New Kid In Town - Friday

‘Do you want to go to lunch with a lawyer?’ Asks negotiator S, as I emerge from my office after a lengthy call with the bean counter boss. After the conversation I’ve just had, I’d rather not swap inanities with anyone. I’m yearning for a darkened room and some soothing music - none of your whale calls though. I draw the line at hippies, vegans and those ghastly solar roof panels….

‘Who is he?’ I ask presumptively.

S looks at me admonishingly and I sense I’ve said something politically incorrect again. Lately I seem prone to doing that without trying. I realise the error even as she corrects me.

‘It’s a she actually.’ Says S haughtily  .

‘Of course. My bad.’ I reply, trying to be on point and just sounding like a desperate Dad keen to keep up with the kids. My dancing at weddings comes to mind. But not in a good way.

‘What made you presume it would be a man?’ Presses S, as I groan inwardly again and hope it wasn’t audible this time. I still haven’t lived down the last mangers’ meeting and my involuntary, rather loud moan which spontaneously emanated when the sales figures went up on the screen and H, my vertically challenged rival manger, was on top again.

‘Because all the women solicitors are off on maternity leave.’ Suggests assistant manager T, unhelpfully.

‘It’s their right.’ Snaps lose lettings lush B, from her little rental enclave.

‘Yeh and we have to take up all the slack when the mums disappear off.’ Replies T feistily.

‘You are such a caveman.’ Sneers B.

‘Thank you very much.’ Replies T with a grin.

‘Who is she?’ I ask S, trying to get the conversation back on track. ‘And more to the point what does she want?’ It won’t be a physical attraction, I’m hardly the male equivalent of a MILF - a DILF, possibly….?

‘She’s at that new firm of lawyers that has just opened up.’ Says S. ‘I’m guessing they want some solicitor free clients we might recommend them for.’

‘She’ll have to scratch your back first.’ Teases T. ‘And I’m guessing a cheap sandwich in the local won’t reach the itch.’

‘You see,’ challenges B looking daggers at T. ‘That’s typical of males in the workplace. They reduce everything to a sexual level and can’t take women in business seriously.’

It’s a bit rich from B. She totters around in heels inappropriate for a fixtures and fitting inspection and wears skirts so short I sometimes imagine….well, they’re too short anyway. Take it from me.

‘We could do with some switched on conveyancing’ lawyers locally,’ says S. ‘Someone who answers the phone and doesn’t hide behind delayed local searches and lenders’ conditions to excuse their tardiness.’

‘Yes, a user friendly lady lawyer would be pleasant.’ Adds T, not entirely helpfully.

The truth is, we tend to recommend lawyers to naive first time buyers- if you can find one nowadays - and to out of town buyers, looking for someone local and reliable to handle their legal paperwork. The kickback used to be a free lunch and a game of golf if you could play the ghastly game. The real payback, was in probate sales passed to you from old established firms with an ageing client base. A new bunch in town won’t have many customers dying yet. She’d better be easy on the eye.

‘So how long have you been in the business?’ Asks the legal lady when I’m sat opposite her, nursing a lime and soda and a semi. She’s insanely hot and to be honest if she does have any elderly clients she’d certainly send them off feeling happy.

I tell her reluctantly. It makes me feel old but does remind me the only interest she’ll ever have in me, will be the size of my database.

‘We’re looking to set up a few special relationships in town.’ Continues the woman, as I wonder if my eyes ever looked that clear.

‘How did it go?’ Asks T when I return to the office. ‘Did she offer you anything tasty?

Well she stiffed me - for the bill. 

But I quite enjoyed it.

---------

Deaf And Dumb - Tuesday

‘What’s that going to be worth?’ Asks trainee F, after I’ve booked a valuation on a dated block of flats, slap bang alongside a busy road. It’s a good question, one assistant manager T answers for me.

‘A figure the owners won’t want to accept.’ He predicts, with a sneer.

T has a point. All property will sell, no matter how poor the condition, or location. It’s just down to the price. I’m pretty sure the elderly owners of the second floor flat, with no lift, are going to be in denial about the fact their home has an en-suite dual carriageway.

