You Move Me - Monday

‘Can you help us? Our solicitor and agent are useless.’ Pleads the red-eyed woman sat at my desk.

It’s not the first time I’ve heard that particular request. They say moving home is the third most stressful life-event after death and divorce - and I’m not convinced death fully-qualifies as a life-event….

‘They’re a bunch of idle f***wits.’ Says the husband, to a scowl of disapproval from his tearful wife.

I’m tempted to raise the old adage that public and government contract-awarders alike tend to forget - you get what you pay for. This couple are my buyers, so my duty isn’t to them it’s to my vendors, the people paying my fee, but unless I sort this mess my clients won’t move and I won’t get paid.

‘Our agent just never answers the phone and the cowboy who came round and over-valued our house has just disappeared.’ Moans the woman. Cowboys tend to get shot, I think fleetingly, but in this case I suspect he’s just ridden off into a purple-hazed sunset.

‘And the outfit he recommended as solicitors seems to be staffed by an ever-changing bunch of schoolboys who don’t do their homework.’ Spits the husband.

‘Like dealing with a call-centre?’ I venture mischievously.

‘Precisely.’

No surprise there. Maybe next time employ a traditional estate agent and a proper, local lawyer?

‘So why couldn’t our lot do that?’ Asks the wife an hour later, after I’ve spoken to the whole chain, three sets of solicitors and a reluctant lender, agreed an expedited mortgage offer and a proposed completion date. Because you paid a cheap fee up-front and they have no incentive to do anything, other that look for the next mug-punter to sign up? I think angrily.

‘If we ever move agin I won’t be using an on-line load of idiots.’ Says the husband, offering me his hand as the couple leave. Great, I think, maybe come back and see me next time?

‘Oh we won’t be moving again.’ Interjects his wife. ‘Never!’

Not so great.

Maybe one day, if a UK Housing Minister stays in post longer than a few months, we’ll have a joined-up policy for the industry. But I suspect I’ll be long gone. Other countries demand a minimum standard of education to practice as an estate agent - or realtor - and a sound form of licensing and monitoring. We continue to think cheap is value for money and when engaging a future service, you don’t find out until it’s too late, you’ve been duped.

‘Mrs Simmonds on line three.’ Announces negotiator S, later in the day. She’ll be ringing to say how delighted she is I’ve achieved a full-price asking price on her flat after just a fortnight of intensive marketing, five viewings and two competing offers, I think a little smugly.

‘I’m not really happy with the amount of fee I’m paying you.’ Says Mrs Simmonds by way of a greeting. The wind coming out of my sails is almost audible.

‘You don’t seem do have done a lot for the money.’ She moans and a lengthy diatribe about skill-sets, expertise, exam qualifications and the job being far from over, spools through may head. I should introduce Mrs Simmonds to the couple I had in the office earlier. They left singing my praises and wanting to bear my children - but then again they didn’t pay me a bean…

‘I wonder if I’ve undersold it.’ Continues Mrs Simmonds, in the time-honoured whine of an owner who is unhappy if you sell too soon and quick to change agents if you take too long. I’m tempted to give her the number of the on-line outfit my new friends employed, but they probably wouldn’t answer the phone.

‘What did Mrs Simmonds want?’ Asks negotiator S, after I’ve convinced the woman she won’t be paying me a penny until I nurse the deal through to a successful moving day.

‘What do they all want?’ I snap back.

‘Something for nothing?’ Ventures S, with a beguiling smile.

There you go.

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Beginning At Home - Monday

‘Nice lady coming back to see you in about half an hour.’ Says negotiator S, as I come through the office door.

This isn’t what I want to hear. Nice ladies don’t come to see me, unless they are selling something I don’t want - or can’t afford.

‘What is she flogging?’ I ask, to a frown from S.

‘A dead horse, if she’s pitching to you.’ Interjects assistant manager T, with a grin.

‘It’s for a good cause.’ Continues S, ignoring T and fixing me with that devastating smile.

I soften a little, which with S is a little counterintuitive….

