Old Rope - Tuesday

‘F**k me.’ Exclaims assistant manger T in an expletive that echoes round the, fortunately, empty office.

I nod towards the swear box and he spreads his arms in annoyance.

‘It’s the rules.’ I tell him pompously.

‘Since when did anyone play by the rules?’ Demands T.

‘He’s right,’ says negotiator S. ‘That bunch of shitesters who opened three months ago are still touting all our sole agencies, and their lying letters never have a fee disclaimer.’

She has a point, two very prominent ones as it happens, but the fact that there is no entry requirement to start an estate agency, and no minimum standard of education or compulsory qualification to start practising as a property purveyor, is something I’ve failed to change in more that two decades. 

‘You lot don’t have any rules, do you?’ Questions fat finance man M, with a jowly chuckle. ‘At least we are licensed and regulated.’

‘Only because you mis-sold so many crap insurance policies.’ Says T with an angry growl.

‘You all took the commission.’ Bats back M, with uncomfortable accuracy.

Once you are on to solid foods, nobody is completely innocent…

‘What is it you’ve seen?’ I ask T, returning to his original exclamation. I don’t need any more divisions in the office, and an argument about the merits of having an in-house mortgage and insurance advisor - and the escalating targets that come with them - isn’t going to improve our clunky camaraderie. With our masters wanting us to serve both seller and buyer, we already have more conflicts of interests than a crooked politician.

T points at the meagre pages of the local free paper he has spread before him, old school style, on his desk. Time was the shrunken publication ran to five times more print than the current emaciated model. The publisher used to regularly stuff us on incremental advertising rates with their near monopoly, but since the on-line advertising portals became king I no longer take the sales representative’s calls. Someone else has a hold of my balls, now.

‘See here,’ continues T jabbing an inky finger at the copy. ‘They’ve finally released prices on those retirement flats they’ve been building on the old school house site.’

‘How much?’ Asks S.

‘Have a guess.’ Suggests T.

This won’t end happily, I think as S calls out her first number and T laughs scornfully in her face.

The site in question sold to a well-known retirement home developer some eighteen months ago. A pretty detached Edwardian family home sat on the generous plot, within zimmer frame shuffling distance of the shops and doctor’s surgery. It was never going to house a family again. After a lengthy planning battle, several architect’s revisions and a rumoured large brown envelope for a planning officer, permission was granted for a big box to house twenty reduced floorspace flats for the wealthy but not healthy.

‘Higher.’ Goads T, as S raises her suggested starting price for the one bed ground floor, looking on to the road, base price unit.

‘You’re having a laugh.’ Says S with disgust. ‘They’re ripping off vulnerable people.’

‘They’ve made their money.’ Counters trainee F, eyes blazing. ‘How are people my age ever going to afford our own place? Let them get mugged.’

He doesn’t mean literally - at least I hope not. But I do question the wisdom of elderly folk who try to downsize to something more manageable in their dotage. They often end up paying way over the odds for a tiny unit with the illusion of safety provided by a cheap video entry phone and emergency pull-cords routed to a remote call centre. They don’t even have a 24hr, on-site manager, as they used to when the concept started. By the time the ambulance arrives, rigour-mortis has often set in.

‘More.’ Cries T gleefully as S raises her suggested price with obvious incredulity.

The figure is already laughable. My advice would to be wait until a few owners have died, then buy second hand. Beneficiaries are always keen for the cash.

‘That’s taking the piss.’ Says S when she finally reaches the unlikely number.

That’s the property market.

--------

Funding Gap - Thursday

‘Any luck?’ I ask fat finance man M, after a young couple leave his office. He still didn’t see them to the door, but unless you’re an impoverished French butcher, I still see no point in flogging a dead horse.

‘Not enough deposit saved yet.’ Bemoans M with a shake of his jowly jaws, before adding.’Makes you wish for the days when you could source a cheeky liar loan and tuck them up with an endowment policy.’

‘That’s disgraceful.’ Chides negotiator S with a pretty pout. I forget she’s so young she didn’t have to flog insurance policies, with dubious benefits to buyers, just to please corporate masters. It was about the time the line between the estate agent’s duty to the vendor became permanently blurred. I’ve worn glasses ever since.

‘You’ll follow them up though.’ I tell M pointedly. He won’t. The only time he shows any forward momentum is when there’s an unfinished packet of biscuits in the office kitchen.

‘They know where to find me.’ Counters M, heading for the aforementioned location.

Yep, and so do we.

‘Not sure I’ll ever be able to afford my own property and I spend all day selling them.’ Announces S sadly.

‘Bank of mum and dad is what you need.’ Says assistant manager T, referring to the one source of finance that will lend, without a raft of fact finding paperwork and a twenty-five year indenture.

‘Haven’t seen my dad for years.’ Answers S mournfully.

‘All the more reason to tap him up for a ten percent deposit.’ Says T jauntily. ‘Push the guilt trip buttons.’

S just shakes her head and looks achingly sad. And all these couples squabbling over the matrimonial home value, still convince themselves separation is in the children’s best interest and won’t harm them at all. It’s still harming me thirty-five years down the line.

‘Didn’t look old enough to buy anyway.’ Contributes B from her lettings’ desk. Didn’t stop her eying up the boyfriend though. I saw her. At least I was more discrete with the girlfriend.

‘You’ll buy eventually.’ I tell S with as much conviction as I can muster. It will probably take another property crash and I’m not sure I’m looking forward to my third one. But the market is cyclical - always has been.