‘I wouldn’t live there.’ Says T Pointedly. ‘You couldn’t hear yourself think if you had the windows open, not to mention the diesel fumes. Ah, the great diesel con. We were all persuaded to buy an oil-burner, then the government ripped you off with excessive fuel prices and all the while you were poisoning school children and pensioners.

‘I would.’ Says F. ‘I’d live there. You could walk into town. And it’s close to the pubs and bus routes.’

‘It’s close to bus routes all right.’ Says T. ‘The whole top deck of the number 11 can see you squatting on the toilet, as it goes past your bathroom window.’

‘Yes but for the right price.’ Persist F.

‘They won’t listen.’ Argues T. ‘That sort won’t accept traffic noise is an issue.’

He has a point. But then when the elderly couple bought their flat the elevated section of road probably wasn’t there. Doubtless they will be half deaf, with those matching hearing aides that whistle wildly, like electric guitars too close to an over-cranked amplifier, if they put their heads close together.

‘What are they hoping to do?’ Asks negotiator S. It’s a great question, one I want asked before any valuation. Motivation is a powerful factor in driving a move and in instilling realism. If you can’t manage the stairs any longer, or want to escape an abusive relationship, it’s surprising how much more amenable to financial reality some people become.

‘Why do the communal areas always smell of boiled cabbage?’ Asks F later. I’ve managed to park the company car in the limited space available, ignoring the dire warning of cowboy clampers patrolling the site. I’m relying on my trusty Doctor On Call badge - nobody likes a deceased GP but it was hanging around the dead doc’s house and the beneficiaries just wanted everything cleared…

‘It’s just bad ventilation.’ I tell F, as I eye the steep and gloomy concrete stairs and realise it will be a hard sell on any viewings. That’s if I can shout loud enough over the constant traffic noise still intruding, despite the fact I firmly shut both the inner and outer, heavy communal doors.

Every home has it’s own unique smell. Most pet owners will be doggedly unaware of it. But it’s there, just think of the aroma when you come back from holiday and open your front door - assuming you can get past the junk mail. Blocks of flats have an unpleasant amalgam of every homeowner’s cooking, living and animal smells. This one is no different. I just hope nobody has a pet sheep. I still have flashbacks to that particular visit - thankfully it wasn’t wearing a dress but the owner was overfond of a Dorset Horn.

‘God it’s noisy.’ Shouts F as we measure up the second bedroom. The elderly owners are busy making tea which they may demand back once I tell them what they’ll need to price at, to get a buyer with badly impaired hearing, yet fit enough to make the stairs. I’m wondering about a mail-shot to the deaf school?

I glance out at the constant stream of traffic buzzing by. Despite some ancient looking secondary glazing, with the sort of insect collection that would keep David Attenborough engaged for hours lodged between the panes, I can feel my ears starting to vibrate and I’m pretty sure a filling is on the move too.

‘How much?” Shouts the husband indignantly, when I tell him my suggested asking price.

He wouldn’t hear of it.

-------

Flying High - Thursday

A scruffily dressed man in his twenties peers in the office window. I’m sat at assistant manger T’s desk, as he’s out lunchtime shopping. He’ll come back with something else unnecessary on his credit card, no doubt.

‘Lettings customer?’ I whisper conspiratorially, to negotiator S. She looks up discretely and clocks the guy, who is shielding his eyes and looking in, grinning slightly insanely.

‘Bit judgemental isn’t it.’ Says S, looking towards lettings’s lush B’s vacant desk.B’s been out for over an hour, supposedly helping a landlord with a tricky check-out. Not sure who is checking who out, with B you never know.

‘More about his age than dress sense.’ I hiss, as the man starts chuckling to himself. Terrific, all I need is another nutter coming in. I often wonder if they bus them in for a day out from the padded cells.

‘Is he laughing at us, or himself?’ Whispers S.

‘Probably the asking prices.’ I reply, as the man moves away from the window and towards the door.

