Kissing Frogs - Monday

‘You’re not going to be happy.’ Suggests negotiator S as I re-enter the office, smiling at me apologetically. The choices are endless if I’m expected to guess events likely to lower my mood, where the property business is concerned.

A sale could have fallen through, a chain of buyers outside my control may have collapsed, a surveyor might have rubbished a house we have agreed a sale on, a vendor might have changed their mind and decided not to move despite a deal being agreed on their home - oh you get the picture…

‘Narrow it down then.’ I say resignedly, as I shrug off my coat and walk on auto-pilot to see what horrors are lurking in the message book.

‘We’re double booked on viewings later.’ Says S, shooting a quick glance towards F the hapless trainee. She tries to cover it, but I know straight away who the culprit is. I just don’t know the crime yet.

Now there shouldn’t be an issue with viewings being arranged, they are the seed-corn of every sale. Even if the appointment comes to nothing it ensure the homeowners know we are actively promoting their home, not just posting a listing on a property portal and sticking a poorly-framed photo in the office window. So why the problem?

S answers even before I’ve fired up a spare computer screen.

‘It’s The Richardson’s,’ she announces with a shrug. ‘They want to look at the new instruction off The Avenue. I’m sorry, only you are available to do it.’

I shoot a glance towards F, then towards the office swear box. Both cost me dearly, on a weekly basis.

‘I didn’t know who they were.’ Gabbles F, cheeks turning crimson.

‘The Richardson’s?’ I say, looking at S and pointedly ignoring F.

S answers in the affirmative.

‘The monumental time wasters?’ I continue, acid reflux rising.

‘Yes. sorry.’

‘The tossers who have been looking for five years?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Who never put their own house on the market even though I’ve valued it four times.’

‘That’s them.’

‘Who have viewed over one hundred properties and not been happy with a single one?’

‘The very same.’ says S, turning back to her keyboard.

Now the number-crunchers - my bean-counter boss being a fully paid up figure-fiddler, included - would have you believe that no viewing is a wasted one, that every no takes you closer to a yes. That, if you hit your targets for viewings and valuations and pour enough in to the top of the sales funnel, the required results will trickle out the bottom. They’ve clearly never met Mr and Mrs Richardson.

Some people will find fault with every home they see and in the unlikely event you ever show them something they might want to buy, I can guarantee they’d want too much money for their own precious house and somebody else in a more favourable position, with more realistic expectations, would beat them to the contract.

These are the sort of irritating pedants you’ll see on one of the endless property porn television programmes that pad out the viewing schedules. The type who want to escape to the country but want to be near the shops.Who want to downsize but expect to take all their bulky furniture with them. Who want to trade up to a dearer area, but don’t expect to pay any more money.

Most folk have a list of negotiable requirements for their next home. These mind-f***ers have a screed of non-flexible, demands. Even the prissy Escape to The Country Presenter with the beard, or the chubby ex-choirboy who wishes his voice had never broken, will be driven to distraction. I suspect once the cameras stop rolling the presenters’ opinions of these freeloaders are far from cherubic.  And yet…

‘You going still, then?’ Says assistant manger T as he pulls on his coat, at the appointed viewing time. He managed to grab the simultaneous appointment. I have an elephantine memory, retribution will be served frozen.

‘You never know.’I tell him frostily.

‘That’s the spirit.’ Cajoles S, with a winning smile. ‘They might love it.’

They didn’t.

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Pipe Dreamers - Wednesday

‘Oh no, this won’t do at all. It’s nowhere near as nice as ours, is it Norman?’

I look at Norman, he looks at me and we both have that feeling of resignation. I just haven’t had the guts to pen the letter yet.

‘No dear.’ Says Norman with a ghosted look of apology in my direction. The house isn’t badly priced. It’s a bit tired admittedly, but then so is Norman - both worn down by years of exposure to uncontrollable elements. I need to move the couple on. They’ve booked three appointments on the spin with me, fortunately I have keys to all the homes and the owners are out. People don’t always take kindly to irritating time-wasters criticising their property in overloud stage whispers. I don’t need another stand up row.

‘These properties are so expensive here.’ Whines Norman’s wife in tandem with my failing drive shaft, as we cross town at the worst possible time to another, almost certainly, abortive appointment. You should look at some of their houses, I think angrily, as I pass an opposition agents board, one standing outside a property I valued and they priced 20% higher than my already bullish estimate. It still rankles, but I’m biding my time.

‘I don’t like the décor at all.’ Complains Norman’s wife dismissively even before we’ve left the entrance hall of property two.

‘You could change that dear.’ Suggests Norman warily.

‘Not at these prices.’ Snaps the dragon, as I suppress the urge to punch the woman, or at lease puncture her pomposity. She’s looking at properties in a dearer location than her own home turf and you might as well compare apples with pears.

‘No it’s not for us at all.’ Concludes the wife from hell, as I start to dislike Norman too just for putting up with her. I could show him a perfectly serviceable studio flat if he’s just grow some balls and divorce her. He’d obviously lose all his equity and half his pension but that would be the first price worth paying he is likely to see…

‘How are things going with your own sale?’ I probe as we move through the school traffic slowly. F my idiot trainee booked the viewings to this out of town couple and he told me, less than convincingly, that he’d qualified them properly and they were on the market with good interest. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.

‘Oh you don’t need to worry about that,’ scoffs Norman’s nemesis. ‘Our house will sell very quickly. It’s the best in the road.’

‘It is on the market though isn’t it?’ I say, sinking feeling returning.

‘No we won’t be wasting our time with that until we see something suitable.’ Replies the wife icily.

Not wasting your time, no.

‘The garden is no more than a pocket handkerchief.’ Grumbles the woman as I open the patio doors on the third house. I’m tempted to lay out a snotty piece of linen on the lawn, just to disprove her theory, only she hasn’t finished. It’s one I’ve heard a million times before but it still makes me want to scream with frustration.

‘Of course what we’d really like to do is pick our house up and move it here.’

Another piece of my soul breaks away. It’s delaminating bit by bit – a surveyor would ask for a specialist report.

‘You haven’t shown us the garage.’ Carps Norman’s wife, as he throws me a shrug behind her back. That’s because you have no intention of buying, I ache to scream but I can do without another complaint. The bean counter boss always favours the public – but then he’s only ever viewed a balance sheet. I lift the up-and-over door.

‘You wouldn’t get your Rover in there Norman.’ Decides his wife, face as sour as a lemon. No, but you could sleep in there when you’re in the doghouse Norm, I think angrily, nearly cracking my skull open as I slam the door.

‘And our dining room suite wouldn’t fit in any of them.’ Drones the wife as I drive them to the train station, Norman’s Rover obviously saving the wear and tear I’m taking.

It’s hard to stay on track.

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You know what to do... 

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