challenged by the cranked-up office targets the bean counter boss has lumbered me with. He’s made assumptions on what prices and activity will do during the next twelve months. They might as well stick their fingers in the air too.

‘Rental market will be busy again.’ Volunteers B, our loose lettings lush. She’s filing her nails again, something I’m thinking of sending the way of eating at your desk and smoking in the office, if she continues to inflict powdered cuticle flakes in my direction.

‘You think?’ Challenges assistant manager T.

‘Yes, of course. Owner occupiers are going the way of the dinosaur with prices the way they are.’ Crows B. ‘You’ll all be under me soon.’ It’s not a pleasant image.

‘Rubbish,’ says T. ‘ It’s still cheaper to buy in the long run and renting is just dead money.’

‘That’s a cliche.’ Spits B.

Yes, but cliches are usually founded in truth.

‘What do you predict?’ I ask negotiator S.

She tilts her head alluringly.

‘Well,’ she begins. ‘If supply stays as restricted as it has been and with demand not slackening, prices will only go one way.’

‘Yes.’ Agrees fat mortgage man M, with an unpleasant grin. ‘And if you shovel those naive first time buyers my way, I can source cheap money and some tasty insurance products.’ God I yearn for simpler times, when we just acted for the vendor of a property and didn’t have conflicted loyalties.

‘What do you think will happen if interest rates climb several points?’ I ask, remembering the time when my mortgage payments were levied at 15% and I was one missed payment away from having an unpleasant man in a cheap business suit repossess my house. In retrospect, I stubbornly kept paying a crippling amount only to avoid the humiliation of a rival putting their For Sale board up at my, just vacated, home.

‘Interest rates can go up?’ Asks trainee F to muted laughter. I think he’s joking but you can never tell with him, plus he’s only ever known an environment where rates are low single figures and pensioners constantly complain about poor returns on savings.

‘You’ve seen a few property crashes.’ Says S.

‘Not that many.’ I counter sharply.

‘Yes but you know what I mean,’ persists S. ‘Do you think it will happen again?’

I’ve been expecting it for some time. I just don’t want to voice it too loudly. Historically all the markers suggest a big price correction is overdue, but maybe a once in a generation change is taking place. Maybe the old figures and multiples don’t apply in a world of cheap money, not enough new homes being built and a burgeoning population. Maybe.

‘It could.’ I venture to a sniff of distain from M. ‘But with out targets for the coming year we’d better hope it’s not in the next twelve months, or nobody will getting a bonus.’

‘It won’t.’States M firmly. ‘Too many vested interests in finance and Government. There’s more chance of on-line estate agents catching on.’

Everyone laughs. Now apart from the great solar roof panel con, I can’t think of a more over-hyped, under used development in the property market for years, than on-line estate agents. An oxymoron if ever there was one. It’s a local knowledge and expertise business , always will be. Good luck to any investors in an industry I still don’t fully understand after half a working lifetime, if they think they can make it work from a glorified call centre. 

‘How’s the week looking so far?’ Asks the bean counter when he rings late in the day.

‘Promising.’ I tell him, fingers crossed.

Probably.

------

Battle Zone - Friday

I’m outside a pleasant semi-detached house in one of the nicer parts of town. I want it on my books - but so will every other estate agent locally.

Preparation is everything in a sales situation. I have a briefcase full of promotional material, agency contracts, print-outs of suitable buyers I have registered looking for similar homes to the one I’m about to value - and most importantly of all, data on comparable properties sold recently.

I glance at my watch, then double check with the car clock. I’m at least fifteen minutes early after the last appointment turned out to be the biggest pair of time wasters since….well….since the previous ones.

In the days when I used to help train new recruits, before I was deemed too dated and dowdy, I would labour the importance of never being late for a valuation appointment. The owner - at least the house proud ones - would have tidied up and been looking at the clock for at least ten minutes before the agreed time. Run behind and turn up just five minutes late and your potential client may well have been looking out the curtains fretting about your arrival, for at least quarter of an hour.