I sometimes wish there was a remote controlled deadlock I could activate, to stop the drunks and deadbeats coming in. I only just managed to get the keys in the barrel and the door secured, that time an angry evicted tenant turned up intent on breaking heads or furniture. Twenty minutes for the police to arrive - you’d have thought they didn’t like estate agents…

‘He’s coming in.’ Says S between a forced smile. ‘You want him, or me?’

I’d rather she spoke to the man if I’m honest, but then if it turns awkward I’m going have to go across anyway.

‘Me.’ I tell her and she visibly relaxes. Quite pleasingly, as it happens.

‘You lot trying to hurt the locals again?’ Cries the man, by way of a greeting. Wonderful. If I wanted an argument I could post something provocative on Twitter. I don’t need some grinning gonad with no job, and no prospect of any commission for me.

‘I’m sorry.’ I say neutrally.

‘I bet you are,’ continues the idiot. ‘You must love it every time prices go up.’

He couldn’t be more wrong.

‘No chance for local people to get on the housing ladder with your prices. We just have to buzz off!’

My back isn’t what it was and this bell-end has a couple of decades on me. I’m not sure I can throw him out on the street without embarrassing myself and with the time the constabulary take to arrive, I could be at the emergency dentist by then. And yet, I’m not sure this guy is a complete lunatic, nor can I smell any alcohol.

I rise and an awkward Mexican stand-off begins. I can see S has her hand poised over the fast-dial button but a pizza would get here before any help does. I need to deal with this myself. The man looks at me, then at S before turning back to me.

‘It’s a joke.’ He says, hands held wide.

‘The prices are dictated by the market.’ I tell him robotically.

‘No.’ Says the man raising his eyebrows as if I’m the shabbily dressed wastrel with no job and housing prospects. ‘In your window…’

‘In my window what?’ I snap.

‘There’s a wasp.’

‘That was awkward,’ I say to S after the man has left. ‘I thought he wanted a fight.’

‘Why did he bother to come in?’ Asks S bemused.

‘Some people just think they’re funny.’ I tell her, as I remember the number of times I’ve wanted to go into a baker’s shop and ask how much for the wasps buzzing around the pastries?

‘Could you get it for me?’ Asks S, as I locate the errant flying menace. Fittingly it has landed on an over-priced apartment with a short lease. Someone is going to get stung.

‘How stupid are these creatures?’ I ask exasperated, as the wasp refuses to be guided out the door by a copy of the local free paper. The angry insect just keeps banging it’s dozy head against the glass.

I know how it feels.

----------

Battle Zone - Friday

I’m outside a pleasant semi-detached house in one of the nicer parts of town. I want it on my books - but so will every other estate agent locally.

Preparation is everything in a sales situation. I have a briefcase full of promotional material, agency contracts, print-outs of suitable buyers I have registered looking for similar homes to the one I’m about to value - and most importantly of all, data on comparable properties sold recently.

I glance at my watch, then double check with the car clock. I’m at least fifteen minutes early after the last appointment turned out to be the biggest pair of time wasters since….well….since the previous ones.

In the days when I used to help train new recruits, before I was deemed too dated and dowdy, I would labour the importance of never being late for a valuation appointment. The owner - at least the house proud ones - would have tidied up and been looking at the clock for at least ten minutes before the agreed time. Run behind and turn up just five minutes late and your potential client may well have been looking out the curtains fretting about your arrival, for at least quarter of an hour.

This bitch clearly hasn’t though, I realise, as I look across the road and recognise a bitter rival’s company car. It doesn’t have the tacky paint job, or the corporate logo down the side but it’s just as conspicuous to me. Damn it. I’m on a beauty parade and having pulled down the sun vizor and checked a few moments ago, I’m going to need to labour the charity work and world peace angle. Calling it a vanity mirror was painfully accurate.

My mobile chirps insistently. I really need to change that irritating ringtone, but I’ll need to wait until one of my sons is back from University. I can’t have the office thinking I’m more of an inept Luddite than they already do.