‘Do you think prices will come down then?’ Queries S.

Hell yes. I have for some time, but then with a burgeoning influx of population fuelled by migrants, and pensioners who refuse to die at the appointed age, it may take a while yet. We could build a lot more homes of course, but planning restrictions, green belt policies and greedy landowners aren’t exactly helping things.

‘They can’t keep accelerating.’ I eventually tell S. She doesn’t look convinced.

‘More mug punters for me to let crappy converted flats to.’ Says B, unhelpfully. S scowls at her and so do I, but inwardly, B’s figures help pay my own rent and as an estate agent I don’t need extra enemies.

‘Is it just me,’ asks M, returning with a mug of coffee. ‘Or are buyers looking younger and younger?’ It’s the exact opposite actually, with the average age of a first time buyer being pushed towards middle age. I see countless overgrown children still squatting it their parents’ homes like cosy Cuckoos, but I know what M means.

‘It’s like when policemen start looking young enough to be your baby brother.’ Announces B all glassy-eyed.

‘They’re not real policemen if you just persuade them to dress up like that, for some sweets.’ Snipes S bitchily.

Ouch.

Before a cat fight breaks out - and rather disappointingly - the door opens and some pre-pubescent boy in an ill-fitting Next suit comes in and asks for the keys to a property we have on multi-agency, along with several of our competitors.

‘Who was that spunk bubble?’ Asks M slurping his drink loudly, after the young lad has left.

‘New trainee negotiator for that lot across the road.’ Answers S.

‘Didn’t look old enough to shave.’ Replies M.

‘I could show him something on my register.’ Says B ambiguously.

I’m really feeling my age.

------

Parklife - Wednesday

‘Do we sell park homes?’ Asks trainee F, phone cupped ineffectively instead of on hold, as I always keep telling the numbskull.

If it’s a home set in a park, I think, yes we’d be delighted - if it’s an overpriced shed, not so much. But with new instructions to sell always a battle, I waver, despite the evidence of history.

‘Get some more details.’ I tell F having walked over and stabbed the mute button on his phone base. ‘Then see when I can go and visit.’

It’s a long shot. Park Homes, for the uninitiated, are what used to be called mobile homes until someone realised you’d get more money for them if you took the wheels off, hooked them up to a rudimentary sewerage system and provided electricity for daytime television viewing. In the United States, I believe they’re known as trailer parks, in the UK they are similarly trashy only without the need for air conditioning units. The parks tend to be populated by elderly couples who failed on the property ladder of life, or have downsized ill-advisedly, thinking a timber cabin with stick on rubber roof tiles is actually a bungalow, only cheaper, thereby allowing them to eat more than value meals and tinned horsemeat for the rest of their naturals. The beneficiaries are never thrilled.

‘So they’re, like, really good value?’ Enthuses F after I’ve given him the low down.

‘Not exactly.’ Interjects assistant manager T.

F frowns that bovine look that makes you think slaughterhouse and a humane bolt-gun administered to the cranium - no questions asked and only minimal paperwork for the Personnel Department.

‘Nobody will lend on a park home.’ Continues T. ‘At least not mainstream banks and building societies.’

‘Waste of time.’ Echoes fat mortgage man M as he seesaws past, masticating.

‘Cash buyers only, as a rule.’ Says T.

‘And they’re too skint to take out decent insurance policies.’ Adds M. ‘Property underclass. I wouldn’t have one if you gave it to me.’

He would.

‘Thanks for letting me come with you.’ Enthuses F, as I negotiate the bumpy track and see the Park entrance. A paint-blistered sign promises high-quality new homes from a price point I still consider expensive. I’m already regretting my generosity twofold; one by coming to value a timber caravan I probably can’t sell, and two for bringing the only type of owner these places will appeal to – albeit in about forty-five years time after F’s inevitable failed marriages and ineffective career. I really must look into registering as a charity. I’ve talked about it and there are plenty of empty shop units in the high street for a rent-free outlet. I just need to get round to the paperwork.

As I daydream and slowly motor along the cramped, weed-strewn lanes of shabby units, an officious little man with a goatee beard and an attitude problem steps in front of the car and holds his hand up, traffic policeman style. I’m sorely tempted to accelerate, but of course I don’t. Window down, I wait for the inevitable lecture.

‘Who is this?’ Hisses F as the sour-faced man walks around the car towards me.

The park owner, or warden to be more accurate.’ I whisper. ‘Little Hitlers most of them. He’s about to warn us nobody sells without his say-so.’

And true to form, we’re informed.

‘So you’ve met that grubby little man.’ Says the lady owner, as we sit in her open plan lounge, slight swaying motion as the wind whistles round the angles. She’s made the best of a bad job with a mock fireplace housing an electric fire, and a sagging sofa set arranged toward an ancient cathode ray television set with a digital box perched on top. It’s still a caravan though, just without the option to shift elsewhere that easily. I tell her we’ve had our card duly marked. The owner reminding us all the homes are on leases granted by him and that he has to approve any new incomers - effectively making the whole flyblown couple of acres his own creosote-coated fiefdom. Needless to say, he’s already offered to ‘buy’ the unit, at a price even I wouldn’t dare to suggest.

Moving on.

-----

Download the ebook and get moving, here:

http://amzn.to/ttGZ4j

US Readers: http://amzn.to/vXpFJf