Driving Me Mad - Wednesday

‘Oh for crying out loud.’ Exclaims negotiator S. She doesn’t often bother the swear box, so something has got her agitated. I’ve thought of various methods, but we’ll draw a polite veil over those…

‘What is it?’ I enquire soothingly. We’re alone in the office and I’m showing what a caring and sharing manager I am by sitting in the front desk and facing the public. I know managers who hide in their office and stare forlornly at the profit and loss accounts, but I’m more of a front-line, man of the people kind of guy - plus I can’t fully understand the Excel spreadsheet. Dilapidations just make me think of elderly folk in sheltered accommodation having to sell at a loss and move on to a nursing home, at £1500 a week.

‘Mr Oates’ sale.’ Answers S glumly.

I grimace. This one has been running for nearly five months and if anyone tells you estate agents don’t work for their money you should read the file notes on this protracted sale. Destructive surveys, lapsed mortgage offers, wall-tie failures, antagonistic vendors and twitchy first time buyers at the bottom of the chain. The lawyers involved seem indifferent, or incompetent, and half the agents are numpties with no training and more grasp of a Koppaberg than the conveyancing system.

‘What is it this time?’ I ask S. My bean counter boss has been asking why we haven’t invoiced this sale, for the last two months. With, no sale no fee, you keep bending and spreading to accommodate like a loose-limbed rent boy, all in the hope you’ll get your money eventually.

‘They’re finally all ready to exchange,’ answers S. ‘And now they’re arguing about completion dates.’

This isn’t uncommon. Over protracted sales’ periods, antipathy can build up between the parties, and if it isn’t removing all the light fitting and toilet roll holders on the last day, it’s cutting off noses to spite faces and risking all that packing and prospecting for suitable schools, by intransigence over the moving date.

‘Who is the most vulnerable?’ I ask S, after she’s reminded me of the chain details and the personalities involved. It’s brutal, but if pressure needs to be exerted, I need to find the weakest link. It should be a job for the solicitors involved to sort out the completion dates, but at least two of the individuals involved will only answer to letters and as they charge by the missive and take weeks to reply, I can’t risk the wait.

‘What did he say?’ I ask S, after we’ve discussed the best person to try and persuade to be flexible and spoken to all, bar one, of the agents involved in the chain. The on-line outfit just had an answering service and in truth I’d have more chance of speaking to the mad woman, who pushes the empty pram round town, than those clowns. And people think they are saving money…

‘He said if they don’t move on his date, he’s going to pull the plug on the whole deal and put the price up £20,000, as another agent has told him he’s selling too cheaply now.’ Replies S, head in hands.

Oh, for some paltry professional standards in the much-maligned industry. There are more cowboys in this business than the whole of Texas. I’d plead for some minimum entry standards and exam qualifications. But all the time people entrust their home sale to call-centres, with a couple of chancers fronting a tacky television advert and local property experts who cross three counties with a digital camera and a sandwich box their mum packed, we are going nowhere. Fast.

‘Try the first time buyers.’ I urge S after several more heated and protracted conversations. The two diffident solicitors, as predicted, have refused to take her calls.

‘I think if I pressurise them any more they'll not only be forgetting the purchase, but the wedding too.’ Suggest S flatly.

There are enough reasons for first purchasers to balk at buying, without some surly old sod at the top of the chain digging their heals in because the proposed moving date clashes with a golfing match.

Sadly, it’s par for the course.

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New Kid In Town - Friday

‘Do you want to go to lunch with a lawyer?’ Asks negotiator S, as I emerge from my office after a lengthy call with the bean counter boss. After the conversation I’ve just had, I’d rather not swap inanities with anyone. I’m yearning for a darkened room and some soothing music - none of your whale calls though. I draw the line at hippies, vegans and those ghastly solar roof panels….

‘Who is he?’ I ask presumptively.

S looks at me admonishingly and I sense I’ve said something politically incorrect again. Lately I seem prone to doing that without trying. I realise the error even as she corrects me.

‘It’s a she actually.’ Says S haughtily  .

‘Of course. My bad.’ I reply, trying to be on point and just sounding like a desperate Dad keen to keep up with the kids. My dancing at weddings comes to mind. But not in a good way.

‘What made you presume it would be a man?’ Presses S, as I groan inwardly again and hope it wasn’t audible this time. I still haven’t lived down the last mangers’ meeting and my involuntary, rather loud moan which spontaneously emanated when the sales figures went up on the screen and H, my vertically challenged rival manger, was on top again.

‘Because all the women solicitors are off on maternity leave.’ Suggests assistant manager T, unhelpfully.

‘It’s their right.’ Snaps lose lettings lush B, from her little rental enclave.

‘Yeh and we have to take up all the slack when the mums disappear off.’ Replies T feistily.

‘You are such a caveman.’ Sneers B.

‘Thank you very much.’ Replies T with a grin.

‘Who is she?’ I ask S, trying to get the conversation back on track. ‘And more to the point what does she want?’ It won’t be a physical attraction, I’m hardly the male equivalent of a MILF - a DILF, possibly….?

‘She’s at that new firm of lawyers that has just opened up.’ Says S. ‘I’m guessing they want some solicitor free clients we might recommend them for.’

‘She’ll have to scratch your back first.’ Teases T. ‘And I’m guessing a cheap sandwich in the local won’t reach the itch.’

‘You see,’ challenges B looking daggers at T. ‘That’s typical of males in the workplace. They reduce everything to a sexual level and can’t take women in business seriously.’

It’s a bit rich from B. She totters around in heels inappropriate for a fixtures and fitting inspection and wears skirts so short I sometimes imagine….well, they’re too short anyway. Take it from me.

‘We could do with some switched on conveyancing’ lawyers locally,’ says S. ‘Someone who answers the phone and doesn’t hide behind delayed local searches and lenders’ conditions to excuse their tardiness.’

‘Yes, a user friendly lady lawyer would be pleasant.’ Adds T, not entirely helpfully.

The truth is, we tend to recommend lawyers to naive first time buyers- if you can find one nowadays - and to out of town buyers, looking for someone local and reliable to handle their legal paperwork. The kickback used to be a free lunch and a game of golf if you could play the ghastly game. The real payback, was in probate sales passed to you from old established firms with an ageing client base. A new bunch in town won’t have many customers dying yet. She’d better be easy on the eye.

‘So how long have you been in the business?’ Asks the legal lady when I’m sat opposite her, nursing a lime and soda and a semi. She’s insanely hot and to be honest if she does have any elderly clients she’d certainly send them off feeling happy.

I tell her reluctantly. It makes me feel old but does remind me the only interest she’ll ever have in me, will be the size of my database.

‘We’re looking to set up a few special relationships in town.’ Continues the woman, as I wonder if my eyes ever looked that clear.

‘How did it go?’ Asks T when I return to the office. ‘Did she offer you anything tasty?

Well she stiffed me - for the bill. 

But I quite enjoyed it.

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