Gone But Not Forgotten - Friday

To the supermarket, during my lunch hour, on a wife-inspired errand. Only it’s not a lunch hour of course, nobody on commission takes a full sixty minutes. Some other leaner - definitely leaner - and hungrier salesperson will take your business if you dawdle too long in Greggs, the baker.

‘Is it really necessary?’ I’d questioned, when she rang me with the request.

‘They’ll all be gone, if I wait until I can get to the shops.’ She’d replied, following up with the unwanted logic of: ‘In any case you’re just there in town and it will only take ten minutes.’

‘Ten f***ing minutes.’ I mutter as I grab a basket and belatedly realise I haven’t brought my own bags.

‘What’s that love?’ Asks an old lady, looking hopefully in my direction.

Now, I know I’m probably the first person she’s spoken to all day and if I get behind her in the checkout queue she’s going to dawdle for five excruciating minutes chatting to the till girl, while I seethe and rack up more expensive dental work, but I don’t want to engage - not unless she has a house to sell.

‘Just mentioned it’s a nice day, that’s all.’ I say dismissively.

She doesn’t get the body language, or hear very well.

‘Say again my dear, I haven’t got my hearing aide turned on.’ And she taps her ears.

Of course you haven’t. Why waste the batteries when you can annoy the hell out of everyone who you do eventually get to speak to, by asking the same thing three times, while they try to pay for a slimline sandwich meal deal and collect two ridiculous pot plants that their wife wanted and could have bought at the weekend, when she spotted them the first frigging time?

‘Nice day.’ I repeat, upping the volume substantially and pointing outside for dramatic effect.

‘No, still not coming through’ The old duck says with a gummy grin. ‘I turn the batteries off to save them.’ She tells me conspiratorially. ‘They’re so expensive.’

Not as pricey as cracked molars, I think uncharitably. 

‘Don’t I know you?’ Presses the tenacious grandmother. I don’t need this. Despite my low, on-line profile, I’m pretty well known in my town. I’ve been in most of the streets and many of the houses and you can see me in the office window, lit up like a poor man’s Madame Tussauds dummy, for most of the winter once the clocks change.

I tell her. Chances are she’s been in the office many a time, she might even have fallen over on the uneven paving slab we keep reporting to the council. If we’ve picked up one bruised pensioner and administered plasters and hot tea until the ambulance arrives, we’ve done a dozen.

‘Well you probably knew my husband before he died.’ She says, eyes lighting up. I certainly haven’t met him since you cremated him, I think sourly, eying the checkout line and seeing it grow. I cock my head, in seeming interest, you never know when the house will become too much for her. And she tells me.

That sour-faced bastard, I think angrily, trying to keep my feelings from my face. She’s just named one of the most cantankerous, pedantic and destructive chartered surveyors I’ve come across in my entire career. The old sod delighted in picking holes in properties, down-valuing the sale agreed price and putting deal-wrecking retention’s on the proposed mortgage the borrower wanted. If he turned up to collect the keys on a sale you could effectively take down the sold subject to contract board and start all over again.

‘Nice chap.’ I mouth as convincingly as I can. ‘The town has never been the same since he passed away.’ Well fifty percent accurate, I think. The fact that when we heard he’d croaked, it was one of the few times on a Friday night that all the estate agents in the pub, spoke to each other and smiled, is something she doesn’t need to know.

I really am a nice guy.

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.

-------

Have a great Independence Day American readers.

Beat It - Wednesday

I’m in the main office, covering for snatched lunches and outside appointments. I like to show I can still do the front line chores. It’s the reason I get chased by dogs on leaflet drops and still make a mess of the tea and coffee orders when I show I’m a milk, no sugar, man of the people.

‘Tossers looking in the window.’ Hisses loose lettings’ lush B. She’s my only companion and a less than alluring - rescue the human race - procreation choice, should the world end like that guy standing outside the newsagents has been predicting for the last six months. Just my luck, help save the planet and be stuck with a nasty STI, a drunk pregnant woman and no antibiotics….

‘They look fairly normal.’ I whisper back, trying to banish the unwelcome thought of raising more than a smile, in B’s direction.