‘Some sort of begging letter, with a collecting tin most of the deadbeats who come in here will try and steal if we don’t chain it to the photocopier?’ I demand, sourly.

‘You are so jaundiced.’ Says S, with a beguiling pout.

‘It’ll come to you with time and a lot more disappointment.’ I tell her, shrugging off my coat and heading for the message book.

Apart from being a magnet for every lunatic in town and all the sad lonely people who have nobody to talk to during the day, my office seems to be the first port of call for anyone collecting for spurious good causes, from the big terminal ones, right through to well-meaning old women rescuing damaged Greek donkeys and stray cats that should have been spayed at birth.

‘Was she wearing a hi-viz jacket and a fake smile?’

I ask, distracted by several messages in the book that don’t bode well for some of the sales in my pipeline.

‘No she was quite normal.’ Counters S, as I see Bomber the surveyor has collected the keys for one of my high-end sales. He’ll down value the agreed price and no doubt ask for numerous independent contractors reports. Investigations almost guaranteed to spook the purchaser and make them think they are buying a dilapidated money pit, not a period home that has stood for a couple of hundred years quite happily.

‘What makes them think I have time to collect cash for free and hand out cheap lapel stickers to prove to passers by how worthy you are?’ I demand.

‘They are just to stop the charity-chuggers in the high street from bugging you.’ Suggests T.

‘Well it’s not working.’ I counter. ‘If those ill-dressed, failed students, expect me to sign a monthly direct-debt to save pit-ponies in Siberia, they’ve another think coming. They should get a proper job.’

‘Think they are volunteers.’ Says S, with a hint of annoyance.

They’re not. They are on commission, like me, and unless I sort out these sales taking forever while solicitors, lenders and surveyors try to screw then up, I won’t be getting any.

Agents do their bit for charity. Those with a more active social media stream than the clowns at head office, manage to raise their local profile quite well and buck the perceived image of estate agents being a bunch of sharks in cheap suits. I’ve done my fair share of sponsored walks and bike rides, but fatigue and a chaffed crotch gets you eventually.

‘The British are amongst the most generous charity supporters anywhere.’ States S. Not sure she has the figures to substantiate that claim. It is probably just a result of almost constant television nights where you are coerced into ringing a premium number to donate, while the tears are still falling after another heart-wrenching video-tape of a starving child and a devastated village. Perhaps I should take the collecting tin, after all. A good cause is a good cause and our image could do with a little polishing.

‘Here she comes.’ Announces S, nodding through the window. I spot a late-middle-aged lady, in sensible shoes, approaching like an ageing head girl from a private school. She’s sporting a tweed skirt and jacket combo.

‘You look like the man who makes the decisions.’ She announces in a plummy voice, flashing a lipstick-stained smile. I’m sensing a nut-job.

‘I’m here to tell you about the mistreatment of Korean puppies.’

Barking mad.

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Better The Devil You Know - Tuesday

‘Thought you might like to do a viewing later, boss.’ Says trainee F, with more artfulness than he usually employs.

I probably won’t enjoy it, as it happens. Despite what many think, the hard sell in estate agency is winning the property instruction in the first place. That’s where the competition is and the dark arts deployed. You can’t hard sell a viewing and subsequent purchase. And if you do, the potential buyer has eight weeks or more to change their mind, once lawyers, surveyors and lenders get involved.

‘And why did you think I might like to do that?’ I ask F.

He looks uncertain.

‘Tell him.’ Urges assistant manager T, with a mischievous grin.

‘Well… you know you say match staff to similar people for appointments.’ Says F, hesitantly.

‘Don’t worry it’s not a pair of poofters.’ Interjects mortgage man M, unpleasantly.

‘God you’re such a neanderthal throwback.’ Says negotiator S, scowling at M and tossing her hair back, distractingly.

I’m deflected from F, as I now need to point out to everyone that legislation, rightly, insists we don’t discriminate against people on race, religious, disability or sexuality grounds. Rather stuffy lecture delivered, I pause.

‘Yeh, yeh.’ Says M stalking back to his office and his copy of The Daily Mail. ‘But it doesn’t mean I have to like them, or those weirdos who want everyone to use the same toilets just because they can’t decide if it’s a dick between their legs, or not.’

