Complaint Box - Thursday

‘We’ve got a complaint.’ Announces assistant manger T before I’ve even closed the office door. I often wonder what the assistant bit is supposed to signify, if he isn’t going to help me.

‘Is it justified?’ I ask, shrugging off my jacket and resisting the urge to head for the sanctuary of my office and shut the door. To be honest the blinds don’t completely meet and they’ve never let me forget that time they spotted I’d nodded off over a slimline sandwich and a cup-of-soup.

‘Are they usually?’ Fires back T with a shrug.

He has a point. People are a lot quicker to complain than they used to be and most of the time, if we’ve done our job properly, it’s a frustration with the buying and selling process rather that a wilful attempt to mislead - or worse.

‘It’s the unsuccessful bidders on Orchard Road.’ Says T wearily. ‘They think they should have got it rather than the other buyers.’

‘They should have offered more then.’ Says negotiator S, joining the conversation. She has been dealing with the successful purchasers and whilst we strive not to show bias or favour, invariably one buyer will be in a better position that another, whether if be financial position, strength of any associated sale and chain they are involved in, or a combination thereof. 

‘They think we’ve discriminated against them.’ Says T flatly.

‘Not in a racial way?’ I say urgently. It’s illegal to favour one buyer over another on race, sexual orientation, disability and….well there must be others…. It’s a shame you don’t have to be qualified to become an estate agent.

‘Nah.’ Replies T dismissively. ‘Unless you count being an obnoxious Yorkshireman as a racial thing.’

It could be. I really don’t need to fall foul of any new legislation I’ve yet to interpret. The sort of well-intentioned, ill thought out law making that brought us the unloved, now defunct, Property Mis-Description Act. A ludicrously lengthy and clunky piece of lawmaking you only knew you’d fallen foul of once the Trading Standards’ pen pusher and the local magistrate, had prosecuted you.

I’m all for tightening up the property industry. I’d gladly see the back of some of the rogue agents who flout rules, cut corners and slash their commission rates below us. But everything has a cost and the powers that be still refuse to enact a minimum entry standard or licensing, for those that sell or let your home.

‘I assume you’ve explained to them it wasn’t our decision as to which buyer to go with, it was the vendors.’ I say to T semi-rhetorically.

‘They just won’t listen.’ Answers T. ‘Wanted to buy it on the cheap, then grizzle when they’ve missed it and now have a dog in the manger attitude by trying to scupper the sale we’ve agreed.’

People - and legislators - still forget we are employed by the sellers to get the best possible price for their property. They pay the bill. Of course, that basic tenet has been undermined over they years by conflicts of interest, particularly if you are arranging the buyers’ finance, or getting a kickback from their conveyancer for an introduction. It’s a murky business.

‘Have they offered any more money?’ I ask T, a migraine building.

‘Not yet.’ Says T with a groan. He knows we must present all offers in writing to the vendors and it can get very messy if a further bidding war develops. Inevitably someone is going to be unhappy.

‘I don’t think they will.’ Says S. ‘They can’t afford it, so it would just be a spoiler bid.’ Part of an agent’s duty of care is to present all offers to our clients, but also to vet the potential purchaser, not just financially but also for money laundering risks and legal status to reside in this country - since the government abdicated responsibility for those tasks…

The next step, if I can’t resolve the complaint amicably, will be the property Ombudsman. The compulsory dispute resolution scheme all selling agents belong to. In reality, most of the problem is down to supply and demand.

Which might, on reflection, be why there’s more than one Ombudsman to choose from….

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Train To Nowhere - Thursday

‘Have you seen the latest?’ Challenges assistant manager T grumpily, before I’ve even closed the office door.

The choices are limitless in this business, where setbacks and disappointments are as regular as a new David Beckham tattoo. I walk towards the message book and scan the content as T looks at me, fingers drumming annoyingly, on his desk. There’s nothing untoward amongst the list, other than a few callbacks and a survey to chase. I’m guessing it’s an internal issue.

‘Go on then.’ I prompt  T, less than enthusiastically. I notice negotiator S has stopped what she was doing and is paying attention. Trainee F is also looking at me - he probably wasn’t doing anything useful anyway.

‘More f***ing red tape.’ Snarls T. Clicking on his computer screen and spinning it towards me. I can see a long annotated memo from head office. With the schoolboy graphics and lengthy content I’m guessing it’s from Human Resources, or that limp-wristed waster in the training department. The well-worn adage: Those that can’t sell, train - could have been written for him

‘Give me a précis.’ I tell T, realising as I say it that he almost certainly hasn’t read to the end of the missive. T looks at his shoes.