‘Time-wasters.’ predicts B, as the late middle-aged couple move hesitantly towards the office door.

‘Buying or renting?’ I ask softly.

‘Well the buy-to-let lot have dried up since the chancellor screwed around with stamp duty,’ answers B. ‘ So I’m thinking you’re the lucky one.’

True to form, B ducks behind her monitor and I am left with no choice but to stand and welcome the couple. I insist we greet people in the old school fashion. I hope it’s a point of difference to all the other new kids on the block, in polo shirts and chinos. We don’t do free coffee dispensing, but I do see everyone to the door. Not least to make sure they are safely off the premises.

‘How may I help you?’ I begin, as I show the pair to S’s vacant desk. The seat is vaguely warm as I sit down. Probably just the unaccustomed sunshine streaming through the window. Probably.

I wait as the wife responds to my question. She’s clearly the decision maker, first qualifying item obtained, now I just need to establish their needs and motivation. The basic contact information, names, addresses, email and phone details could be taken by a performing parrot. I want to know how these people can generate income for me. Do they have a home to sell? Can they proceed promptly? Would they like fat mortgage man M, to sell them some inappropriate insurance product? One that will doubtless be a future miss-selling scandal, but for the moment will satisfy head office’s increasingly demanding sales targets.

I takes a few minutes to get the dreary but necessary data. The pair probably think I’m putting them on our mailing list - something of a misnomer now most people communicate electronically - but I’ll decide whether we’ll be wasting any more time on them. You need quality control in this business, or like a prostitute with an absent-minded pimp, you’d spend all your time servicing f***ers who never pay you.

And then the woman utters a familiar, but still intensely irritating, line.

‘We’ve been looking for the last five years.’ She says earnestly, as the husband nods wearily. I catch B’s smirk across the office, as she theatrically mimes: time-wasters.

‘There’s never anything as nice as our house.’ Continues the wife, as I detect a frown of transient disagreement from the long-suffering husband. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

Of course I’ve had plenty of properties that would suit this picky pair, over the last half decade. But with the supply and demand imbalance still out of kilter, why would I make the transaction any harder than it is, by involving unmotivated messers? If I’m going to do sado-masochism I’ll do it in my own time, with appropriate sheets and privacy. There’s no safe word with these types. They'll just keep hurting you time after time.

‘Oh no, we won’t put our house on the market until we’ve found something.’ Replies the wife, to my half-hearted attempt to get a valuation for a sister office half way across the county, where this pair live - and will doubtless die.

‘Told you they were time-wasters.’ Crows B after I’ve seen the couple out.

Feel my pain.

-----------

Alphabet Soup - Wednesday

‘More f***ing regulations to discourage my landlords.’ Exclaims loose lettings lush B vehemently. 

‘What this time?’ Asks assistant manager T, wth barely disguised boredom.

You should know, I think spikily, but I pause just in case…

‘They are ruling tenants can insist property is brought to a higher energy rating if it’s an F or G band.’ Answers B moodily.

‘What’s that again?’ Enquires trainee F, as I shake my head in disbelief. I’ve explained the European regulation - that insists all homes have an Energy Performance Certificate issued, telling prospective buyers or tenants how energy efficient their new home is likely to be - more than once.

‘It’s a load of bollocks. No one cares.’ Says T.

‘Exactly.’ Agrees B. ‘As if they haven’t tried to discourage landlords enough by levying extra stamp duty levy when they buy multiple homes.’

‘It’s meant to stop first time buyers becoming locked out of the market.’ Says negotiator S sharply.

I don’t need an ideological argument in the office again, particularly as my loyalties are torn and I swing more wildly than a weather vane in a hurricane. The latest piece of Government meddling in the property market is probably meant to help, but invariably the law of unintended consequences comes, with ill-thought through legislation.

‘What about my landlords?’ Argues B. ‘Half of them are only in the buy-to-let market because some leftie chancellor stole their pension pot, then pissed off to work as a consultant in the city.’

’Not that one.’ I correct her.

‘You know what I mean.’ Counters B, with a snarl. I do actually.