Quite a lot of work to do on M. I wonder if I should apply to send him on that minority awareness course I went on? He probably could do with sitting in a circle of chairs empathising within a gender-neutral environment and sticking yellow post-it notes up whenever he thinks of a situation when his dated pre-dispositions and ingrained masculine prejudices, come to mind. He’d paper a whole, f***ing wall.

‘So why me?’ I continue, looking at F.

‘Similar age profile.’ Answers F.

‘Similar grey hair.’ Interjects B from her lettings’ desk.

‘Similar dress sense.’ Says S, with a laugh.

‘And similarly grumpy.’ Says T, completing my character assassination. 

As I walk up to the cheaply converted, once proud, Victorian house, I can see what they meant. The man I’m meeting looks like a tubbier version of me. Cheap crumpled suit, badly-knotted tie, wrinkled forehead and hair that I like to think of as, the stately silver fox look, but on this guy just looks like surrender.

‘You the estate agent?’ Asks the man warily. Yep, the man with a set of keys, a clipboard and a base model company car. You’ve got me, Sherlock. I eventually answer in the affirmative.

‘I was expecting someone younger.’ The man says flatly. Yes, and I was expecting someone looking a bit more like George Clooney, bucko. 

‘No offence.’ He continues. Plenty taken. ‘Only most of your lot are barely out of puberty, kids and shitesters most of them.’ He pauses and looks at my car. ‘And with flashier motors.’

‘God this is grim.’ Remarks the man, when we’ve both wheezed our way to the top floor penthouse. I make a mental note to change the description to attic flat, even before we start ducking to avoid the sloping roofline.

‘Why does everywhere smell of cabbage?’ He asks as we take a cursory look round the grotty studio flat, dodging stale takeaway cartons and trying not to make eye contact with the ladies’ underwear on the radiators.

‘I can’t live in somewhere like this.’ States the man wearily, over the monotonous drip of a leaking kitchen tap.

Should have thought of that before you shagged you secretary, I say internally. This guy is on the wrong end of divorce proceeding and the wife will be getting the family house. He better hope the younger woman likes three flights of stairs, dodging prams and bikes on poorly lit landings and listening to other people having more sex than she’ll be getting, through paper-thin walls.

‘Good day?’ Ask my wife, when I finally get home smelling stale and disappointed.

‘Love you.’ I tell her,  causing a momentary frown.

I can’t be doing with starting again.

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Tea And Comfort - Monday

‘You alright?’ I ask trainee F, as he walks across the office looking morose. It’s a specific enquiry, generally he’s not alright. After all, if your mother has paid for an expensive private education she has some expectation her son shouldn’t end up struggling in a much-denigrated job, that requires zero qualifications but a whole lot of common sense. Sadly several years of being abused by sixth formers behind the bike sheds, and harangued by sadistic teachers in the classroom, gave him neither.

‘Not really.’ Answers F, with that puppy dog look. As Human Resources take a dim view of stuffing superfluous staff in a bag and taking them to the canal, I decide to mentor instead.

‘Cough.’ I tell him and his eyes fill with fear again, he starts to clear his throat and I immediately regret not being half-way to the litter-strewn waterway.

‘I mean, tell me what’s the matter.’ I instruct the dullard, hastily. For a moment I think he’s going to cry. I hate it when staff do that. They need to man up, it’s a tough business. I do my silent sobbing - after a bad week - when everyone has left the office, so as not to take my disappointment home.

‘Why do people hate us so much?’ F eventually asks softly.

‘Have you got a pen and paper?’ I ask sarcastically, only to see him start towards the stationery cupboard. God, if I come round again I’m going to pay more attention at school. I stop F from embarrassing himself further and sit him down in my office with a cup of tea and the remaining biscuits I’ve hidden from M, our gluttonous mortgage man.