‘Anybody?’ I plead.

F screws up his face and ventures. ‘When you say pray-see, err, what exactly do you mean?’

Before I hit him - something Human Resources would certainly write extensively about - S comes to my rescue. Not for the first time.

‘It’s a new on-line training programme we all have to complete.’ She say with an apologetic shrug. S knows how I feel about these cringe-making multiple choice exercises, designed for the lowest common denominator. Ostensibly to increase knowledge bases and to inform students of the latest legislation - but in practice to cover arses and to save money.

‘I don’t like exams.’ Says F glumly. I still don’t know what his mother and various stepfathers paid all that money in private education fess for.  I guess it was just to get him out of the house. You can tell a boarding school boy at twenty paces - they have more hangups than a call centre worker.

‘What are they trying to cover?’ I enquire.

‘That fat woman’s arse, in HR.’ Says T bluntly.

‘You can’t say that, it’s sexist.’ Challenges S. 

They all look at me. I can’t even remember which box I ticked on that course.

‘Well?’ Urges S.

‘It is quite lardy.’ I say tentatively. There’s an awkward moment, then S laughs.

Dodged another bullet.

‘Who writes this shite?” Says T after S has given us a run down on what we’ll have to endure, under classroom conditions. It’s basically more due-diligence to ensure when someone falls foul of Government Money Laundering rules, or Immigration Checks, the company will have a fall guy to blame. The course looks like it’s been compiled by a primary school child with a basic PowerPoint programme and just the free included graphics to choose from.

‘They’ve paid thousand of pounds for some outside consultancy to produce this dross.’ I speculate angrily. Calling in management consultants to do the job you are already paid to do, is a booming industry. It’s the biggest con-trick since we convinced millions, in the nineties, that an endowment policy would pay off their mortgage.

If it’s not the Government abdicating responsibility for criminals and illegal immigrants then expecting us to be unpaid police and tax collectors, it’s head office freeloaders paying an outside agency to do their job. I could write a book about it…

‘When they say classroom conditions….’ Begins F tentatively.

‘They mean you can’t cheat by looking at someone else's paper, or getting the boy in the next bed to your’s in the dormitory, to do the exam in return for a dip in your tuck box.’ Says T brutally.

‘I always did all my own exams.’ Snaps back F moodily.

He’s not lying, I’ve seen his CV. It’s why he’s an estate agent - the last resort for in-bred idiots educated beyond their ability. And still no proper entry qualifications. Unless you count on-line tick-box bollocks.

I don’t.

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Here Hear - Wednesday

‘That’s marvellous,’ I say gushingly, using an adjective I tend to reserve for those over pensionable age. ‘I just need to do the tedious bit now.’ I continue. ‘The paperwork.’

‘What’s he saying?’ Questions the elderly husband who is slumped in a worn armchair staring at me with those rheumy eyes that indicate a light slowly dwindling. The wife. a grey haired, slight but formidable lady, turns towards her ancient husband, ex Royal Navy, and ups the decibels several notches.

‘He needs to put everything in writing.’ She hollers, as the old boy fiddles with his hearing aid again.

I’m in a dated but well-proportioned 1930s built semi-detached house on the outskirts of the original town. The sort of strip development that filled fields pre-war as the population recovered after the Great War, before being decimated again by Mr Hitler and his henchmen. Doubtless, as now, people grumbled about new housing being built in their back yard. nothing much changes - other than the asking prices.

We’ve agreed the asking price for this home moments earlier, it’s bullish but reflects the market and the potential the house offers. It’s rife for modernisation and boasts the sort of garden no current day developer would leave behind. Maximise price, minimise square footage being the accountant-driven mantra of today’s builders.

I engage in neutral chit-chat while I try to complete as much of the paperwork as I can while the old man’s hearing aid whistles and chatters in the manner of a land line when it picks up an incoming mobile phone signal.

Price and vendors’ full names and the address completed I re-iterate, hesitantly, the agreed fee.

‘Oh don’t give me percentages dear,’ says the wife briskly. ‘How much in pounds and pennies?’ Shit. No agent ever likes to articulate the exact amount. Reluctantly I tell her.

‘Ooh, that’s not much less than we paid for the house.’ Says the woman wincing. ‘And I’m afraid it’s plus VAT.’ I say trying not to visibly cringe.

‘How much more is that?” Quizzes the woman, turning frostier by the moment.

‘Twenty percent.’I whisper

‘In English.’ Demands the wife. I tell her.