This bitch clearly hasn’t though, I realise, as I look across the road and recognise a bitter rival’s company car. It doesn’t have the tacky paint job, or the corporate logo down the side but it’s just as conspicuous to me. Damn it. I’m on a beauty parade and having pulled down the sun vizor and checked a few moments ago, I’m going to need to labour the charity work and world peace angle. Calling it a vanity mirror was painfully accurate.

My mobile chirps insistently. I really need to change that irritating ringtone, but I’ll need to wait until one of my sons is back from University. I can’t have the office thinking I’m more of an inept Luddite than they already do.

‘Yes?’ I enquire curtly, seeing it’s the office calling. I was about to turn the phone off. You don’t want it ringing when you are half way through trying to convince an intransigent owner their home really isn’t worth the £30,000 more a rival agent told them they could get.

Negotiator S comes on the line, her soothing tones a loss to the Premium Rate phone industry.

‘Could you fit in a late valuation this evening?’ She asks artfully.

I can’t afford not to, even though it could mean another charcoaled dinner when I finally get home - and my wife doesn’t do barbecues…

I jot down the details, hoping it won’t be me and several other agents this time.

‘Did you know I was going to be in a queue of oily liars in suits, on this valuation?’ I ask S. She laughs.

‘What?’ I demand.

‘Well that sort of indicates you’re a greasy bloke in a three piece.’

As it happens, I ditched the waistcoat after too much ridicule from my unsympathetic team. In truth, it was too sweaty anyway. Nothing worse then reeking of body odour when you are trying to appear fragrant and professional.

‘She didn’t say there’d be others.’ Answers S defensively. ‘But then there always is, isn’t there?’

There is. Unless it’s a probate sale. The dead are less argumentative than the living, although the squabbling beneficiaries more than make up for it.

‘Do you know who is in there?’ Quizzes S, as I look at the dashboard clock and wonder how long to give it before I cut short my opponent’s sales pitch

‘The shitester with the zero-fade haircut and loud ties.’ I tell her sourly.

‘God, you’ll not be able to breathe in there for aftershave fumes.’ Chuckles S.

More importantly, I’ll have to push my suggested sale price to stratospheric proportions. The outfit the man works for are notorious for misleading sellers to secure a sole agency, before starting to work on big price reductions.

‘We reckon you should sneak over and let his tyres down.’ Says S mischievously.

It’s tempting, but knowing my luck I’d be caught on someone’s home CCTV.

I’ll just pull his for sale board down after dark.

------

First Defence - Thursday

‘Can you squeeze in another valuation before lunch.’ Says negotiator S even before I’ve closed the office door.

‘Really?’ I reply, glancing at the wall clock and looking longingly towards the kitchen where there was just under half a packet of Malted Milk biscuits when I left.

‘She has to see you today.’ Continues S as I see tubby mortgage man M emerging, with a mug of something steaming and a fist full of curiously moorish baked product.

Now it’s a long time since any woman really had to see me at such short notice. But as M has finished all the Malted Milk, and has just as clearly only made himself a drink, it seems I’d be better off pitching for some business than pitching in head first against the morbidly obese finance-fiddler. I’ll sort him later.

‘Give me the details.’ I say to S curtly.

She reals off the  basic information. Address, property type, number of bedrooms, name and contact methods.

‘And reason for wishing to move?’ I say, wanting the most important piece of the puzzle.

‘They’ve outgrown their existing house.’

‘Partner?’ I probe. Hoping to know if I can get both parties together, then find out which one is the decision maker.

‘He’s at his office.’ S shrugs a semi-apology,. ‘I know, but she’s said it was the only time she was available and she’s off work today.’

I nod, look at the clock again, then accede. You can’t afford to turn down chances for business in any market place and valuations are the sharp end of property sales, no mater how many internet start-ups, or badly briefed journalists, tell you different. Without the homes to offer, an estate agent is dead in the water.

‘I don’t suppose she told you why it had to be today?’ I ask S, as I cross-check my brief case for sole agency forms, digital camera, calculator and laser-measure.

