Please Release Me - Wednesday

‘For Jesus Christ’s sake.’ Exclaims assistant manager T, as he stares at his computer screen.

I’m hoping his exclamation is business related and not that nobody has swiped right on his Tinder profile.

‘What is it?’ I ask, wondering if his angsty mention of a saviour might have crossed some religious offence legislation I’m not up to date with. I’m pretty sure you can say what you like about Christians though…

‘Some nob-head has just released a press statement predicting house prices will rise 20% in the next four years.’ Answers T, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘How unhelpful is that?

It’s not that constructive. Every greedy vendor who has yet to sell will want to put their price up, and panicky buyers will offer in haste then withdraw at leisure once the surveyor, or another contradictory press release, makes them think again.

‘Will they really go up that much?’ Asks trainee F glumly. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be able to afford to buy my own home.’

You’ll need a successful career and a good employer’s reference, I think uncharitably. Both of which are unlikely.

‘These idiots in the press will publish anything just for a cheap headline.’ Contributes negotiator S.

‘Not exactly cheap at 20%, is it?’ Says T. ‘Now we’ll get every nut job under the sun acting on some badly researched survey, where half a dozen wasters hanging round shopping centres in the daytime, were happy to speak to a cretin with a clipboard.’

I’d have been proud of that line. I hope T isn’t thinking of starting a Blog.

But he’s right. It seems some papers - no names it’s my style - have property story myopia. They can’t see past the next incendiary headline predicting more chaos in an already fragile market. And successive Governments with revolving door housing ministers haven’t exactly helped the problem. It’s supply, demand and the cost of money. Not rocket science  guys - or I wouldn’t understand it.

‘The only good thing about idiotic statements like that.’ Says mortgage man M, joining the conversation. ‘Is people will actually hate journalists more than us.’

‘Do you mean estate agents or financial advisors?’ I ask, before I can stop myself.

M gives me a jowly frown.

‘We’re all in the same boat you know.’ He responds gruffly.

If we are, it’s going to sink faster then Syrians on a surfboard, with you as cargo, fat boy.

The first phone call comes in before lunch. A truculent vendor who has been grumbling from day one of marketing and conveniently forgets they ignored my advice on asking price and have a house that smells like a stray dog’s kennel. If I see another pampered pongy pooch sleeping on a human’s bed, I’ll never stop itching.

‘We’ve seen this article in the paper.’ Whines the man.

‘The 20% uplift one?’ I say, needlessly.

‘Yes,’ confirms the man. ‘And we think….’

Here it comes.

‘…we’re selling too cheaply.’

I gently explain, the survey, if you could grace it with that title, is an ill-researched, inflammatory piece aimed at selling copy and generating debate on the paper’s crappy comment section. Some number-cruncher will be checking hits the drivel had generated and calculating pay-per-click revenue against the sidebar of shame stories about C-list celebrities with their underwear showing.

‘Yes but you would say that wouldn’t you.’ Persists the man. ‘You just want a quick sale and your commission.’ You’ve been on the market for four months, I want to scream. Surely someone with a penchant for paying over the odds and the aroma of damp dog would have surfaced by now, unless they can’t wriggle out of their straitjacket.

‘We think you’re bringing round the wrong type of buyer.’ Continues the man, hitting his stride.

Yep, those picky punters with cash to spend are no good to you pal. You want Stevie Wonder with a head cold.

‘Are you allowed to take it off the market, without the owner telling you to?’ Queries F, once the fractious phone call ends.

I don’t often do it. But sometimes you need to cut you losses and move on.

Just don’t tell the bean counter boss.

-----------

Same And Old - Wednesday

‘I’ve booked you a valuation this afternoon.’ Announces S when I return to the office. You’ve got to love her - only of course I can’t. Not without an expensive divorce, loss of house, job and love and respect of everyone I love. I’ve seen what feckless fathers can do first hand, and I’m not about to repeat it, no matter what the geneticists say.

‘Not sure how serious they are though.’ Continues S. ‘They’ve been on the market for twelve months and we’ll be their third agent if they swap to us.’ I ask S where the property is and she tells me. I try to suppress a groan of despair, she’s doubtless worked hard to gain the appointment so a negative response isn’t going to endear me.

‘Do you know it?’ Asks assistant manager T languidly. Of course I f***ing know it, it’s my job to, I think angrily. And his too.

‘Its been on the market for over a year.’ I announce sniffily.