‘Stone the crows.’ She gasps. It’s an option…

‘I can’t hear what the lad is saying.’ Grumbles the old fella at ornament-rattling volume.

‘He says it’s going to be bloody expensive Arthur.’ Replies his wife loudly. No point reminding them it is No Sale No Fee at this juncture, or that those who move subsidise all the time-wasters who don’t.

‘Now I just need some proof of identity and address.’ I say flatly. Seems the Government has contracted out of just about every state function to the lowest, and often, least effective bidder. Or in my case a dupe who is made to provide the function for free. Estate agents are now quasi Border Control and Income Tax administrators as I need to ensure these ancient crumblies haven’t just crawled out from under the Lidl delivery lorry, or are masterminding an illicit drugs cartel from their tumbledown greenhouse.

‘What’s he saying?’ Bellows the old man in frustration as his hearing aid whistles like an asthmatic kettle. If I articulate any louder the next door neighbour will be able to join in.

‘He needs our passports and a utility bill.’ Soothes his wife.

‘Eh? What the devil for?’

‘What for love?’ Quizzes the wife with a wry smile.

‘Border Control and Money Laundering.’ I tell her apologetically. She repeats the phrase at what I imagine is the mythical number eleven on an amplifier. 

The old boy looks at me with distain.

‘Eh?’ He snarls angrily. ‘He wants the border and my lawn doing? Tell him we have a gardner Liz,  and if they don’t like us as we are they can lump us.’

Slight confusion over, unpaid civil servant role reluctantly carried out, I get towards the finishing line, feeling as lost and worn out as the ancient mariner.

‘We don’t want a For Sale board do we Arthur?’ Shouts the wife. The bean counter boss has been riding me weekly - not a pleasant picture - over my board rate penetration. My plea falls on deaf ears.

Low key, high volume marketing then.

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Learning Curve - Tuesday

‘Our viewing figures are down.’ I tell the morning meeting with all the relish of a soggy burger left too long on the warmer, waiting for someone who actually wants pickle.

‘There’s no point in taking out punters who are just time-wasters.’ Counters assistant manager T, sipping his tea gingerly.

‘It’s a numbers game.’ I hear myself saying, not liking the whiny echo of my bean counter boss’s proclamations. Statistically, it’s true the more viewings you carry out, the closer you are to your next sale. But there needs to be some quality control, otherwise you’ll be ferrying, nutters, habitual lookers and just about every other socially incontinent individual, plus a few genuinely incontinent people, round your whole housing register - with nothing to show for your efforts other than disappointment and damp car seats.

‘I’m not sure people come into agents’ offices like they maybe used to,’ speculates negotiator S, adding hurtfully. ‘Than, perhaps when you started.’

There’s a choked communal giggle round the table, as I try not to take offence. I’m sure in ancient communities the elderly used to be respected for their wisdom and accumulated knowledge. Nowadays they are shunted off to overpriced boxes with orange emergency pull cords, an absent manager and rising service charges.

‘Yeh but you are always banging on about qualifying applicants properly.’ Continues T doggedly. ‘There’s no point shunting round dreamers like Mr and Mrs Brownlee, who’ll never move in a million years.’ There’s a soundless chorus of nodding heads – if such a thing can exist - and I can already feel my enthusiasm waning, that’s before I mention the lack of financial services introductions we’ve made for M, our moribund mortgage advisor. He’s on some continuing professional development course in a budget chain hotel, learning how to circumnavigate the latest mis-selling legislation. Financiers and insurers don’t like paying out if they can avoid it.

T has a point. Mr and Mrs Brownlee have been looking for the perfect property for at least a decade. I go to value their house every eighteen months, but in the unlikely event of ever listing a home they’d consider, I’d have several other better placed buyers before they’d finished haggling over their asking price, my fee and the fact that nobody could come to view unless they took their shoes off and hadn’t eaten peanuts in the last twenty-four hours. Yet, they’ll still be in the office several times a year, asking to see what we have available in roads they can’t afford.

‘Granted we need to manage our resources.’ I acknowledge, as I sip my weak drink and wonder just where central purchasing sources the dusty teabags from? Judging by the quality of the self-seal envelopes and the flimsy A4 paper that keeps jamming in the printer, it’s nowhere near what used to be called Ceylon, in my youth.

‘So it’s a circle you can’t square.’ Announces dozy trainee F bullishly. We all look at him and his confidence drains faster that lettings lush B’s glass most lunchtimes. ‘The fact that you want us to push more viewings but don’t want to waste time with… with…’ F trails off.

