Alive Still Kicking - Friday

‘Don’t get old will you.’ States the grey-haired man rhetorically as I sigh internally. If I’ve heard that statement once, from an elderly owner, I’ve heard it a thousand times. But you have to humour potential vendors if you want their business - particularly if you’d like to sign-up a sole agency before the complications of probate and bickering beneficiaries. 

‘I just don’t know where the time has gone.’ Ruminates the old fella, as I glance at the overgrown garden and think; well you didn't spend it cutting the shrubbery back.

‘I sometimes forget how ancient I’ve become.’ Continues the man, eyes focused in the middle-distance. Yes, yes. Here we go.

‘And then I look in the mirror and hardly recognise the old fool looking back at me,’

That I can relate to, granddad. 

Ageing and the housing needs of the baby boomers who are suddenly becoming unsteady on their feet, is a massive demographic ticking-time bomb. I don’t think over-priced, shrunken-square footage, sheltered homes are the answer. Particularly with onerous leases, unfair clauses for re-sales and spiralling service charges just when the owners are running out of funds. 

‘The family keep telling me I can’t cope with this place.’ Continues the man waving his hand towards the overgrown garden. ‘But I've had the best times of my life here. I don’t want to go and live in a box that smells of cabbage, where old women play whist all afternoon with daytime television on at volumes even I can hear.’

I’m warming to this sparky pensioner, something I try to avoid. Liking your client is dangerous. Particularly if you are tempted to tell them to stay put and get a home help in three times a week - until you fall over on the nightly piss run, too often. I’ll always do my utmost to get a good result for a vendor, it’s a matter of professional pride, but becoming fond of them is a luxury I can’t afford.

‘I told you Patricia is in one of those ghastly care homes, didn’t I?’ Says the old man. ‘Only I’m becoming forgetful.’

He did and I don’t blame him for trying to forget it. His wife is apparently totally unaware when he visits, being kept alive for no real hope or reason, and it’s costing this poor old man £1500 a week.

‘Two years she’s been in there, young man, God alone knows what its cost me.’

£1444,000. And it’s the reason the family think he needs to downsize. If he’d been profligate and not bought his own house and had savings of less than about £23,000 the local taxpayer would be funding his wife’s care. Its a funny old world.

I pitch a price and my fee and he becomes sharper than before.

‘My son says I can get it done for just an up-front fee with one of those inter-web things.’ He means an on-line agent - or call-centre, as professional agents name them.

I start to counter this argument, with cautionary tales of impersonal, non-local service, dearth of industry knowledge and a lack of motivation to see the deal through, if you’ve been paid irrespective of result.

‘Oh you don’t need to tell me that.’ Says the man decisively. ‘ I’ve been around long enough to know you get what you pay for.’

Care homes, excluded, I think fleetingly.

‘I don’t want some kid in shorts dealing with my property.’

That’s the stuff, sir..

‘I want someone a bit long in the tooth - like yourself.’

Not so flattering….

‘What do you think about those sanitised boxes, with the pull cords and a communal lounge?’ Asks the man as my pen hovers, in his trembly hands, over the sole agency agreement. I hate them with a passion, they rip-off vulnerable old folk and are often worth less than the dead parents paid for them, when the grieving family come to sell.

I feel a bit sick as I leave. I’ve indulged in more fudge and had an unwelcome glimpse into my future.

Still, a sole agency and a For Sale board can’t be bad.

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Sale Agreed - Friday

‘Sold to that man!’ Exclaims trainee F with a flourish, thumping the phone down and turning to the office with a grin like a scary clown.

‘Exchanged contracts already has it?’ Says assistant manager T with raised eyebrows.

’Didn’t know there was an auction on today.’ Contributes negotiator S, with an alluring grin.

‘Have they signed an irrevocable pre-contract agreement, with a ten percent non-returnable deposit subject only to a second viewing?’ I add flatly.

‘Errr, No.’ Says F looking crestfallen, scanning the room. ‘No to all of those.’

‘Then it’s not sold then is it?’ Says T, shaking his head.

‘It’s a sale agreed, though.’ Adds S softly, with a kind smile towards F. ‘So that’s a good start.’

‘That’s about all it is.’ Snipes T, before I can.

‘Well done.’ I tell F, the voice of experience nagging at me to be less enthusiastic.

One in three sales fall through. There’s a long way to go, but you have to keep pouring into the top of the sales funnel.

‘They were a nightmare couple.’ Continues S, still smiling at F. That’s probably enough, I think, as she adds.

‘You did well to get them to pay a price our vendors accepted.’

F hesitates and an alarm bell starts ringing shrilly in my head - at least I hope it’s just in my head. The tinnitus has been getting increasingly obtrusive and sometimes I wonder if the noises I hear in my head are actually real….

‘They did pay what we agreed they’d have to?’ I ask, shaking my head like a breaststroker - the type with swimmers’ ear, not the creepy version Human Resources keep running courses about.

‘Yes.’ Answers F hesitantly. ‘Only they insisted we put a sold board up straight away.’

‘Or what?’ Growls T. Once again, just before I can. I wonder if he’s after my chair? He can have it if he wants. Like me, it’s old and cranky with a bad back.

‘Or they won’t go ahead.’ Replies F apologetically.

‘It’s not  up to you though is it?’ I say to F curtly.

‘I know, I told them we’d have to ask our clients.’ Replies F. ‘But they say they’d already agreed it with them. Said they have a gentleman’s agreement.’

A simultaneous groan rings round the office.

‘What?’ Asks F naively.

‘How long have you got?’ Says T.

One thing I’ve learnt over nearly three decades of deals and disappointments, is a gentleman’s agreement is about as reliable as a colander for a condom. People renege on their promises without the slightest thought to the consequences. The reasons one in three sales falter are as broad as Kim

Kardashian’s backside. Human frailties; with changes of mind, marital circumstance, schooling and employment are almost limitless. Then the professional pitfalls contribute, with bad surveys, lazy lawyers, intransigent lenders, short leases, disputed rights of way, the list is endless. Multiply those potential deal-breakers by the number of people in a  property chain and you can see why I don’t want the sold board up before the buyers at least start spending some money.

‘They want the board up. Tell them we want the survey done first.’ Suggests T. It’s a line I’ve used, but he’s first again. I like to think I’ve taught him something.

‘I’m not sure they’d like that.’ Says F weakly.

‘Who the hell do you think you’re working for?’ I add quickly, before T trumps me again.

‘I’m not doing the buyers’ finance am I?’ Asks fat mortgage man M as he sways past.

‘No.’ Answers F.

‘Then you’re acting for the vendors.’ Concludes M. Succinctly summing up the conflict of interest arranging funds for buyers has caused in the industry, ever since the banks and insurance companies started buying estate agencies.

‘How can it hurt?’ Persists F.

Because it puts off other potential buyers. Punters who at least can be readied as a back up, if the “my word is my bond” buyers do what 33% of people who utter that dreaded phrase eventually do. I tell F and he agrees  to speak to the vendors for instruction.

Sold - subject to contract - board up already.

I’m not exactly counting chickens.

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