‘She told you that.’ Counters T petulantly.

So I list the other two agents who’ve been marketing the home at way too much money, and for good measure I tell T the price it started at, plus the two minor price reductions since. That’s the difference between an on-line agent - or glorified call-centre - and a local property expert. I know my patch as intimately as a nicotine addict trying to ditch cigarettes.

‘Have you primed them for some straight talking?’ I ask S.

S smiles wanly. ‘Well I’ve told them you’ll be frank, but they seem a bit sceptical about estate agents and honesty.’ She replies.

S has a point, yet another recent survey placed our industry near the murky bottom of the public perception for trust, we’ve hauled ourselves above politicians and journalists, but it’s still not great company.

‘They are probably another pair in cloud cuckoo land.’ Predicts T with a sneer. ‘A fiver says they’ll tell you, “we’re not giving it away,” when you hit them with a realistic price.’

‘He won’t take that bet.’ Predicts fat mortgage man M, joining the conversation. Damned straight I won’t. I’ve seen more hopelessly deluded dreamers than Asif, the lottery ticket salesman at the newsagent.

‘Do you know what it’s really worth?’ Presses S.

I do. Of course valuing a home is more of an art than a science, and you need to see a property to gauge, presentation, condition, orientation, grounds etc, but this isn’t a one-off property, that might be hard to price. It’s in a road of very similar homes and I have a wealth of data on comparable sales, ones that have gone through, not just wishful asking prices,

I tell T what I’m predicting and he whistles expansively.

‘Good luck with that.’ H says dismissively, turning back to his phone screen. If he’s on Tinder again I’ll be setting something incendiary under him.

The house is probably still a good £50,000 over-priced and I have a feeling the vendors won’t be that well disposed to a dose of reality. But then you have to kiss a lot of frogs in his business and I’m used to having a sour taste in my mouth.

‘So you see,’ explains the wife, when I’m sitting in their lounge later. ‘We need to get that price for our house as we’re moving to a more expensive area.’ My heart sinks faster than a skydiver with a faulty chute. The impact is going to hurt.

‘Unfortunately you can only command what the area will sustain.’ I explain gently. Their argument is a well worn and irrelevant one. Unless their home is so unique it will create a lot of interest and justify a guide price and competitive bidding - which it isn’t - they need to get real. Or start unpacking.

‘You lot just want a quick sale and a big commission.’ Sneers the husband. He hasn’t endeared himself to me by not turning off the television, so perversely I’m battling some inane presenter trying to convince fat and balding couples to buy something second hand in the sun. I cut to the chase.

‘How much?’ They shout in unison.

Apparently, they’re not giving it away….

-----------

First Defence - Thursday

‘Can you squeeze in another valuation before lunch.’ Says negotiator S even before I’ve closed the office door.

‘Really?’ I reply, glancing at the wall clock and looking longingly towards the kitchen where there was just under half a packet of Malted Milk biscuits when I left.

‘She has to see you today.’ Continues S as I see tubby mortgage man M emerging, with a mug of something steaming and a fist full of curiously moorish baked product.

Now it’s a long time since any woman really had to see me at such short notice. But as M has finished all the Malted Milk, and has just as clearly only made himself a drink, it seems I’d be better off pitching for some business than pitching in head first against the morbidly obese finance-fiddler. I’ll sort him later.

‘Give me the details.’ I say to S curtly.

She reals off the  basic information. Address, property type, number of bedrooms, name and contact methods.

‘And reason for wishing to move?’ I say, wanting the most important piece of the puzzle.

‘They’ve outgrown their existing house.’

‘Partner?’ I probe. Hoping to know if I can get both parties together, then find out which one is the decision maker.

‘He’s at his office.’ S shrugs a semi-apology,. ‘I know, but she’s said it was the only time she was available and she’s off work today.’

I nod, look at the clock again, then accede. You can’t afford to turn down chances for business in any market place and valuations are the sharp end of property sales, no mater how many internet start-ups, or badly briefed journalists, tell you different. Without the homes to offer, an estate agent is dead in the water.

‘I don’t suppose she told you why it had to be today?’ I ask S, as I cross-check my brief case for sole agency forms, digital camera, calculator and laser-measure.

She hesitates.

‘What?’ I demand. I could do body language as a degree course after all this time.

‘You’re not going to like it.’ Ventures S timidly.