‘Yes?’ I enquire curtly, seeing it’s the office calling. I was about to turn the phone off. You don’t want it ringing when you are half way through trying to convince an intransigent owner their home really isn’t worth the £30,000 more a rival agent told them they could get.

Negotiator S comes on the line, her soothing tones a loss to the Premium Rate phone industry.

‘Could you fit in a late valuation this evening?’ She asks artfully.

I can’t afford not to, even though it could mean another charcoaled dinner when I finally get home - and my wife doesn’t do barbecues…

I jot down the details, hoping it won’t be me and several other agents this time.

‘Did you know I was going to be in a queue of oily liars in suits, on this valuation?’ I ask S. She laughs.

‘What?’ I demand.

‘Well that sort of indicates you’re a greasy bloke in a three piece.’

As it happens, I ditched the waistcoat after too much ridicule from my unsympathetic team. In truth, it was too sweaty anyway. Nothing worse then reeking of body odour when you are trying to appear fragrant and professional.

‘She didn’t say there’d be others.’ Answers S defensively. ‘But then there always is, isn’t there?’

There is. Unless it’s a probate sale. The dead are less argumentative than the living, although the squabbling beneficiaries more than make up for it.

‘Do you know who is in there?’ Quizzes S, as I look at the dashboard clock and wonder how long to give it before I cut short my opponent’s sales pitch

‘The shitester with the zero-fade haircut and loud ties.’ I tell her sourly.

‘God, you’ll not be able to breathe in there for aftershave fumes.’ Chuckles S.

More importantly, I’ll have to push my suggested sale price to stratospheric proportions. The outfit the man works for are notorious for misleading sellers to secure a sole agency, before starting to work on big price reductions.

‘We reckon you should sneak over and let his tyres down.’ Says S mischievously.

It’s tempting, but knowing my luck I’d be caught on someone’s home CCTV.

I’ll just pull his for sale board down after dark.

------

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.

--------

More 'Agents Diary' tales to download - links on right. All formats supported.

Hey Ho-Ho-Ho - Thursday

‘I want to ask you something.’ Announces negotiator S tapping gently on my office door. It’s always open, but there are occasions when I’d like it shut.

My thoughts start to churn. Firstly I’m guessing, with relief, she’s not pregnant or she’d be telling not asking. I’m also hopeful she isn’t going to be resigning, for the same reason. Although the silly season of “head hunting” opposition agents’ staff tends to mushroom whenever prices rise, resulting in countless fledgling firms setting up with more bank loans than experience.

‘Of course.’ I tell her magnanimously. ‘Ask whatever you like.’ S smiles warmly and I feel pretty flushed too.

‘Can we do a Secret Santa, this year?’ She says coquettishly. And suddenly my mind is racing faster than a shoplifter on their toes. I lose track of time, as inappropriate visions of me in red trousers and a neatly trimmed grey goatee, having an incognito assignation in S’s bedroom, flash by. Then reality slaps me like a fish in the face.

‘You mean we each buy presents nobody wants for each other…?’ I ask falteringly, hoping she’s not as hot on mind reading, as she’s hot.

‘Of course.’ Replies S with a broad grin. ‘What else would you think?’

You don’t want to know. You really don’t - and neither do Personnel /Human Resources/People Division.

‘I know you hate everything to do with Christmas.’ Continues S with an admonishing frown.

I don’t. I just hate the false sentiment of Corporate greetings’ cards, the alcohol-fuelled mayhem of firms’ Christmas parties and the annual battle as to whether a property business needs a rickety nativity scene and cotton wool in their window display. And that’s before the recent pressure to feature a multi-cultural, non-denominational, secular display that won’t offend vegans through to morons, with all faiths in between.

‘We could agree a maximum spend for each present.’ Coaxes S. ‘Say ten pounds?’

God, it was £5 last time I agreed to the nonsense, I think, Ebenezer-like.

‘Or maybe five?’ Offers S. Worryingly, she does seem able to read my mind.

‘It’s just…’ I falter.