She hesitates.

‘What?’ I demand. I could do body language as a degree course after all this time.

‘You’re not going to like it.’ Ventures S timidly.

‘She’s off work sick, isn’t she?’ I state rhetorically.

S nods. Terrific.

I’ve picked up most minor airborne ailments known to man since I began valuing people’s homes. It’s why my desk drawer looks like a Heathrow airside, mini-version of Boots the chemist. I even had one of their loyalty cards for a while and come to think of it there’s a UK to USA plug adaptor in there too.

‘Just don’t get too close to her.’ Says S with a chuckle.

I get colds and throat infections much more regularly than offers of casual sex. Although there was that one time when the divorcee wanted to negotiate a fee reduction - I didn’t really fancy him though…

‘I won’t, don’t worry.’ I tell her, going back to my office and taking two big snorts from the exorbitantly priced - but clinically proven - First Defence bottle. Immediately my eyes water and I start sneezing. God knows if it really helps, you immediately get most of the symptoms of a streaming cold so it’s hard to tell.

‘Don’t stay too long.’ Suggests trainee F unhelpfully. 

‘And perhaps refuse to shake her hand too?’ I counter sarcastically.

‘That’s a good call.’ Answers F.

I sometimes yearn for the days when you could sack someone without months of negotiations with Human Resources.

If I want the business and sense it’s there to be had, I’ll stay the night and clamber in to bed with  both of them if I have to. Anything to stop another agent getting their For Sale board up. It’s dog eat dog out there and a snottily proffered hand, a germ-ridden cup of coffee, or even a dribbly threesome won’t deflect me from signing up a sole agency.

The chances are it won’t be an easy sale. Experience tells me I’m just being called out at the owners’ convenience. Moving home isn’t a snap decision, at least not a successful move. I’m probably just going to be used at a time when someone is at home with a box of tissues and a DVD.

Might as well have another tosser join them.

----------

Hungry For News - Tuesday

‘Anyone seen my paper?’ I ask testily, back from a valuation appointment with a couple who’d been completely misled on value by one of the less scrupulous agents in town. It still irks when people respond to their baser instincts - greed in this case, fuelled by a semi-plausible spiv in a suit - and overprice their homes. But then never underestimate the power of price flattery when owners want to sell their homes.

‘No.’ Answers assistant manager T. Before adding. ‘Just off to get some lunch.’ He exits the office, as I think, when I was his age and aspiring to become a branch manager, I grabbed a sandwich at my desk rather than prancing round the men’s clothes shops for nearly an hour. So T hasn’t pinched my paper. Not this time.

I read the message book and grind my teeth when I see “Bomber” our local demolition surveyor will be carrying out a full survey on a pretty terraced cottage I agreed a sale on, three weeks ago. The house has stood for over a hundred years, but by the time he’s finished dismantling it in a twenty page report, the buyers will imagine it has less structural stability than a tottering tower of Jenga bricks. Might as well put the For Sale board back up now.

‘Did you see Bomber is doing 12 Coronation Terrace?’ Asks negotiator S with a wan smile.

‘I’m surprised he comes out during daylight hours.’ I growl.

‘Because people are out to hurt him?’ Asks S naively.

‘No.’ I snap. ‘ Because he’s afraid of his own shadow. I don’t think that bastard has ever valued up a sale in his whole career.’

‘Why does he do it?’ Says S.

‘Because you can’t get sued if nobody ever buys the home you valued.’ I tell her angrily. It’s not exactly true, but I’m not in the mood to show equanimity - particularly as some sod has taken my newspaper again.

My wife would say I’ve changed over the years I’ve been selling homes. I’ve certainly changed my newspaper pick. I started out with a  low-brow tabloid I’d rather not name, then as the years took their toll and the grey hairs flourished, I went from a down-market medium to a right of centre, mildly racist - in retrospect - paper, through to my current choice. Something a bit more nuanced and balanced, or at least I think so at the moment. I just hope I don’t get to the retirement flat and Daily Telegraph stage while I’m still compos mentis.