‘When was the last time anyone actually gave a toss about a home’s energy rating?’ Asks T, in my direction. Well of course they don’t. People buy homes with their heart, not their head - fortunately. It means an experienced campaigner can push physiological buttons no drone in an on-line call-centre outfit, ever could.

‘That lady last weekend was interested in energy efficiency.’ Says S, a little weakly.

‘She was a weirdo and a complete time-waster.’ Counters T.

‘Tree-huggers can’t afford homes anyway, so I don’t see why you are bothering.’ Contributes fat mortgage man M, not exactly helpfully.

‘You’re a big arse.’ Responds S.

Not grammatically correct, but as is often the case, I’m with her.

‘The point,’ continues T. ‘Is it’s just a load more paperwork that nobody needs. If you fall in love with a thatched cob cottage you don’t give a flying fig if it has a G energy rating. You just want beams and an Inglenook.’

‘But the certificate will tell you how inefficient the insulation is.’ Says S, a little unconvincingly.

‘They don’t give a shit.’ Snaps T. ‘They just whack the wood burner up and incinerate a few more trees.’

‘What do you think?’ Asks S, in my direction. Terrific. Now I’m going to upset someone, whatever I say. Fortunately I spot a timely intervention, coming across the road towards the office.

‘You should ask this man.’ I say pointing towards the dull-as-ditchwater Energy Performance Certificate issuer, coming our way.

‘Oh not that twat.’ Says T dismissively. ‘I’ve had more interesting conversations with my mother’s goldfish.’

T has a point. The man could bore for England. But then that’s what you get when head office, and the bean counter boss in particular, eschew good local practitioners for corporate agreements with the lowest cost provider willing to give a secret profit kickback, on their fee. Strictly speaking it’s illegal under the Estate Agents’ Act 1979 - unless declared to the client - but then the bean counter isn’t an estate agent. And anyone can be one. No study or qualifications required. I still wonder why I bothered….

‘I’ll email my report to you within twenty-four hours.’ Says the EPC man flatly, as he leaves the office with a set of keys for an empty home we have just listed. He needs to keep to the rigid service standards agreed corporately. But the truth is, nobody cares.

I’d tell the boss, but he likes to remain insulated from the truth.

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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….

-----------

Learning Curves - Thursday

‘Want to hear the latest rumour?’ Asks assistant manager T as I enter the office.

Not if it involves vapid celebrities, profiled in some journalistic-ability-free magazine airheads read at the hairdressers, I don’t. If I wanted to see overblown tits on a Caribbean beach, I’d rather it was me on holiday, taking a selfie. 

‘Is it relevant to the business?’ I ask T flatly.

‘Of course.’ He fires back, with a hint of irritation. Well he did waste ten minutes, earlier today, discussing some C-list celebrity and her latest flesh-revealing turn on some ghastly fly-on-the-wall television programme. I’m all for diversity in scheduling but I do sometimes yearn for a simpler time, when everyone sat down to watch the Generation Game, even if I could never remember what tat was on the conveyer belt.

‘A new agent is supposed to be opening in town.’ Says T, with a half-concealed sneer.

‘Where abouts?’ Queries big mortgage man M, as he saunters across the office, floorboards creaking.

T reveals the location, a tertiary position at best, one where numerous retail mis-adventures have foundered on poorly written business plans, plus the mistaken believe that just because your friends buy overpriced pushchairs and you love babies, a shop selling kids’ clothing will survive.

‘They’d need a change of use from A1 to A2 planning status.’ I tell T. He looks at me blankly, designer frames catching the light. I’ve urged him to sit some Estate Agency exams, to learn about the legal, financial and construction process but he hasn’t seen the point up to now. And to be truthful, who can blame him when nobody feels it necessary? After all, whoever the new agent in town is won’t need qualifications either.

‘It’s a terrible position. ‘ I tell the team, having informed them a planning notice, for change of use, will have to be posted outside the empty unit in question. Nobody has spotted if there’s one up already, so I guess it will be up to be to swing by and check on my next outside appointment. They’ll miss me when I’m gone. Probably….