‘What?’

‘A bit false.’

‘We’re doing a Secret Santa this year.’ I announce, once everyone is back from lunch. I know, I know.

‘Who persuaded you to do that?’ Quizzes fat mortgage man M.

‘Nobody.’ I state, falsely.

‘Yeh, and you expect us to believe you?’Sneers loose lettings lady B from her desk. I really hope I don’t draw her name out of the hat. I’m guessing batteries alone for her novelty item would swallow the whole tenner. Not to mention - well, not to mention…

‘It will be great.’ Endorses trainee F with a soppy grin. As if I needed confirmation I was making a mistake.

‘I used to love Christmas Eve,’ continues F dreamily. ‘Shivering in bed with anticipation. Not able to get to sleep.’ Probably because he was unsure which of his mother’s latest “Uncles” was going to come down their family chimney.

‘How much do we have to spend?’ Demands M frostily. ‘I hope it’s no more than a fiver.’

Irony doesn’t begin to cover it. This from a man who flogged expensive endowment policies, then morphed seamlessly through to Payment Protection Policies which I’m still receiving phone calls about. 

‘I thought ten pounds would be fair.’ I tell M pompously. I can feel S staring at me but I dare not look. If she ever runs her own office she’ll have to learn you need more than one face.

‘Can we choose who we buy for?’ Asks assistant manager T, looking rather pointedly at S.

‘We thought a blind draw.’ I announce, regretting the third party tense immediately.

‘What do you mean we?’ Probes M.

‘I meant me.’ I bluster. ‘That is I.’

‘It’s not what you said.’ Says B, unhelpfully.

I knew this was a mistake.

‘You doing a window display?’ Asks rival manager H, when he rings later to boast about his sales figures.

‘Not that keen.’ I tell him.

‘Stupid cows in my office want a tree, lights, all that crap.’ Snipes H. ‘And they want to buy each other presents. You’re not that soft are you?’

Several faces actually.

-------

Christmas presents sorted.  Download the ebooks, links on the right. And yes, they are as cheap as I am....

Drip Feed - Wednesday

‘How many more of these flyers do you want?’ Asks trainee F, as he leans over the chugging colour printer. It seems to be working for once. If the engineer spends any more time in the office he’ll want his own coffee mug.

‘How many homes in the catchment area we’re going to mail drop?’ I respond. Answering a question with another question is an annoying management trait but the query is out before I realise it.

F stares at me with that vacant possession look he’s perfected, as an unpleasant grinding noise fills the air. It takes a moment before I realise it’s the printer, not F’s overworked grey matter, producing the distressing sound. He pushes the stop button and lifts the lid to expose a mangled piece of A4 with a familiar storyline about, homes wanted in your road, sale just arranged, disappointed buyers offering sexual favours to estate agents for first chance of a viewing….

‘F•••ed again.’ Says loose lettings lush B from her cluttered desk. It could be a statement about her activities last night, but I’m hoping she’d referring to the over-priced heap of electronic tat the bean counter boss made all the offices instal. No doubt it saved him a few pence on leasing costs and produced an attractive bottom line, I think, as appropriately enough negotiator S sways across the office distractingly.

Attention jerked back towards the troublesome machine I continue my internal dialogue. The number crunchers love to fiddle with suppliers to justify their existence, but at the coal face it means multiple jams, and call outs so regular that we all have the engineer’s mobile phone on speed dial. Still, here’s hoping the bean counter gets some more sponsors’ corporate tickets to those major sporting events.

‘So how many do you think we need?’ I say to F, once he’s tugged out several mangled sheets of paper and re-set the printer, with a little help from S.

F looks at S despairingly, as she tries to mime something to him. His frown lines deepen as I begin to lose my cool.

‘Electoral roll!’ I bark aggressively, immediately regretting the phlegm-flecked verbal assault.

F looks at the floor and for a moment I thinks he’s about to perform some sort of gymnastic head-over-heels carpet tumble. Fortunately S steps to the filing cabinet, bends over athletically and brings out the list of names and addressees for our office area.