B our loose lettings lush sashays into the office. If her skirts get any shorter you’ll be able to see what she had for lunch.

‘You seen my paper?’ I ask frostily, as she sits behind her desk and starts to apply fresh lip gloss.

Nobody bar me still buys a daily paper, like a growing number they prefer to read the news on-line for free, but someone has to pay for the content. In this case me, which is why I’d like to find the paper where I left it - on my desk.

‘Why what’s in it?’ Asks B nonchalantly, starting to file her nails now, despite my frequent requests not to saw her cuticles in public.

‘I don’t know what’s in it.’ I bark. ‘All I’ve done so far is pay for the bloody thing.’

‘Swear box.’ Says S coyly.

‘Oh for f**ks sake.’

‘Twice.’

Then the penny drops. F, my cerebrally-challenged trainee isn’t around, but the last thing he read was probably his school timetable. M, our man-mountain of a financial advisor isn’t in his office. I look uneasily towards the gents’ toilet. S follows my gaze, as B files back and forth like a hyperactive violin player.

‘I think he’s in there again.’ Suggests S gently.

‘How long?’ I ask flatly.

‘Don’t think I’ve seen him for twenty minutes, come to think of it.’ She replies with an apologetic shrug.

Terrific. I like to grab a sandwich while reading my paper, but the thought the newsprint has been absorbing the earthy aroma of an overweight finance fiddler while he empties his bowels, isn’t pleasant.

I’ve lost my appetite. 

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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.

An Ill Wind - Monday

‘You’ve been around for, like, ever haven’t you?’ States trainee F rhetorically.

It’s not the best opening gambit I’ve heard, but as it’s pissing with rain and I don’t fancy a leaflet drop, I decide to humour him.

‘And?’ I reply, thinking fleetingly he might want to quiz me on interest rate prospects, the way the housing market is going to run this year, or even the best bet for the 3.30pm horse race at Doncaster.

‘Well, how long is this weather going to last?’

F never fails to disappoint. A plethora of pithy replies run through my head, most with the sort of expletives attached we’re no longer supposed to use in a mixed sex, mixed race, mixed-up work environment. In the end S, my big-hearted negotiator, comes to the rescue.

‘How is he supposed to know?’ She tells F primly. ‘Anyway he’s not that old.’

You’ve got to love her. Only it’s best to do so solo, if you know what I mean…..

‘I didn’t mean that.’ Blusters F. ‘I just thought you might know if it’s going to continue. And whether it’s that global warming business.’

‘The jury is still out on that one.’ I tell F to his obvious confusion. Before he asks about a court case I’m not even aware of – unless the summons is in the post – I tell him nobody can say for certain if the storms, rain, floods and winds are a recognisable pattern, a biblical punishment, or just a plague on those with houses built near water.

‘Yeh, you wouldn’t want to be living in Riverside Walk or The Meadows development.’ Speculates assistant manager T joining the discussion as the skies darken again and a deep bass roll of thunder shakes the ceiling lights, unless fat finance man M is in the gents’ toilets again.

‘And guess what will happen if they get planning permission to sling up those units at the end of Lakeview Drive.’ Says B from her lettings desk. ‘I wouldn’t want to put tenants in there when some naïve buy-to-let virgin gets one because their pension is screwed.’

‘Complete washout.’ Suggests T with a chuckle.

The point is a moot one. Nobody disputes we need more housing and if the majority of my staff, and my two sons, want to own their own home it needs to be built where there are jobs and at an affordable cost. And I’d be happy to have more housing stock to flog on my patch, even though inevitably several new estate agent operations would blossom like mushrooms overnight, most of them probably toxic. The problem is, nearly every conurbation in this overcrowded island evolved around a port or a river and the land the NIMBY (not in my back yard) objectors don’t want built on, is often low-lying and hasn’t been used because nature set it aside as flood plain.

‘Some of those house with the sandbags against the doors will be uninsurable next time the premiums are due.’ States M gruffly. He’s appeared from nowhere to join the conversation and now I’m wondering if the earlier acoustics were actually his.