‘I’ve heard it might be some sort of hybrid set-up.’ Continues T earnestly. ‘Part on-line estate agent, part traditional.’

‘Fat chance.’ I snap back, just as M waddles back from the kitchen. No, of course he hasn’t made anyone else a drink, he’s a financial consultant. A morbidly obese one.

‘Why so?’ Questions negotiators S earnestly.

‘Because you can’t practice estate agency like a call centre.’ I tell her frostily. She should know my views on this by now. I studied and struggled with my industry exams and even now, after several decades, I come across problems and situations my knowledge is tested by. 

Property is a complicated business, and if you retain me as your agent you are buying my skill-set, both negotiating and professional. The problem is, you only realise the quality of agent you have after the buying event. Once you’ve instructed them to sell your home.

‘You don’t think on-line agents will ever catch on then?’ Asks trainee F, mouth slightly ajar.

He could work for one, I think uncharitably, that way nobody need see his face. But on reflection, F with all his faults, is already way better than any bucket shop outfit whose naive investors think selling homes only entails placing an on-line listing on the Internet. That’s the easy bit, the problems start after that.

‘On-line agents and cheap fee outfits have been the next big thing for the past fifteen years.’ I tell my team decisively. ‘And here we are, still conducting viewings, holding keys, re-negotiating sales after surveys and cajoling lazy lawyers.’

‘Problem is the public don’t see that.’ Counters T, accurately. ‘They think it’s money for old rope, one upload onto the portal and we get thousand of pounds.’

‘That’s why we need to stress the points of difference, ‘ I urge. ‘Let people know they get what they pay for and that they only pay when we get them a result.’

The conversation dries up.

Not sure anyone is listening.

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Enfranchise Me - Thursday

‘Fancy a valuation later?’ Asks assistant manager T as I return to the office. I’m immediately on my guard. T wouldn’t give away an easy instruction on a new property, so I’m sensing a curve ball. I sometimes wonder if pooling commission in the office is the best method. It’s less divisive and means fewer bust-ups over who won the business/sold the home, but it can benefit the lazy ones.

‘Where is it?’ I ask. T looks more sheepish than a Welsh shearer and negotiator S just looks down at her keyboard - which must be difficult with those huge breasts.

‘It’s somewhere naff, isn’t it?’ I say tersely.

‘Not exactly.’ Counters T unconvincingly.

‘Cough.’ I instruct. T tells me and I groan inwardly.

Now, you’d think any new home to sell on your books would be welcome and in general that’s true. You can’t sell it if you haven’t got it and a shortage of units to sell is the perpetual problem for most agents - until the market really turns. But T has just named a crumbling block of flats, with a short lease and a notoriously difficult absentee freeholder. Leasehold is a secondary form of tenure endured primarily by Londoners and flat owners. Only they don’t own their flats, they lease them for 99 years or more and in theory have to give them back at the end of the term.

‘You know they’ve got short leases don’t you?’ I tell, rather than ask, T.

‘Yeh, but they can use the legislation to extend.’ Counters T.

He’s right. Leasehold Reform laws offer a route for lessees to compel freeholders to extend their lease, or sell the freehold to a collective of residents, but it’s arcane, complicated and expensive. Particularly with a reluctant landlord intent on milking the building for all the income he can extract.

‘Isn’t that the block where there’s a huge hole in the sinking fund?’ Asks S. She’s right, the maintenance has been neglected and rumour has it a new flat roof is required at a six figure sum. A sum to be divided between the luckless owners.

‘And you won’t get a mortgage any more if there’s less that fifty years to run on the lease.’ Adds financial services man M, as he waddles towards the kitchen. ‘Cash buyers only.’ He adds, as I hear the kettle being filled with just enough water for one.

‘Is it even worth having on our register?’ Asks S after some protracted discussion on the inequities of leasehold and the number of rogue freeholders we’ve dealt with over the years.The shitesters who have separate building companies under a hidden ownership, that always get the overinflated maintenance work needed on the building. Not to mention the slyly written leases that have inflation-busting rises in ground rent designed to milk lessees until they are dry. And it’s usually the elderly.