‘In here,’ she says soothingly, handing the thick printout to the thicko. ‘You’ll find the information in here.’

‘Not sure this is that great.’ Says assistant manager T, as he reads one of the less mangled leaflets, with the fact meets fiction claims and a photograph of a house we sold recently in the area.

‘And why’s that?’ I ask him frostily. I changed it three times before giving F the go ahead to copy scores of them. I also remembered to add the warning paragraph about potential vendors checking terms and conditions before instructing us, if they have another agent already retained. Got to keep the Property Ombudsman happy.

‘I’d think we should have the price we sold number seven for.’ Replies T.

‘New owners get a bit pissy about that.’ I tell T, knowing of several complaints over the years.

‘It’s a matter of record.’ AnswersT. ‘Anyone can check with the Land Registry.’

T is right, but the data takes a while to come through and some buyers are a bit cagey about letting the world know their business - and the transaction is called ‘Private Treaty’.

‘I think this is the best way for now.’ I tell T. I might be wrong, the goalposts have been moved on me so many times, I feel like a forgetful council groundsman. But as we now have several hundred copies of the leaflet I’m happy to take a flyer…

‘It’s starting to chuck it down.’ Announces T, as I come back in to the main office post-piss. F and T are standing by a pile of the aforementioned leaflets. S is manning the phones, B is filing her nails.

Not sure where it goes on the profit & loss account, but I take a rain check.

------

Golden Oldies - Thursday

Negotiator S appears prettily in my peripheral vision and for a moment I think it’s another of those awkward dreams. Finally, I register she’s really there and the screen that had almost hypnotised me is the stark reality of my office profit and loss accounts - not one of those dodgy sites now blocked by the main server…

‘Got lovely old Mr and Mrs Lockwood in the office.’ Begins S with a winning smile. I try to surreptitiously glance round her to see the office sales area, but she’s standing sideways and it’s a big ask without appearing pervy, or dislocating a couple of neck vertebrae.

‘Err, just remind me…’ I say pathetically. I can remember just about every home I’ve ever sold but the names are too much data to keep, with my ageing hard drive.

‘From The Avenue.’ Prompts S. ‘We’ve got a sale arranged on their house but they haven’t found anything to to go to to yet.’ Of course I remember. A sweet old couple who have wracked up some of those more obscure wedding anniversaries between the precious metal milestones. I need them to find somewhere or my potential commission will be stalled forever in the sales pipeline, with no chance of converting to hard cash.

‘Great news.’ I say to S, before hesitating. ‘So…why do they need to see me?’

S sighs and smiles again. God, she’s so hot she should carry an over 18s only, certificate. ‘They like you,’ she continues. ‘They want your advice on the flat they’ve seen.’

Now I want my vendors to like me. I positively crave their affection when I’m pitching for the business against several other estate agents. But, like a serial shagger, once I’ve consummated the deed - and bagged a signed sole agency - I’m keen to move on to pastures and punters new.

I sense a dilemma looming. I’m not a big fan of shared communal space living and with the leasehold laws in the UK as they are I wouldn’t want a flat without a peppercorn ground rent, a share in the freehold and an in-house management company. At the very least.

‘Where have they found?’ I quiz S, frantically thinking of the blocks in my area that don’t have greedy freeholder issues, diminished lease terms and huge holes in their sinking funds. S tells me the name of a well known retirement home builder and I grimace.

‘Really?’ I say rhetorically.

‘Really.’ She answers unnecessarily, adding. ‘They really like it. It’s the security and the companionship.’

And the rip-off prices, I think sourly. Hoping, not for the first time, that if I make it to the Lockwood’s advanced years I won’t be too senile to remember why I hate the shrunken square footage and overpriced warrens the elderly are wont to move to.

‘So what do you think?’ Urges Mr Lockwood in his reedy voice once S has sat them in front of me with two mugs of tea, and I’ve greeted them like long lost friends. I have a sneaking feeling Mr L is not long for this world . Like many ailing partners, he’s probably trying to manoeuvre his wife into a home that will suit her once he’s gone - there’s certainly not enough room for two people for too long.