‘I wouldn’t buy near a river now.’ Says T emphatically. He wouldn’t be able to buy at all, not with his credit rating and a salary predicated mostly on commission. The self-certificated, liars’ loan, are hard to get nowadays – unless you know the right people and can falsify letterheads…

‘I’m sorry to hear that madam.’ Says S, as she takes a phone call and a mouthful of abuse. ‘But it’s really not my fault.’

I’m listening intently now, despite the door rattling in the wind.

‘No we can’t be held responsible for that.’ Continues S gamely, as outside I’m distracted by another umbrella inverting on a struggling pedestrian.

‘Double figures today.’ Chuckles T, nodding towards the distressed woman trying to re-assemble the brolly without poking her own eye out.

I turn my attention back to S, warning bells chiming.

The manager’s name?’ Repeats S, as I resist the temptation to do that throat–cutting motion.

‘Sorry;’ whispers S, hand over the mouthpiece. ‘One of our for sale boards has blown into her car and she insists it’s our responsibility.’

Of course it is.

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Not Many Lives Left - Tuesday

‘And here she comes.’ Announces assistant manage T with the sort of weary resignation I’ve been dreaming about for years now.

Negotiator S bobs her head up from behind the flatscreen and smiles in recognition when she sees the approaching woman. All offices have them, the regular time-wasters - as opposed to the casual ones who bowl into your working life like a whirlwind, promise to buy or sell then blow you off.

‘Bloody nutcase.’ Proclaims M the morbidly obese financial advisor. He tried to flog her some life cover, a re-mortgage and even, in desperation, some pet insurance last time she was in. But this type is a window shopper for life.

‘Who’s this?’ Asks trainee F, wide-eyed and innocent, only without the charm of a fresh-smelling baby you can hand back before their Snugglers become soiled.

‘One of our habitual lookers.’ I tell F, contemplating whether I should let him talk to the woman as part of his ongoing training. The trouble is he’s so naïve he’ll end up making viewing appointments that the woman will happily go on for something to do and doubtless book my fourth valuation visit to her home. One she convinces herself and every new agent in town she’ll be moving from in the near future, when in reality the only way she’ll be leaving is feet first on an undertaker’s gurney.

‘She’s called that cat lady.’ Enlightens T, as F stares at the approaching target vapidly. I can see the animal hairs on her grubby fleece from across the high street and already my nose and eyes are twitching just from the memory of my last, abortive visit, to her flea-infested home. Five cats and counting plus that all pervading pong of animals which pet-owners are in persistent denial over.

‘Why’s that?’ Asks F, comprehensively confirming his unsuitability for any role involving common sense. The private school his mother and various stepfathers coughed for - just to keep him away from home - somehow coached and cajoled him to some spurious mid-range, heavy on the coursework qualifications, but the school of life has yet to see him sign the register.

‘She has cats you numpty.’ Informs lettings lush B from across the office.

‘Yeh and we all know about women with cats.’ Says T chuckling.

B glares back at him. ‘One is acceptable, two at a push.’ She says challengingly, adding the old chestnut. ‘They’re more reliable than men.’

‘Let’s not start that one.’ I plead, as I track the approaching woman, hoping against hope she’ll misjudge the road crossing and give me about a one in fifteen chance of getting the probate business.

‘The loser women who can’t hold on to a man get cats instead.’ T tells F unhelpfully. I can sense the, along gender lines, friction building.

‘You’re just saying that for a reaction.’ Says S looking nervously at B as her hackles rise.

‘You can’t say that sort of thing.’ Spits B angrily, before turning to me and asking. ‘Can he?’

Probably not out loud.

Trouble is I pretty much agree with T on this one. My experience of neurotic man-loathing women tends to lead to the same, staring-eyed, let them sleep on the bed, cat-loving conclusion. These females – and it is almost exclusively females who own cats – seem to turn to feline companionship after a fruitless love life. Ultimately, cohabiting with several sets of hairballs, rather than one errant set of hairy balls. It still stinks, particularly with the elderly ones who the neighbours eventually smell decomposing. Someone has to go in to clean up the mess and see what is left of the owner the ungrateful pets haven’t eaten. It takes forever before I get the new carpets, the keys and a for sale board.

