TV Times - Wednesday

‘Of course you lot are all the bloody same.’ Rages a disgruntled buyer, when I inform him the owner has rejected his offer in favour of a third party. As ever, I can only sell the property once but logic is the first casualty of failed negotiations.

‘I know what you get up to.’ Continues the man, his voice raising an octave as the red mist descends. He doesn’t. Not me personally, anyway.

‘I’ll happily try and find you something similar.’ I placate, knowing it’s unlikely to work and I’m unlikely to be able to deliver. I don’t do the supply or the demand but you can’t tell people – public, politicians, journalists, any of them…

‘Yeh, right.’ Sneers the unhappy punter, as his partner chips away in the background, poking him with a great big verbal stick.

‘Report him, Nigel. It’s not right.’ Urges a female voice, now no higher than Nigel’s.

‘Yes,’ squeals Nigel triumphantly. ‘I’m going to report you.’

I assure the man that I’ve behaved ethically, relayed his offer to the vendor, both verbally and in writing. I’ve not favoured the other buyer – neither of them wanted to use our chubby mortgage man, if you’re an undercover reporter – and I’ve remained true to both my own and the published code of ethics. I might as well be speaking Swahili.

‘Tell him we saw that programme.’ Prods the woman, in the background.

‘What programme?’ Asks Nigel, sotto voice. I try not to laugh; I’ve found it never helps when handling complaints. I know, before Nigel repeats the cobbled together transmission’s title, although it could be one of many poorly researched television exposures on estate agency.

Usually, a lisping presenter with a public school background and a burning desire to be an impoverished socialist; hides a miniature camera in his man bag and lies about who he is to various shady agents, who I too would happily see out of business. This one was broadcast a few night’s ago, but with the advent of catch-up television even the oddball who was jerking-off on a house price forum when it was shown, can download it again and again.

‘It’s a scam.’ Shrieks Nigel, as his partner now takes to echoing his words. It’s not. It’s one house, three buyers and a couple in a far better financial and able to proceed promptly position to yours, Nigel old boy.

‘Offer more.’ Cajoles the lady.

‘We haven’t got any more.’ Whispers Nigel. He needs to use the mute button, or at least hold his hand over the phone.

‘He has to tell them, if we offer more.’ Continues the woman avidly. ‘It was on the programme.’

I do and I will, but I might also mention the bit Nigel failed to conceal. I get paid on results not fantasies – although it would be interesting to see how my bean counter boss set targets for those objectifying objectives. Particularly since the company blocked 90% of the specialist websites available, on quiet days.

  

‘If we don’t get this house, we’ll never use you again.’ Warns Nigel. He hasn’t used us yet in truth and I certainly won’t be earning anything from him, but I can understand the frustration. Property purchase is an imperfect business and it’s not helped by the, oft transmitted on all channels, fact that anyone can set up an estate agency business, with no experience, qualifications or minimum standards.

‘I know a lot of people.’ Threatens Nigel, weakly as his partner agrees. Me too.

‘And I’ll be telling them all what I think of your outfit.’ I glance at my suit and tie combo in the office mirror and have to stifle another unhelpful giggle. I apologise once more and avoid Nigel actually making a risible offer he can’t deliver.

‘Can you give us first refusal?’ Pleads Nigel, as I start to feel sorry for him, an emotion you need to junk in your first few months in the industry. They still don’t get it. It’s not up to me. An honest agent can’t make any decision on behalf of the owner; he’s a conduit pure – in my case – and simple.

The Christmas card list shortens. 

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Just Another Day - Monday

‘Before you begin I’m not selling on the cheap.’ Announces the frosty woman who opens the door of a mock Georgian semi-detached house on a late seventies development, that has seen better days. It’s not the best of starts and the opposition estate agent’s board wedged down the side alley gives a big clue as to her – not unique – lack of love for the industry. But sometimes it’s better to be second or third in, when reality has finally started to dawn.

I hand her my card and we do the introductions. She’s standoffish and I sense the hostility even before the yappy dog tries to bite my ankles.

‘He’s just being friendly.’ Announces the woman as the little hairball paws and nips at my suit trouser leg and I have to make a superhuman effort not to kick the bitch half way up the hall.

‘So tell me how the marketing has been going?’ I open once we’ve done a quick tour of the house; flowery décor, kitchen showing its age - like the owner – and sanitary ware in need of updating. We’re now in the lounge/diner and I note the wood flooring is lifting and there’s an ominous looking gap between skirting and parquet. The area is a good one still, but the development has been known to suffer subsidence, as the footings weren’t deep enough originally. I suspect there’s some movement although I’m guessing it won’t be acknowledged, on the walls or on the price.

‘I’ve tried three agents over the last eighteen months.’ Says the woman sourly. ‘All useless.’ I know who they are, as I’ve done my homework and she’s two-thirds right, but then she’s also been trying to get a good thirty grand more than the house is worth. And that’s before a surveyor spots the crooked doors and floors and asks for a structural engineer’s report. I’m not sure I even want this house on my books. Some homes and some owners are more trouble than they’re worth.

‘How do you feel the other agents have been going wrong?’ I probe, looking for ammunition.

‘They didn’t advertise it properly and then they brought entirely the wrong type of people round.’ She replies, with the certainty only a myopic vendor can muster. I briefly wonder how she’d react to a newly rich lottery winner with no manners, no taste, but a desire to live in a dated semi with crooked floors and rotting window frames and happy to pay over the odds. She’d take the money.

‘What are you looking for in an agent?’ I ask, using a favourite question for disgruntled owners who have worked their way through the cheap operators and should be ready to pay a fair fee.

‘Well you’re all the same.’ She pronounces coldly as the dog growls in confirmation and bares her yellowing teeth at me. We’re not: any more than builders, painters or prostitutes.

‘Just want your fee and me to sell for a giveaway price.’ Continues the woman, as I realise why her husband left her for a younger model and a home that didn’t sag, too.

‘What you don’t seem to realise,’ continues the woman hitting her stride, as I think, I do lady, I really do. ‘Is there’s nothing out there as nice as mine for the money. I’m not giving it away.’

I glance at my pad and the suggested asking price I’ve pencilled in. One £25,000 less than she’s grumbling about now. I’ve more chance of the dog liking me than its owner warming to my proposed course of action.

‘You people just try to drive prices down to get a quick sale.’ Rails the lady as her dog senses the antipathy and begins a soft menacing growl while it eyes my trouser leg again. Curiously, a disgruntled buyer unable to find anything they could afford accused me off pushing prices up to unaffordable levels, not thirty minutes ago. This isn’t a profession for insecure people seeking approval.

‘Any joy?’ Asks assistant manager T, as I slope back in the office, wiry hairs clinging doggedly to my suit, questioning of my parenthood, still ringing in my ears.

Not a lot.

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