F has been verbally abused by a vendor after bringing them the bad news that their buyer is looking to reduce the agreed price on their home sale, following a critical survey. The buyer in turn has shouted at hapless F when he told them, as instructed, that they could go and whistle for a £10,000 price chop on the back of an out of town surveyor, with little local knowledge, scaring them in to thinking a few thermal movement cracks and a bullish sale price meant they should renege on their agreement.

This is all standard fare for the UK housing market, although conveyancing rules in Scotland leave less leeway for backing out of agreed transactions. But even north of the border, the system is as flawed as cubic zirconium at a cheap jewellers. Delays and misunderstanding contribute to sales falling through, exacerbated by dilatory lawyers, incompetent local authorities, centralised lenders with little understanding of process and in this case, surveyors petrified of their own shadow and scared of being sued under their professional indemnity insurance.

‘It can be sorted.’ I tell F gently and I ask him to get hold of the buyers’ survey report, if he can. The surveyor won’t like it but as the buyers paid for it, tough luck. Patient, non-confrontational negotiation, and an understanding of the transaction means I’m confident I can keep F’s sale together. He just needs to watch and maybe, learn.

‘How did you manage that?’ Asks F in wonderment, after an afternoon of fractious phone calls, compromise and counter-compromise ends in re-negotiated sale letters being issued to both buyer and seller and their respective legal representatives. A local builder is going to reassure the buyers about the non-structural cracking and I’ve managed to get our vendors a reduction on their purchase from a seller keen not to lose their sale and start all over again, putting their move abroad back several months, at least. You won’t get that from an on-line agent, come call-centre.

‘They still don’t like us though, do they?’ Quizzes F.

‘Of course not.’ I tell him. ‘It’s a confrontational and emotive business moving house. Everybody needs a whipping boy.’

F looks at me, alarmed.

‘Not like at your school.’ I reassure him. ‘Metaphorically.’

He nods blankly, so I wave my tannin-stained mug at him. ‘Cup of tea, please?’

‘Sure boss.’ Answers F, face lighting up.

I like to spread a little happiness occasionally.

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Have a great Independence Day American readers.

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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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.

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Open All Hours - Thursday

I’m alone in the office with just imbecilic trainee F for company, as we cover the lunch shift. It’s not a lunch hour; such as you might get working in public service, or a heavily unionised environment. Here you grab some sustenance on the run, in between appointments. Spend too much time scoffing rather than selling and one of the, far too many for every town, opposition agents will be gobbling up your commission opportunities. It’s dog eat dog out there…

F takes a call from an abrupt, just short of rude, man wanting property in a road his wallet won’t stretch to. F frowns as he holsters the phone. I watch the rudimentary cogs grinding in his skull. You can almost hear the base material on base material friction.

You’ve been doing this for, like, ages.’ Announces F eventually, with not the most flattering of openings. I nod warily, as he continues. ‘So, did people always hate estate agents?’

‘Pretty much.’ I tell him, remembering my first sale as if it were yesterday and the fact that the buyer thought they’d paid too much and the seller thought we’d sold too cheaply - and not justified our commission.

‘What you have to understand,’ I tell F wondering if it’s worth the effort enlightening him when I’m trying to engineer a second written warning from a reluctant Human Resources department, who do take lunch hours but don’t like Industrial tribunals. ‘Is property is adversarial,’ I continue. ‘Each party is looking to stiff the other. Add in idiotic surveyors, incompetent solicitors, nervous lenders and a chain longer than on the Titanic’s anchor and you can see why people hate the process.’

‘Yes but why hate us?’ Asks F naively.

‘Because we’re the conduit.’ I tell him, instantly regretting it.

F’s face screws up painfully. Finally he asks.

‘Isn’t that some sort of internet scam?’

Still no entry exam for estate agency.

‘Anything happening?’ Asks fat mortgage man M as he waddles back into the office, face buried in something greasy from Greggs the bakers. He doesn’t need an hour to consume more calories than I eat in a day. I tell him the stark truth.

‘No leads for me then?’ Complains M, spitting flakes on to the carpet, that – unless I do it again - won’t be vacuumed for another 48 hours, after the bean counter’s cleaning cut backs.

