Complaint's Box - Monday

I’ve not even shut the office door and it starts.

‘The bloke from number ten rang while you were out, thinks we’ve sold his house too quickly.’ Says assistant manager T, with a slump of his shoulders.

I’m guessing it’s not the Prime Minister. Two reasons: firstly the PM doesn’t own their place of residence, technically they’re just a pimped-up council house tenant. Secondly, no government in recent memory has had the hint of a joined-up housing approach, so property and any type of policy are not exactly bedfellows - unless it’s a cardboard box in a shop doorway.

‘He’s an idiot.’ Pronounces negotiator S as trainee F walks in from the kitchen. F hesitates and looks a little hurt.

‘She’s talking about the vendor of number ten.’ Enlightens T. ‘They think we’ve sold their house too quickly, too cheaply and will doubtless want a cut to the commission.’

‘Or withdraw from the sale and put the price up.’ Adds S.

It’s not a new dilemma. There’s a sweet-spot for selling a property new to the market. Just enough viewings to convince the owner we’ve done our job exposing the home to the market, a few who turn their nose up at the decor, location and price, then a buyer who tries a chip on the asking price, which we negotiate up to an acceptable figure. Job done.

But of course it’s not. As any agent, or seasoned house mover will tell you, the hard work often starts after terms are agreed. The delays, the quibbling, the inept surveyors, solicitors, lenders and a fragile connection of fickle buyers and sellers all roped together in a transaction chain that can founder at any given moment in the next eight weeks - or more. That’s when we earn out money. No sale no fee.

‘What did you manage to agree with him?’ I ask T apprehensively. He’s the assistant manger, well versed in these type of problems, plus I’ve coached him more productively and diligently than the procession of charlatans in trouser suits, with tick-box computer programmes and digital post-it note sessions, they’ve had in the training department recently.

‘Told him you’d ring him back when you got in.’ Says T, without a hint of shame.

Perhaps, I’m not as good as I think? Maybe a powder-blue flared set of strides - with room for a big arse - and a matching colour, bias-cut jacket, with just a hint of retro eighties-style shoulder pads…..

‘What?’ Asks T as I scowl at him. Surely he could have dealt with the problem when it was fresh? Convince the owner the job isn’t even half done, that we now need to nurse the transaction to a successful conclusion. Maybe, list the number of people who’d had details of his home, the comparable sales of other homes like his, in the area. The fact that we’d obtained a price he said he’d be happy with only a week ago. The even more pertinent fact that he is now in a position to secure the home he’s hoping to move to.

If you want something doing, do it yourself. It’s a phrase I lived with for years, until my mental and physical health started to take a hit, trying to do everything in the office single-handedly. Not trusting colleagues to do the job to my standards. As the body ages and the spirit weakens I’ve learned to relinquish control. T doesn’t seem to have noticed.

‘Just thought you’d prefer to explain.’ Says T petulantly, after I’ve suggested he could have dealt with the thorny problem. Not any more, I think sourly, as I steel myself for the difficult conversation. Repetition might work for classical musicians, but I just cramp up now.

No doubt the owner will cite the thousands of pounds of commission he now owes us, without a thought as to how much more work needs to be done before he finally opens that door with his new set of keys, and decides where first to shag his partner - I’d advise against the stairs until the carpets are down….

Never the less, someone is going to get f***ed.

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Cottaging Again - Tuesday

‘Everything okay?’ I ask as I come back to a quiet office and a glum looking T, my assistant manager.

‘We’ve had two more offers.’ Replies T with less enthusiasm than I’d prefer. Just like that time two aggressive drunks accosted me on a narrow walkway behind those council flats, I sense a problem.

Normally we crave offers and sometimes no matter how many adverts you place, how many sets of details you snail-mail or email, no matter how many viewings you conduct, a single offers isn’t forthcoming. T has two, so they can’t be good.

‘Which property?’ I ask warily, already knowing the probable answer.

‘The cottage,’ says T. ‘It’s always the bloody cottage at the moment.’

‘Any chance of a mortgage placement?’ Asks fat M our financial advisor M, waddling back from the gents’ toilet for at least the third time this morning. I dread to think how his lower intestine looks, his gait across the office resembles a peristaltic movement.

‘It’s cash buyers only!’ Shout T and negotiator S in unison. S doesn’t often get angry but when she does her breasts heave most distractingly. There should be an adult’s only warning on her desk, perhaps one of those red circles the film censors use with the figure 18 in the centre - or maybe it’s just me…

‘Alright. Calm down.’ Respond M, fat jowls flapping alarmingly. Please don’t say it, I think, moments before he adds, not for the first time. ‘A man has to eat.’ 

He see-saws back to his office leaving the faint aroma of cheap cooked fatty product I get when I succumb to a sausage roll from Greggs.

‘He’ll still have to qualify them.’ I tell T ruefully.

‘Not much point they both need massive mortgages and there’s no way they’ll get them on that place.’

‘You’ve told them that, obviously.’ I say to T.

‘Obviously.’ 

The cottage in question is the sort of dilapidated home couples with more desire to have their fifteen minutes of fame, than to save a decent deposit, end up drooling over on those ghastly property based television programmes that proliferate on daytime television. And as for the so called property ‘expert’ presenters, well lets just say - they are not.