Well, he’s paying too much. The ground rent goes up regularly at punitive levels. The lease is a paltry 99 years - fine when you are looking at twenty max to live but not so great for re-sales and disappointed beneficiaries -  and the service charges are a licence to print money. And yet, it gives them something they think you can’t always put a price on. Peace of mind.

If it were my parents I’m not sure what I’d advise, but that decision is no longer one to trouble me. The truth is I might change my opinion if I make it as far as the Lockwoods. Through rheumy eyes the world might look a different - scarier - place.

‘They seem pleased.’ Says S after I’ve seen the old couple to the door. ‘What did you tell them?’

‘What I thought they wanted to hear.’

It’s the bottom line.

---------

Bearer Of Bad News - Thursday

‘Bad news boss.’ Announces trainee F before I’ve even crossed the office threshold. In the property game - where one in three sales is destined to fall-through no matter what the market does - you get used to a greeting like this.

‘You really need to narrow it down a bit.’ I tell F familiarly, as I walk to the message book.

’It’s not in there yet.’ Says F hurriedly. I turn towards him. Now in sales you train yourself to mask emotions with a neutral smile and demeanour, but F isn’t buying anything from me - other than a one-way ticket to the job centre - so I’ve clearly failed this time.

‘It only just happened.’ Says F pointing at his phone as if that inanimate object is likely to plead his case. I glance at negotiator S. The conflict flashes across her face almost imperceptibly, but I see it, with S it’s hard not to keep looking. S shakes her head from side to side and does that balancing thing with her hands - it’s not quite so successful where her tits are concerned, but I digress.

‘So just tell me.’ I instruct F, tearing my gaze away from S. I don’t want to seem creepy or I’ll end up on another awareness course blue skying asinine ideas onto yellow post-it notes and pretending I care.

‘Number 12.’ Begins F and my stomach lurches even before the reveal. There’s half a month’s worth of commission riding on this sale, tell me it’s recoverable. ‘Bomber is doing the mortgage valuation.’ Continues F with an apologetic shrug. The expletive is still pinging off the filing cabinets even as I place a pound coin in the office swear box and grind my teeth expensively.

Every town has one. Some several. Surveyors who routinely lop about ten percent off the agreed sale price just to cover their bony arses. It doesn’t seem to change much, no matter what the market is doing. Rising, falling - according to the papers it’s never stable - these little weasels in sports jackets and grubby coloured trousers conspire to wreck weeks of marketing, days of fractious negotiating and hours of assiduous finance placing. And we have to pretend we like them.

I know I’m not alone in this, my twitter feed confirms they are all over the UK. Their modus operandi doesn’t vary much. They just ask the sale price, request some comparable evidence of similar sales - then take off a number they’ve already thought of. Our particular bette noir just happens to bear the nickname “Bomber” but I’ve heard of: Dr Death, The Wrecker, Demolition Man and Poison Pete to name but a few. Same pimp, just different coloured trousers.

There was a time, when I first started in house sales that I aspired to becoming a Chartered Surveyor. Back then, all the senior partners were qualified with RICS after their name. In fact it used to be the only way you’d be invited to become an equity partner before the banks and insurance companies moved in and bought estate agency firms in a frenzy of overpaying. Some of the ex-partners are still sunning themselves and playing golf even now. I was born too late - plus I didn’t fancy several years of studying…

Now the surveyors we see are just as haunted as the house sales people. Targeted and monitored to within an inch of their next nervous breakdown. Spending your days rushing from dusty loft space to dusty loft space then dictating your survey, or more often now, downloading the pre-populated report on your tablet computer, while sitting in a mid-range Vauxhall with pastry crumbs in your lap I can do without. We tend to run Fords…

‘Hello all.’ Says Bomber when he arrives for the keys. I can almost taste the hatred, he has the skin of a rhinoceros.

‘Any comparable sales?’ Asks Bomber as I hand him No 12’s keys and a set of our sales particulars.