‘You could chase up some of your back catalogue of non-written business.’ I suggest sourly. M looks at me with distain. He wants fresh meat – and two veg all wrapped in pastry, if he can get it. He certainly doesn’t see keen on foraging for scraps.

‘Bunch of piss-heads coming up the road.’ Says M nodding his chubby face towards the window and doubtless hoping to change the focus away from his non-performance. M only pulls his weight when he gets on the scales.

‘I don’t know how people can afford to get drunk during the day.’ I pontificate, knowing the answer is probably, ironically, in lettings’ lush B’s copy of the Daily Mail on her desk.

‘You might want to lock the door.’ Suggests M retreating to his office, leaving an aroma laced with processed onions.

It wouldn’t be the first time a bunch of drunkards came into the office to abuse an easy target. I dodged the flying chair last time, but I’m not as agile as I used to be.

Before I can decide, the group of Neanderthals are glaring through the glass making rigorous jerking gestures with cupped forefinger and thumb, while one of their number bangs on the window. The last two times I called the police we were closing for the day before the squad car arrived. I’m guessing there are more than a few constables who can’t get on the housing ladder.

The door spills open and the boldest, drunkest, low-life leers in and grunts.

‘You f***ers are the reason we can’t get no place to live.’

Not the fact you aren’t working and are spending all your benefits on cheap cider then, I ache to say - if it wasn’t for the fear of anaesthetic and more emergency surgery.

The spit will come off the carpet in a couple of days.

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Big Bang Theory - Thursday

‘Here comes Sheller.’ Announces trainee F with unusual confidence. There’s a long silence, as we look at him, each other, then follow his gaze out into the high street.

Assistant manager T sighs then enlightens the imbecile. ‘It’s Bomber, his name is Bomber.’

‘The end result is the same though.’ Says negotiator S with a shake of her head.

‘That’s what I meant.’ Counters F defensively. ‘Bomber.’ He hesitates then asks. ‘Remind me why he’s called Bomber again? He’s too young for euthanasia but a controlled explosion at his desk might work.

‘Because he destroys sales.’ Answers S, saving me from some witheringly sarcastic response that might involve another re-education course with some touchy-feely woman from HR who doesn’t shave often enough.

Every town has a harsh-minded surveyor or two. Long in the tooth practitioners who were sued until their professional indemnity insurers threatened to withdraw cover, after the last property crash. Where lenders who were all to happy to advance money rashly to those with dodgy employment letters, or self-certificated borrowers proffering back of a fag packet first year accounts, decided to retrospectively blame the surveyor for signing off a value that some expected to only keep rising. 20-20 hindsight is a real gift.

‘The twat just down-values every sale he looks at.’ Snarls T. ‘We agree a house at £375,00 he’ll value it at £ 350,000,’ continues T hitting his stride as Bomber does the same across the road. ‘Tie a deal up on the same house at £350,000 and you can guarantee he’s value it at £325,000. Those bastards are frightened of their own shadows. I’m surprised he comes out in the daylight.’

‘I’ve complained about him to my panel of lenders.’ Contributes tubby mortgage man M as he waddles across the office something chaffing again unpleasantly. ‘Tried to get him struck off but they won’t play ball like they used to.’ There’s a reason for that, I think glumly. My memory and longevity is elephantine and I’ve repossessed more homes than I care to remember.

‘If the sale goes down the pan, could you ask the owners if they’d like to rent it out instead?’ Asks B from lettings unhelpfully. The dagger-shaped looks just bounce off her. ‘What?’ She asks with an air of innocence she lost a long time ago. ‘A girl’s got to make a living.’

‘Be nice to him.’ I counsel as Bomber approaches the door. ‘You never know, he might value it up.’

‘Fat chance’ Says M without a hint of irony.

M is right. But I can’t afford to upset the surveyor, despite the fact his caution, bordering on outright fear, has cost me thousands this year alone. But then if it’s not Bomber, it’ll be one of his partners in destruction. I know of a Dr Death, The Terminator and at least two Grim Reapers, from discussions with sister offices.

