Point And Shoot - Thursday

‘Great news.’ Announces assistant manager T gleefully, as a delivery driver exits the office.

I don’t get a lot of great news; all my distant aunts have croaked without leaving me a penny, so early retirement isn’t exactly an option and in the property business what is great news one moment can transform to a steaming pile of doo-doo, with one fractious phone call.

‘What is?’ I ask warily. The question covers both his announcement and the ominously looking technical package he is unwrapping, like a greedy kid at Christmas.

T looks at me with a hint of pity, his designer glasses flashing under the fluorescents like some sort of modern day morse code signalling system. I feel an S-O-S approaching.

‘It’s the new wirelessly connected digital office camera.’ Says T, with a soupçon of scorn in his tone. He knows how I feel about new technology. I’m the unashamed luddite in the office and it doesn’t help that most new products ship without an instruction manual now. That means downloading, or possibly uploading, some sort of PDF file I can never open. Or in the rare case of an easy-start, paired down guide, included in the box, the print is so small my arms are no longer long enough to read the content.

‘Been waiting for this.’ Crows T excitedly, extracting a complicated-looking camera with a swollen, wide-angle lens and more buttons than an octopus’s cardigan.

‘You can upload to a portal on the move with 4g and edit, manipulate and spacial cross without leaving the car.’ Continues T.

No, I haven’t a clue what he just said.

‘Shouldn’t you read up on it?’ I ask, as T pulls the lens cap of and starts panning round the office like David Bailey on speed.

‘Nah.’ He answers dismissively. ‘Just experiment, it’s all intuitive anyway.’

It might be to you bucko,I think sourly, as trainee F joint the fun and starts clawing at some leads inside one of those impossible to open, heat-sealed plastic packages.

‘You are going to do yourself a mischief.’ Predicts negotiator S, stifling a laugh, as F tries to prise apart the packaging with a letter-opening knife. I can see the office accident book coming out again and I’ve only just got the blood off the front cover.

‘What the f**k is this all about?’ Exclaims F, as he nearly impales himself and the packaging still refuses to yield its contents. I nod at the swear box, but in truth, for once, I’m with the public school retard. I mean with all the product research and whiny focus group opinions companies obsess about nowadays, surely someone has stopped and said: “You know what, boffins? Nobody can open these pissing, plastic, packs.”

It might be my failing eyesight, or a brain that has reached hard drive capacity, but I’m not that adept at new tricks any longer. My wife would endorse that, I’m sure. And to think I used to chuckle, in quiet contempt, at the elderly failed negotiator who I first worked alongside as a trainee. He struggled to operate the black and white Polaroid Instant and doggedly suggested we didn’t need photographs on our property particulars, as it would spoil the surprise when the potential buyers turned up for a viewing.

I used to love the excitement of waiting for the little four by four photo to develop and I can still smell that chemical aroma that preceded un-peeling the backing paper before seeing a poorly framed shot of an overpriced house. Yes, even then people thought property was too expensive -particularly when interest rates hit 15%.

‘You might have to load the first few photos for me.’ I tell T flatly.

‘No probs, grandad.’ He replies with a grin.

It’s a shame you can no longer hit staff without reams of forms to complete.

‘I’ll help you out.’ Says S kindly.

It’s tempting - but adapt or die is the motto in this industry and I can’t afford to go yet. Plus, I’m pretty sure there are no elderly spinster aunts left.

I’m over-exposed again.

--------

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.

------