‘Hello Miss Bryan how are you?’ Greets S, saving me the bother.

‘You now my name?’ Queries Miss Bryan.

‘You were in last year.’ Says S gently.

‘Was I?’

Perhaps I should have let F see her after all.

‘We don’t have any little bungalows.’ Informs S kindly. ‘And most flats don’t allow pets in the lease.’

‘How did you know I have pets?’

And they still say we don’t earn our money.

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Happy Families - Tuesday

I drive through the soulless early eighties executive estate. This era hasn’t worn well. The mock Tudor timbers are flaked and rotting where they haven’t been maintained properly. Any original windows are tired, with the paltry-gapped double-glazing blown causing condensation or ugly fogging to the glass. There are not enough parking spaces and the pavements are littered with teenagers’ first cars. A battered and rusting selection of Ford Kas, baby Peugeots and Renault Clios are strewn on either side, making it hard to navigate the tight corners. Some of the larger homes have double garages but the majority have narrow single units where the parents’ cars never make it inside, let alone their grown-up children’s motors. Children who’ll be at home until close to their fortieth birthday if the average age for a first time buyer climbs much higher.

This is a matrimonial dispute and I’m meeting first one party, then straight after the second. These are notoriously frosty affairs, with any business to come a long way off at best by the time the lawyers have battled over who gets what. I know what these homes are worth, but I’m betting the two parties won’t agree with me. I have the evidence, it’s available on-line and I’ve completed on two houses in adjacent roads in the last few months. Of course at this vintage, many of the homes have had new kitchens and bathrooms installed and a fair majority have replaced the developers cheap window units. Some will sport unsightly conservatories on the back eating in to the already parsimonious plot sizes and one side of this road, with the south facing rears, is more favoured but I can still get the price about right. Not that some competitors will be so honest. Overvaluing is still rife, with the less professional practitioners inflating figures just to get a sole agency and a for sale board - and more importantly control of the marketing.

‘We’re going to need to be quick mate.’ Says the man as he looks anxiously at his watch. He is late-forties and driving a cheap model BMW. I’m clearly not his mate, so he wants something from me. It doesn’t take long. ‘Can you put the price in writing and make it as low as possible.’ This rarely happens without a reason. ‘I’m thinking of buying her out.’ Explains the man as we finish the cursory tour. The house is unloved and only the two kids’ bedrooms show any sign of attention. That’s if you call flat screen televisions and Play Stations a mark of affection. If they really cared they wouldn’t be separating. Despite all the self-help bullshit about it being best for the children to go your separate ways, it’s a lie. I know.

The key scrapes in the door and I rise to greet the soon to be ex-wife. It has been an uncomfortable ten minutes perched on the couch waiting alone in the loveless house, just the ticking of a clock for company. ‘I suppose he’s long gone.’ Says the spurned woman icily, as I make my introduction and just stop short of apologising for having a penis. She doesn’t take long. The smile is unconvincing she’s clearly a bit out of practice.

‘Could you make your price as high as possible?’ She urges. ‘And I need a copy to my solicitor.’ This is why we now call these exercises market appraisals, not valuations. If they want to go to court to argue the figures they should get a formal valuation from a Chartered Surveyor. The surveyor will charge a fee, then come in to my office and ask what the house is worth.

‘How long until I get your letter?’ Probes the woman, then she can’t help herself. ‘Only I want the cheating bastard’s bollocks on a plate.’ Momentarily I wonder if I’ve missed another chunk of female-focused legislation. Some corrective law that gives positive discrimination in favour of women wanting a scrotum-sac trophy along with the house and half his pension. I feel a tightening in the nether regions and resolve to hang on to my own home and balls and to stick to fantasy - or the free trial sessions on-line.

It’s a hard job.

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