‘We’re hoping to move into one of those nice new retirement flats.’ Says the ancient husband as I sit in the run-down block, later. Endearingly the old couple are holding hands and looking at me earnestly, as they perch on the saggy sofa.

Out of the frying pan into the fire, I think glumly. Assuming anyone will buy there cobwebby home, they’ll sell low and buy high at an overpriced retirement block and the extortionate maintenance charges will still be with them. I’m getting a stair lift and staying put, when my time comes.

‘I don’t understand.’ Says the wife, eyes rheumy and watering, after I’ve explained how lenders won’t advance funds until the lease on their flat is extended, or the freehold owned by the residents.

Neither do I grandma.

‘But we can’t afford to pay him any more.’ Says the husband angrily. ‘There’s already a huge bill coming for the communal boiler.’

Shit, I didn’t know that. I only just stop myself from looking at my watch - a cardinal sin. And I assume the impoverished pair don’t even know about the roof replacement.

They’ll be staying - until the undertaker comes.

--------

Numbers Up - Friday

‘How did it go?’ Asks negotiator S, as I come back into the office wearing my disappointment like a tramp’s overcoat. I thought she was better at reading body language, most women are, but then again it might be just as well she can’t tell what I’m sometimes thinking…

‘Some people just won’t listen.’ I tell S dejectedly, as I walk towards the message book with trepidation. Bad news tends to hunt in packs, and after a pair of idiots convinced the market will support £50,000 more than their bog-standard end of terraced house is worth, I’m not expecting a call from The National Lottery. 

‘I think people get the estate agent they deserve.’ Opines S pensively.

‘The greedy gits do.’ Agrees  assistant manager T,  joining the conversation as he re-enters from the direction of the gents’ toilet. Terrific, I was hoping for some contemplative time in there with the dog-eared copy of FHM, now I’ll need to leave it a while.

‘Those tossers across the road had been in before me.’ I say nodding toward the opposition agents, not  wanting to read the message book quite yet. ‘Told them their house was worth fifty grand more than it is. Ignored the fact that two identical homes in neighbouring roads have both completed at £10,000 less than my suggested asking price, in the last three months.’

‘Let them waste their time marketing it.’  Suggests T insouciantly. ‘Nobody will pay that sort of silly money.’

I hope not. But then demand is strong, supply is weak and there are an awful lot of idiots out there.

‘Even if they did,’ says S. ‘Their surveyor would down-value the sale price and everyone would be back to square one. Complete wast of time.’

Time-wasters are never in short supply - sadly, sensibly priced homes to sell usually are.

I finally glance at the message book. A couple of vendors to call back, a survey finally booked on a long-standing sale in progress - not bad - then a note to call back my bean counter boss. Sales falling through, feel like a sickening kick in the stomach. Everyday house moving problems, like a slow drip Chinese water torture. And a pedantic, figure-fiddling, frustrated accountant with about as much real-life knowledge of the property market as the last couple I’ve just visited, questioning your every move, is akin to someone grasping your gonads and slowly, incrementally, twisting.

‘What did he want?’ I ask rhetorically.

‘He didn’t say.’ Answers S, with a shrug and an endearing half-smile.

‘Board penetration not high enough?’ Suggests T with a shake of his head.

‘Financial services ratios too low.’ Offers fat mortgage man M divisively.

‘Lettings department doing more business than sales?’ Contributes B, from her one-woman dating desk, unhelpfully.

‘Perhaps he just wants to see how you are?’ Pipes up trainee F, to riotous laughter all round. ‘What?’ He says, crestfallen. 

My God, he’s got a lot to learn.

‘How is he?’ I ask the bean counter’s secretary. You need to cultivate the gatekeeper and although I would’t shag her, I’ve done my best to stroke her ego for the last few years.

‘Bit of a grumpy mood.’ Answers the frumpy middle-aged woman, who if I didn’t still believe I was twenty-five inside, I’d concede is younger than me.

‘Any idea what it is this time?’ I say flatly.

‘Well he’s been hunched over his laptop all morning.’ Replies the woman.

Porn or the P and L accounts then. Either way it’s going to be hard.