‘Idiots?’ suggests T pointedly.

Maybe the Brownlees’ are a dying breed, I ponder? The sort of greying-purchasers that are not internet savvy. Who need to physically visit an outlet for their holiday and property needs, rather than surfing the web and getting their jollies on-line like all the other porn-lovers - property or otherwise. At least Rightmove and Primelocation don’t ask for your credit card details before showing you the pictures and the occasional point-of-view video inspection – although they financially abuse us every month when the invoices roll in.

‘We need to aim for well-qualified applicants AND maximum viewings.’ I tell my team sounding like one of those training women, with the slightly too fat arse for a trouser suit, we employ. The sort with no direct sales experience who flog e-learning click-and-tick computer programmes that supposedly confirm you understand Money Laundering regulations and the difference between Data Protection Laws and Freedom of Information legislation.

I wonder if the Brownlees’ fancy a visit? They do make a nice cuppa.

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Glazing Over - Monday

Morning meeting over, I loiter in the main office as my team set about the delegated tasks. Then negotiator S looks up and calls across to her only other female colleague, loose lettings lush B.

‘That’s going to brighten up our day.’ She announces and they both turn towards the window. Any hope of it being a punter with a suitcase full of cash – although with money laundering rules even that pleasure is denied – is soon forgotten. It’s the young window cleaner. They think he’s hot. So does he.

‘When he comes inside.’ Suggest B with a disconcerting chuckle. ‘Ask him to get right in the window display and clean the sills.’ B isn’t usually that bothered about the office appearance, but S confirms why.

‘You filthy cow.’ She says to B. ‘You just want him to bend over in those tight jeans again.’

Now I’ve had countless memos and ball-achingly dull courses reminding me that sexist behaviour in the workplace is unacceptable, but generally they’re generated by the humourless, sexless, women in the Human Resources department, and generally they’re aimed at males. Should I say something? After all, my risqué thoughts have to stay in my head, or at least wait until I write the blog.

‘Here come the soap suds.’ Announces B with a dirty laugh. And the women watch mesmerised, as the lithe lad smears the window with a foamy mix that hopefully will loosen the sticky pizza and puke combo in the bottom right corner. One I couldn’t completely flush away with warm water and the washing up brush, M the mortgage man uses to clean out his soup flask.

‘And bend, then stretch.’ Chimes S in a throaty, x-rated commentary that could earn her good money on an adult chat line. I might ask her to replicate it next time we have to ring round the mailing list to generate much-needed viewings.

‘You two are disgusting.’ Chides assistant manger T as the window cleaner re-appears with each confident sweep of his squeegee.

‘What?’ Challenges B aggressively. ‘You don’t letch after all the totty that comes in looking for flats?’

‘Or want to take them out on a viewing even though they can’t afford anything we’re offering?’ Says S.

‘He’s coming in.’ Announces B. ‘Look like we’re not interested.’

Too late for that, I think. I can recognise much subtler buying signals than the two women are emitting.

‘Morning boss.’ Says the lad towards me, before offering the females a broad smile and adding. ‘And morning lovely ladies.’ I can almost feel the atmosphere moisten, unless it’s the slosh of water he spills on the fake laminate floor as he stretches, as requested, to wipe the layer of dust and dead flies from around the corporate, guide to buying leaflets, lying underneath the displays.

‘How’s the search for properties going?’ Asks T brutally, as the snake-hipped cleaner emerges from under the halogen lights, with even more of a winter tan than before. It’s a cruel question. We all know the lad, on piece rates and self-employed with no more than a year’s accounts, will never get a mortgage. He’s more a payday loan kind of guy.

‘It’s you lot.’ He says in reply, stooping to mop the puddle on the laminate, just as I’m fretting where the yellow Wet Floor Hazard sign is. If someone goes arse-over-tit on site, the paperwork is endless and the accident book is used to prop the rear fire door open.

‘What about us?’ Asks S coyly.

‘You keep shoving the prices up. Making it impossible for ordinary guys to get on the ladder.’ A cheap joke about some steps and the outside fascia needing cleaning flashes by unspoken, as B says suggestively.

‘What you need is a more experienced Cougar to look after your housing needs.’

‘Scared the shit out of him.’ Jokes T, as the window cleaner exits, leaving a waft of aftershave and soap bubbles.

‘It’s depressing they all still think prices are our fault.’ I say as I spot a mark on the window he missed.

‘He’s a renter for life.’ Pronounces T, adding. ‘And he probably thinks a Cougar is something in the zoo.’

The mauling was nasty.

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