‘She’s off work sick, isn’t she?’ I state rhetorically.

S nods. Terrific.

I’ve picked up most minor airborne ailments known to man since I began valuing people’s homes. It’s why my desk drawer looks like a Heathrow airside, mini-version of Boots the chemist. I even had one of their loyalty cards for a while and come to think of it there’s a UK to USA plug adaptor in there too.

‘Just don’t get too close to her.’ Says S with a chuckle.

I get colds and throat infections much more regularly than offers of casual sex. Although there was that one time when the divorcee wanted to negotiate a fee reduction - I didn’t really fancy him though…

‘I won’t, don’t worry.’ I tell her, going back to my office and taking two big snorts from the exorbitantly priced - but clinically proven - First Defence bottle. Immediately my eyes water and I start sneezing. God knows if it really helps, you immediately get most of the symptoms of a streaming cold so it’s hard to tell.

‘Don’t stay too long.’ Suggests trainee F unhelpfully. 

‘And perhaps refuse to shake her hand too?’ I counter sarcastically.

‘That’s a good call.’ Answers F.

I sometimes yearn for the days when you could sack someone without months of negotiations with Human Resources.

If I want the business and sense it’s there to be had, I’ll stay the night and clamber in to bed with  both of them if I have to. Anything to stop another agent getting their For Sale board up. It’s dog eat dog out there and a snottily proffered hand, a germ-ridden cup of coffee, or even a dribbly threesome won’t deflect me from signing up a sole agency.

The chances are it won’t be an easy sale. Experience tells me I’m just being called out at the owners’ convenience. Moving home isn’t a snap decision, at least not a successful move. I’m probably just going to be used at a time when someone is at home with a box of tissues and a DVD.

Might as well have another tosser join them.

----------

Our Survey Says - Tuesday

‘Seen the latest property survey?’ Asks assistant manager T when I walk in to the office wearily.

‘Do you want to narrow it down a bit?’ I snap back sarcastically.

‘Appointment didn’t go well then?’ Counters T.

As it happens, no. The owner had already sought the “ expert” advice of three of our competitors and had been horribly mislead on price by two of the usual culprits. Blinded by the numbers they just wouldn’t accept my comparable evidence of recent , similar home, sales around them. But then if they follow property price surveys…

‘Which bunch of shysters was it this time?’ I ask T, shrugging my suit jacket off and loosening my tie a tad.

The problem is, so many conflicting price surveys are issued that it’s no wonder the home owning and home buying public are confused.

T names a well known lender and a none too well respected newspaper.’Well what do you expect?’ I tell him rhetorically. He nods gloomily.

With a 24 hour hunger for news and property prices a raw and emotive subject, no matter what the marker is actually doing, the need for something to say - anything - is relentless. Consequently you can get three conflicting reports within the space of one week. Lenders with a narrow loan base to draw their date from and with no access to cash buyers’ figures, seem to be the worst offenders. The government data is at least partially accurate although in common with all the others, is slewed by London prices - and in the Land Registry Data’s case, out of date by the time it hits the news’ stands.

‘People just seem to pick the survey that suits their position, buying or selling.’ States trainee F superfluously. Of course they do. It’s human nature, and as one wrinkled surveyor sage once said to me when I could still make 32 inch waist trousers. ‘The job would be great without the public., young fella.’

Not sure he thought that one through, but then the surveyors official mouthpiece are another culprit when issuing price forecasts on a perilously low, finger in the air style, survey.

The local media outlets tend to ring from time to time wanting anecdotal tales of what the market is doing and of course we suck up to them for our 15 mins of fame on air, or in chip paper print. Not that we think it through that well. With a radio clip to tape, or a  print deadline to meet, most agents just want some free advertising to heighten their profile and impress the client whose home might be featured. They’ll say pretty much what the caller wants to hear.

‘I don’t know why people buy that rag.’ Says T referring to the national paper in question. Actually you never buy a paper, I think ungraciously, you always read mine. But he is right, some media outlets just crave a property story like a junkie needs a fix. They seem to run any spurious tale some desperate PR has pumped out to promote a vested interest. It doesn’t make my job any easier.

‘What do we say if people ask about this stuff?’ Questions F, wide eyed and still innocent - at least where property is concerned. Rumour has it he indulges in some pretty niche activities with that flaky girlfriend of his, but that’s a whole other survey.

‘Depends if they are buying or selling.’ I tell him dryly.