‘Your available stock figures are worryingly low.’ Reveals the bean counter after the cursory, insincere, pleasantries. No shit Sherlock. I hadn’t noticed every time I go to the filing cabinet for property details, then return empty-handed like some malnourished Oliver, to apologise to hopeful buyers about the dearth of homes to offer. Hadn’t twigged we were slowly starving. Hadn’t realised the opposition were deliberately mis-leading sellers to win the initial instruction.

‘Increase your suggested asking price by another 10% each time.’ Says the bean counter. ‘I want market share.’

I have market despair. 

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Local Knowledge - Tuesday

A high-velocity run of expletives bounce round the office like a rubber bullet. I look up from my computer screen to see assistant manager T with a face like thunder. It could be the charges for the office swear box he’s just incurred but it’s likely to be something more costly. I suspect my sales pipeline has sprung another unwelcome leak.

‘What is it?’ I ask wearily, having heaved myself from my chair and left the office profit and loss figures to mercifully fade out when the screen saver kicks in.

‘The deal on Crescent Road has just fallen-through.’ Replies T angrily.

‘What?’ Questions fat finance man M, before I can. ‘Was I doing the mortgage?’

‘You might have been if you’d bothered to ring back the buyers.’Snaps T moodily.

M looks briefly embarrassed, before saying unhelpfully. ‘Well you should have booked them in for an appointment.’

As M waddles away an unpleasant chafing of man-made material follows the lazy lump of lard as he sways back to his office. They must make his suit trousers from the same fire-retardant material they manufacture children’s nightdresses from, or we’d have experienced a spontaneous combustion Bear Grylls would be proud of, by now.

‘Forget him.’ I tell T, with the sort of instruction I could do without getting back to the bean counter boss. ‘Tell me what happened.’

‘Their solicitor told them they can’t access the garage at the back.’ Replies T, arms outstretched. ‘But I’ve been round the back there myself.’

‘I know what it’s about.’ I tell T flatly.

Now people don’t often value my experience, or accumulated knowledge, when I price their home. Focus is often on how much they can ask and how cheap I’ll make my fee. But the reason you pay for a decent dentist or a switched-on solicitor, is they’ve demonstrated through study, exam and practice they are worth paying for. Estate agents don’t have to sit exams, or demonstrate a minimum standard of competence, though God knows I’d like them to, so consequently they all seem the same - until the problems start.

‘They were built by a speculator-builder in the late thirties.’ I tell my, now assembled, sales team. Trainee F briefly starts to raise his arm then thinks better of it. Even he realises I’m not that old.

‘And of course,’ I continue. ‘Not many people had use of a car then.’

‘Buy they have that access track round the back.’ Interjects T. ‘Where some people still have sheds.

And I’ve driven round there, seen the garage.’ He pleads indignantly. T should have thought of this potential problem when he took the property on - or I should have spotted it.

Old title deeds explained, and the Land Registry only being involved when homes change hands discussed. I ask who the buyers’ solicitor is?

‘Some out of town cheap and not very cheerful bunch.’ Replies T flatly.

‘And?’ I ask like a schoolmaster. To a simultaneous, and rather pleasing, chorus of:

‘You get what you pay for!’

‘So if I can convince your solicitors there is an established right of way,’ I tell the wobbly buyers later. ‘Would you still want to buy it?’

‘Of course, we love it.’ Answers the woman, who I know is the decision maker. ‘But we have to listen to the legal people.’

‘Leave it with me. I know what to do.’ I tell her, trying not to sound smug.

‘So if the old boy that lives next door signs an affidavit confirming he’s used that rear access for decades without problems it’ll be okay?’ Quizzes T later.

‘If it can constitute an established use.’ I answer. ‘The hard bit is convincing the buyers’ cheapo battery-farm legal outfit to back down.’

‘They seem pretty clueless.’ Responds T.

Yep, that’s what happens if you use a bucket shop lawyers’ firm. It’s the same with these joke on-line estate agencies. Use EasyPeasyProperties dot com, or whatever they call themselves, and it will probably cost you in the long run.

End result. Sale saved and back on course.

The profit and loss account is a different matter though.

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