To my certain knowledge the cottage requires at least £50,000 worth of updating, new wall ties on one elevation and some underpinning to the poorly constructed rear extension. I advised the beneficiaries to take it to auction, for a binding contract and the right sort of buyer. One son of the deceased agreed, the two other siblings wanted the ethereal promise of much more money if some mug punter could pay over the odds and find a dodgy lender.

‘They are just greedy.’ Says T disdainfully, referring to the battling beneficiaries. By the state of the cottage none of them helped out with the late mother’s cleaning and maintenance needs.

‘That’s just families.’ I tell T, as we discuss the best way to present the offers to the trio. There’s a sale in progress already, one arranged at a figure they weren’t over-enamoured with, but to a cash buyer, fully aware of what they were taking on.

‘Is there no way we can just lose the bids?’ Asks F, my intellectually-challenged trainee, joining the discussion.

‘It’s illegal.’ Parrot T and S in unison again. I hope T’s not doing anything else in tandem with her.

‘But there’s no way they’ll ever buy the place,’ persist F. ‘They’ll just trash the other sale then pullout three months down the line when they can’t get funding.’ From the mouths of imbeciles, sometimes comes sense. Sometimes.

M is going to need to confirm the two ill-informed buyers’ finical arrangements, something they won’t take kindly to, then I’m going to need to explain to three barely communicating siblings why an extra £10,000 or £15,000 respectively isn’t worth a hill of beans, if the buyers ultimately can not proceed.

 ‘My sister wants to take the extra £15,000,’ Says the more reasonable brother mid-afternoon. She won’t get it, I want to scream, not even her third of it.

‘You’ll tell the other buyers won’t you?’ States the brother.

No problem.

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Shed Out Of Luck - Thursday

‘You’re not going to like this.’ Says negotiator S with a frown when I come through the door, reasonably upbeat having just secured a signed sole agency at a sensible price, with a board.

The bounce in my step falters, as I look at her and run through the umpteen bear traps that might have just sprung. The property market can cause a lot of shit to happen and not just in the woods. Mind racing now, I shrug off my coat and run through some of the options that might hurt me. Surveyor downvaluing an agreed sale, lawyer ripping apart an ancient lease and advising against purchase, lender withdrawing a product and leaving a potential deal without finance, local authority search throwing up a planning blight, or a buyer just changing their mind.

‘Tell me then.’ I instruct S, once I’m sat at T’s vacant desk, plastic beaker of over-priced water from the cooler in my hand.

‘Mrs Ward.’ She begins wearily.

‘What now?’ I interject angrily. ‘Wants the buyers to wait another three months while she procrastinates? Expects them to pay extra for that “summer house” in the garden that anyone else would call a shed? Grumbling about the fee we’ll charge when she finally moves after five months of sales progressing, several adverts and over thirty viewings before someone offered?’

‘None of the above.’ Answers S with a grimace.

‘What then?’ I snap.

‘She’s taking her house off the market.’ The expletive is as loud as it’s coarse, echoing around the office and bouncing off the filing cabinets like some Tourettes afflicted Swiss yodeller.

‘Why?’ I finally plead after an apology for my, against company standing orders, swearing.

‘You’re still not going to like it.’ Ventures S, gathering up the file and bringing it over.

I expect buyers to jerk me around, it’s in their DNA. And even if they think they are genuine purchasers, there’s a thousand little property based land mines, to detonate under their intentions, along the way. Chains will break, relationships will shatter, jobs will be lost, but when vendors cancel a deal it hurts even more. I’ve nurtured a relationship with them from day one, fought off rival agents for the initial instruction, battled over-optimistic price expectations, spent on marketing, done countless viewings, nursed along faltering buyers, only for my client - the one who is supposed to be paying my bill - to pull the plug like a jaundiced surgeon switching off another life-support machine.

 ‘She says there’s nothing out there on the market as nice as her house.’ Explains S as she hands me the buff file, full of week after weeks’ worth of progressing notes in her neat hand. ‘Thinks she may have sold it too cheap in the first place.’ Continues S rubbing salt into the wound as I gaze at the bundle of letters and updates which when I left the office first thing, were worth about £5,000 on my sales pipeline.

‘Mentioned what she’d really like to do...’

‘Is pick her house up and move it somewhere else?’ I finish angrily, the familiar refrain hurting my buzzing ears even as I repeat it.

‘What are we supposed to tell the couple buying?’ Asks S plaintively. ‘They’re supposed to be getting married in three moths time.’

‘Tell them they’ll have a bit more to spend on the honeymoon.’ I reply bitterly. ‘Only nowhere to live when they get back.’

‘They’re going to be fuming.’ Continues S. ‘She kept them waiting for weeks and they’ve spent out on lawyers fees and surveys.’ S hesitates then adds. ‘I suppose they’ll blame us for it.’

‘No question.’

‘I really don’t want to discuss it, I’ve made my mind up.’ Proclaims Mrs Ward curtly when I ring to try and resurrect the sale.

‘Did you want to speak to the buyers and explain?’ I ask, knowing the answer but feeling malevolent once I’ve established the deal is dead.

‘I’d rather you do that.’ Instructs Mrs Ward as I think, don’t you dare say: That’s what I’m paying you for. But instead she says. ‘There won’t be any charges for me will there? It is no sale no fee.’

No cost to you, lady.

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