‘Morning everybody.’ Breezes Bomber as he enters the office. The response is colder than a long-abandoned house. I’m surprised his damp meter doesn’t start pinging off the scale. I beckon him over, and he gives me the address. Only two weeks ago I was punching the air with delight when the sale was agreed, now I’m imagining the fractious conversation with the owner and a call to the board man to re-erect the For Sale sign.

‘Set of the details and the energy performance report please.’ Says Bomber with a forced smile I’d like to force back down his throat. He’s the only person to show interest in an EPC since the last surveyor came in to cover their arse.

I hand Bomber the information and ask him to sign for the keys.

‘Got any comparable sales?’ He asks whiningly. So you can work down from those figures, less ten percent, I think angrily. If you put enough caveats and disclaimers in a survey it becomes as worthless as the EPC he’s clutching protectively.

‘Hmm, price looks a bit full,’ speculates Bomber to an audible pantomime-style hiss from stage left, right and centre.

‘It reflects the market. We had competitive bidding and two disappointed punters.’ I tell him artfully.

‘Reckon it’ll be ok?’ Asks F after Bomber leaves.

No.

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Barking Mad - Monday

‘Could you do a viewing after lunch? We’re double booked.’ Asks assistant manager T as I hurry through the office door. The affirmative answer slips out before I’ve slipped my jacket off and I immediately realise I’ve been done. Years of experience negated by a simple distraction tactic. It’s why middle-aged men with long no-claims records drive in to the car in front, when women on the pavement disrobe in the sunshine.

‘Where is it?’ I question suspiciously, moving towards the office diary. T coughs the information and I’m sure I hear a titter from S my buxom negotiator, but I may be confused. Her blouse hints at weather better than we’ve been experiencing of late.

‘So why can’t F do it?’ I ask, looking at my trainee’s vacant desk, mirroring his expression most days.

‘He’s got a funeral to go to remember?’ Says T.

‘How many grandmothers have died now?’ I gripe uncharitably. ‘Most families only have two.’

‘It’s an granny-in-law type thing, I think.’ Answers T uncertainly. ‘You know what his tribe are like.’

I do. The mad mother is on her third husband and another divorce looks on the cards. F has had more unfamiliar males come into his room at night than a novice monk with a religious bent. Still, separations -even sticky ones - are good for business.

I glance at the address in the diary and let out the sort of low, pained moan F would no doubt be familiar with - only with the lights on this time.

‘The Collins’ house.’ I say dejectedly.

‘I think it was.’ Lies T, a smirk barely suppressed.

I can’t turn down a viewing. That would set an unacceptable example. Viewings mean offers. Statistically, in a good market it takes about ten viewing to agree a sale. In a difficult market it rises to as much as thirty, but the numbers still need to be crunched. I’d just rather it wasn’t in a house where the Doberman likes to shag your leg.

‘Can’t they go any other time?’ I ask plaintively.

‘No.’ Says T. ‘They’re only in town for the day. Want to find something before they go home.’ It’s a great buying signal, one I can’t afford to ignore, even though people who make a decision to purchase a property in haste invariably pull out of the deal. There’s at least a six-week cooling off period while solicitors, surveyors and lenders contrive to scupper the process. I still need to go though.

‘Did you ask if they were going to be in?’ I say to T. Sometimes a viewing is more productive without the owners breathing down your neck and certainly without an oversexed canine spunking down your trousers.

‘Nope. They’ll be there.’ Answers T, before adding slyly. ‘I just wish I could be. But I’ve got a market appraisal.’

‘Be gentle with Fenton.’ Says S laughing.

‘And don’t lead him on.’ Adds loose lettings lush B unhelpfully. Dogs and casual sexual encounters too easy a target for me to bite back on, I ignore the jibe.

‘The dog isn’t called Fenton, anyway.’ I say wearily, referring to the You Tube sensation we all watched a few months ago, where an exasperated owner screamed in vain as his dog chased a herd of deer onto a road. Once they get over-excited nothing stops these animals. Certainly not an estate agent wishing to remain polite but equally keen not to have another dry cleaning bill. We had the: “What do you do if a Doberman makes love to your upper thigh?” discussion last time the mutt goosed a staff member. The answer was, nothing - until he’s finished. They particularly like those soft leather casual shoes, popular with the older generation. Bringing an unfortunate connotation to Hush Puppies I’m fairly sure the manufacturer didn’t think of.