‘We had a lot of people wanting this one.’ I urge. ‘It’s worth every penny.’

‘We’ll see.’ responds Bomber as he leaves.

‘Stick the For Sale board back up boss?’ Asks F before the door has closed.

He’s learning.

Recipe For Trouble - Tuesday

‘Great news boss.’ Enthuses trainee F as I bowl through the door, glad to get out of the rain. Now I’m wary as well as wet. Experience tells me great news isn’t always as cheering as the term might suggest, plus it’s F providing the information - a man who thought a vendor was a drinks dispenser, when he started the job.

‘Is it really great news?’ I ask S my negotiator. F looks a little hurt but then he wounds me daily.

‘It depends.’ Fences S cautiously.

‘Because?’ I query, shedding drops of water like a spindly greyhound - only slower obviously and with just two legs of course, minus a tail and…. oh never mind.

‘Because it’s an offer on number 19 The Avenue.’ Answers S with a lop-sided smile. There’s no way anyone would compare her to a dog. Not in my earshot anyway.

‘I thought you’d be pleased.’ Says F, hurt look spreading across his face. ‘That depends.’ I reply, removing my raincoat and stalking to the offer sheet. I’m doubly disappointed.

‘There’s nothing on here.’ I tell F frostily.

‘I’ve only just received it.’ He counters. I look at S.

‘He has.’

‘Always write it down.’ I snipe, head beginning to throb. I might have a cold coming. The number of people who’ve sneezed in my car, in their homes, in a lift this week it would be a miracle if I escape without major sniffles.

‘Tell me it’s not the full asking price?’ I say to F and his emerging smile vanishes faster than a free bar at a wedding.

‘It is.’ He responds quizzically.

‘I was about to tell him.’ Adds S with a shrug of her shoulders. Not sure if she realises how distracting that action is but now is not the place to enlighten her - although they are a heavy burden…

‘I don’t get it.’ States F petulantly. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘I am.’ I tell him, realising belatedly I’ve been a little harsh. ‘But The Avenue only came on the market two days ago.’

‘So the owners will think we’ve done a good job, won’t they?’ Questions F. God, he has a lot to learn about human nature.

I battled hard to win over the sellers of No 19. First fending off at least three other agents, all promising the couple outlandishly high prices and rock-bottom fees. Then, convincing them I would ensure their sale was handled professionally and that setting a slightly full, but realistic price, was the way to get their proposed job move to happen with the minimum of disruption. You’d think they’d be delighted that someone wanted their home so swiftly - you would…

‘What did they offer?’ I ask F, knowing the answer already.

‘Well,’ he responds with a self-satisfied grin. ‘They were going to offer £5,000 less than the asking price but I persuaded then they’d need to pay the full money.’

S drops her head and stares at a file on her desk. I’m on my own.

What F has failed to appreciate is people’s desire to feel they’ve fought to strike a deal. The psychological need to meet in the middle when negotiating, or at least the illusion of it. That sort of thing cements a deal, fosters commitment between the parties and helps people to move - and me to get paid. This is too soon.

‘What would you have done then?’ Asks F petulantly.

‘Assuming you qualified the buyers, checked their finances and ability to proceed.’ I say, noticing his facial response isn’t confirming that need. ‘Then I’d probably have engineered a lower offer to start with.’

‘But you always say we act for the vendors not the buyers.’

‘No strictly true if I’m doing their finance and insurance.’ Interjects mortgage man M unhelpfully.

‘That’s true.’ I acknowledge, ignoring M.

‘Then that’s what I’ve done?’ Counters F.

As gently as possible, I tell F I’d have ensured the vendors received their asking price - just not so quickly.

‘You need to let a deal cook a little.’ I tell him

‘I don’t get it sometimes.’ Replies F downheartedly.

Neither did the buyers. 

Last thing the owners withdrew from the market with the words: 

‘We’re selling too cheap.’

---------

I'm selling too cheap as well, so eyes right for the links and grab a download on Amazon..