‘If they are selling they’ll want more money.’ Says F brow furrowed.

‘So rubbish it, tell them it’s London distorting the numbers.’

‘Err and if they’re buying…’ Falters F.

‘Well?’ I say, palms outstretched.

‘Uhm, make them chase their solicitor for an exchange, as they’re getting a bargain?’ Falters F.

Maybe he’s going to make it after all.

‘Another one.’ Says T mid-afternoon as he stares at his computer screen.

As I’m with him in the front office I’m guessing he hasn’t just completed a hand of on-line Solitaire.

‘What this time?’ I ask.

T names a different lender whose data has come up with the opposite conclusion their competitors drew earlier.

‘So is the market going up or down? Asks F exasperated.

Time will tell.

---------

For a more accurate picture download the 'Agents Diary' ebooks - links on the right.

Spanish Fly - Sunday

‘I’m not sure we belong here.’ I tell my wife as we search in vain for a couple of non-towelled sun beds. You have to invade the pool early to get a space before these surprisingly sprightly ex-Nazi youths, stake a claim.

‘You are just being foreign-phobic again.’ Hisses my wife, ‘Bet you couldn’t take that attitude at work.’ She continues, as I spot the only free beds are next to the shaded shower where I refuse to soak myself before jumping in the pool. Needless to say the portly Bavarians all follow orders.

She’s right. I don’t discriminate where property is concerned. Not only is it illegal but it’s counter-productive. Without offshore money there’d certainly be a lot of London agents looking to renegotiate their rents, and lazy journalists might need to leave the Central Line for their next glossy interior story.

‘I mean who thought people still wore Speedos outside of the Olympic diving pool?’ I say, as the man I’ve nicknamed Dead Elvis strides by. This scrawny octogenarian sports an improbable silver-coloured quiff and leopard print trunks. His leathery skin is tanned to ebony brown and has more lines than a cyclone affected weather map. I wouldn’t let him within five miles of a school.

‘And here come the Munich festival crew.’ I grumble, as a group of retired German bankers - who else can afford to stop work while they can still herd shopping trolleys round an Asda car park – arrive at the pool bar and order their first beers of the morning. In the cheaper, locals’ bars behind the beach, unemployed Spanish men are also drinking alcohol with a spooky symmetry.

The overweight German men are already in their skimpy, unappetisingly saggy swimsuits, and their perma-tanned wives sport garish prints on their blouses that match their varicose-veined legs. The males wear more gold reserves around their necks and wrists than the Greek economy can muster. I start to yearn for some kids to disrupt the smug air of entitlement and maybe wet this bunch on the outside with the sort of bombs that didn’t remodel Coventry.

‘Don’t check you work emails.’ Scolds my wife as we get out of the midday sun ahead of the mad dogs. I’ve just had a shameful rant that the overworked maid, on a minimum wage sweating in a nylon uniform, hasn’t cleaned our room yet. The naivety of my punk rock anarchist days never seemed further away.

‘I need to know what they are up to.’ I tell my wife switching on my netbook and failing to find a strong enough Wi-Fi signal again. We’ve changed room once already and the receptionist insists on greeting me with a curt, Guten Morgen before breakfast every day. I can’t make another fuss.

‘The office will survive without you.’ Continues my wife so reasonably I want to bark a couple of angry Halts Mauls at her. The paradox is, I ached to escape the office and now I feel like starting a tunnel to get back there. Maybe it’s Stockholm syndrome, my geography is all over the place, so who knows?

‘What did that achieve?’ Asks my wife as we go back to the hotel terrace for a pricey coffee, as there is no kettle in the room. We’ll be taking the tea bags back home again then.

‘Not a lot.’ I acknowledge. The asinine work emails I’ve just scanned made me testier than ever and now my shorts are feeling so tight I reckon I’ll need to concede to the next waist size up when we next travel. All this food and alcohol is starting to take its toll, my liver is grumbling as much as I do and I’ve a feeling I’ll still be finding sand in places I didn’t know I had, in February.

‘No we don’t want any fake sunglasses.’ I snap at the African lad flogging knock-off designer shades with authentic looks and all the UV protection you’d get popping you pants on your head. Then the smokers sit next to us, something I now find as offensive as someone squatting down and taking a dump alongside you.

Auf Wiedersehen. 

------



Afford your next holiday buy buying wisely - the property ebook here:

http://amzn.to/ttGZ4j