An agent has to adapt to make owners feel comfortable and although I’d love to suggest Mrs Collins just shuts the Doberman in the garden while I conduct the viewing -or wanks the hound off before I arrive - I have a feeling it might cause offence.

Guess I’ll just get used again.

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On The Job Training - Thursday

Trainee F comes to my open office door seeming troubled. I feel the same way. I just try and avoid the gormless look.

‘How can I help?’ I ask, automatically framing an open question after years of schooling.

F frowns and I see he’s clutching a buff sales file. I click off the internet site I’m allowed to browse by the internal filters and beckon him in.

I’ve given F his own sale to monitor. Often the hardest part of a deal reaching fruition comes after the first flush of enthusiasm between buyer and seller, when the solicitors, surveyors and lenders get involved. Add in the dreaded chain of third parties you have no control over and it’s little wonder one in three sales are destined to fail.

‘I’m not really sure what’s going on.’ Falters F, in a candid admission of his career progress so far, but it’s the sale progress he’s referring to. The skilled agent will nurse your sale obsessively, checking the chain, chivvying professionals and amateurs alike, negotiating and re-negotiating problems until a successful exchange of contracts. In this case I’ve entrusted F to a fairly straightforward transaction. After all it’s not always the chief pilot at the controls and everyone has to learn. I just can’t afford too many bumpy landings.

‘There’s some sort of hold up in the chain.’ Stutters F uncertainly. I take the file, trying hard not to snatch it and scan his spindly longhand notes. It might as well be a doctor’s prescription. I ask for more detail.

‘Something about a septic tank and a….’ F stumbles. ‘An easement, maybe?’

I beckon him to sit down. This might take a while.

‘So,’ says F after a brief history of rights of way and private drainage systems. ‘What you’re saying is they don’t have like proper sewerage and stuff.’

‘Not mains service.’ I tell him warily. ‘It’s not uncommon in older more rural properties.’

‘Like one of those listing buildings?’ Suggests F brightening.

My quip about structural problems is wasted on the dolt. Sometimes I genuinely fear for his future children. Amazingly, judging by the parade of dippy girlfriends, he seems to have no problem getting laid. And he excels at screwing up...

‘So it must be like really ancient, this house.’ Continues F, oblivious to my body language.

‘Not necessarily.’ I reply, sensing another asinine aphorism.

‘Probably built before the war, I’m guessing.’ Ventures F, with a silly grin.

I now desperately want to ask which war the idiot is referring to? If he mentions either Gulf conflict, I’ll fire off my own Exocet. He already thinks I fought in the Falklands campaign after a joke about old comrades in an overflying Chinook spiralled out of control. The truth is I was in my first selling job when the naval flotilla set sail for the South Atlantic. It’s been a battle ever since.

‘I suggest you speak to the solicitor involved, or their secretary.’ I tell F, referring to the chain diagram on the inside cover of the file. One carrying surprisingly good detail if you could read F’s handwriting. His face falls.

‘I don’t really like speaking to lawyers.’ He says as I think you and me both pal. They’re a supercilious, condescending bunch of tossers at the best of times. But I’ll still have lunch with them if there’s a good probate department.

‘They treat you like you’re an idiot if you ring up and ask what’s happening.’ Continues F gloomily. Some open goals are just too easy, so I move on.

‘Be sure of your facts, ask politely for an update and tell them if they can’t help, you’ll report that back to their clients.’ I advise.  F grimaces, as I add. ‘Just don’t ring on a Friday afternoon when they’re trying to get completions through.’

‘How come it’s all so complicated and people say we don’t do anything for the money?’ Queries F as he gathers up the file reluctantly. It’s his most salient question so far.

‘We’re like swans.’ I tell him, immediately regretting the analogy.

His guesses involving long necks and hissy fits left me floundering and far from serene.

Guess I’ll just have to keep paddling.