Pipe Dreamers - Wednesday

‘Oh no, this won’t do at all. It’s nowhere near as nice as ours, is it Norman?’

I look at Norman, he looks at me and we both have that feeling of resignation. I just haven’t had the guts to pen the letter yet.

‘No dear.’ Says Norman with a ghosted look of apology in my direction. The house isn’t badly priced. It’s a bit tired admittedly, but then so is Norman - both worn down by years of exposure to uncontrollable elements. I need to move the couple on. They’ve booked three appointments on the spin with me, fortunately I have keys to all the homes and the owners are out. People don’t always take kindly to irritating time-wasters criticising their property in overloud stage whispers. I don’t need another stand up row.

‘These properties are so expensive here.’ Whines Norman’s wife in tandem with my failing drive shaft, as we cross town at the worst possible time to another, almost certainly, abortive appointment. You should look at some of their houses, I think angrily, as I pass an opposition agents board, one standing outside a property I valued and they priced 20% higher than my already bullish estimate. It still rankles, but I’m biding my time.

‘I don’t like the décor at all.’ Complains Norman’s wife dismissively even before we’ve left the entrance hall of property two.

‘You could change that dear.’ Suggests Norman warily.

‘Not at these prices.’ Snaps the dragon, as I suppress the urge to punch the woman, or at lease puncture her pomposity. She’s looking at properties in a dearer location than her own home turf and you might as well compare apples with pears.

‘No it’s not for us at all.’ Concludes the wife from hell, as I start to dislike Norman too just for putting up with her. I could show him a perfectly serviceable studio flat if he’s just grow some balls and divorce her. He’d obviously lose all his equity and half his pension but that would be the first price worth paying he is likely to see…

‘How are things going with your own sale?’ I probe as we move through the school traffic slowly. F my idiot trainee booked the viewings to this out of town couple and he told me, less than convincingly, that he’d qualified them properly and they were on the market with good interest. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.

‘Oh you don’t need to worry about that,’ scoffs Norman’s nemesis. ‘Our house will sell very quickly. It’s the best in the road.’

‘It is on the market though isn’t it?’ I say, sinking feeling returning.

‘No we won’t be wasting our time with that until we see something suitable.’ Replies the wife icily.

Not wasting your time, no.

‘The garden is no more than a pocket handkerchief.’ Grumbles the woman as I open the patio doors on the third house. I’m tempted to lay out a snotty piece of linen on the lawn, just to disprove her theory, only she hasn’t finished. It’s one I’ve heard a million times before but it still makes me want to scream with frustration.

‘Of course what we’d really like to do is pick our house up and move it here.’

Another piece of my soul breaks away. It’s delaminating bit by bit – a surveyor would ask for a specialist report.

‘You haven’t shown us the garage.’ Carps Norman’s wife, as he throws me a shrug behind her back. That’s because you have no intention of buying, I ache to scream but I can do without another complaint. The bean counter boss always favours the public – but then he’s only ever viewed a balance sheet. I lift the up-and-over door.

‘You wouldn’t get your Rover in there Norman.’ Decides his wife, face as sour as a lemon. No, but you could sleep in there when you’re in the doghouse Norm, I think angrily, nearly cracking my skull open as I slam the door.

‘And our dining room suite wouldn’t fit in any of them.’ Drones the wife as I drive them to the train station, Norman’s Rover obviously saving the wear and tear I’m taking.

It’s hard to stay on track.

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Happy Families - Tuesday

I drive through the soulless early eighties executive estate. This era hasn’t worn well. The mock Tudor timbers are flaked and rotting where they haven’t been maintained properly. Any original windows are tired, with the paltry-gapped double-glazing blown causing condensation or ugly fogging to the glass. There are not enough parking spaces and the pavements are littered with teenagers’ first cars. A battered and rusting selection of Ford Kas, baby Peugeots and Renault Clios are strewn on either side, making it hard to navigate the tight corners. Some of the larger homes have double garages but the majority have narrow single units where the parents’ cars never make it inside, let alone their grown-up children’s motors. Children who’ll be at home until close to their fortieth birthday if the average age for a first time buyer climbs much higher.

This is a matrimonial dispute and I’m meeting first one party, then straight after the second. These are notoriously frosty affairs, with any business to come a long way off at best by the time the lawyers have battled over who gets what. I know what these homes are worth, but I’m betting the two parties won’t agree with me. I have the evidence, it’s available on-line and I’ve completed on two houses in adjacent roads in the last few months. Of course at this vintage, many of the homes have had new kitchens and bathrooms installed and a fair majority have replaced the developers cheap window units. Some will sport unsightly conservatories on the back eating in to the already parsimonious plot sizes and one side of this road, with the south facing rears, is more favoured but I can still get the price about right. Not that some competitors will be so honest. Overvaluing is still rife, with the less professional practitioners inflating figures just to get a sole agency and a for sale board - and more importantly control of the marketing.

‘We’re going to need to be quick mate.’ Says the man as he looks anxiously at his watch. He is late-forties and driving a cheap model BMW. I’m clearly not his mate, so he wants something from me. It doesn’t take long. ‘Can you put the price in writing and make it as low as possible.’ This rarely happens without a reason. ‘I’m thinking of buying her out.’ Explains the man as we finish the cursory tour. The house is unloved and only the two kids’ bedrooms show any sign of attention. That’s if you call flat screen televisions and Play Stations a mark of affection. If they really cared they wouldn’t be separating. Despite all the self-help bullshit about it being best for the children to go your separate ways, it’s a lie. I know.

The key scrapes in the door and I rise to greet the soon to be ex-wife. It has been an uncomfortable ten minutes perched on the couch waiting alone in the loveless house, just the ticking of a clock for company. ‘I suppose he’s long gone.’ Says the spurned woman icily, as I make my introduction and just stop short of apologising for having a penis. She doesn’t take long. The smile is unconvincing she’s clearly a bit out of practice.

‘Could you make your price as high as possible?’ She urges. ‘And I need a copy to my solicitor.’ This is why we now call these exercises market appraisals, not valuations. If they want to go to court to argue the figures they should get a formal valuation from a Chartered Surveyor. The surveyor will charge a fee, then come in to my office and ask what the house is worth.

‘How long until I get your letter?’ Probes the woman, then she can’t help herself. ‘Only I want the cheating bastard’s bollocks on a plate.’ Momentarily I wonder if I’ve missed another chunk of female-focused legislation. Some corrective law that gives positive discrimination in favour of women wanting a scrotum-sac trophy along with the house and half his pension. I feel a tightening in the nether regions and resolve to hang on to my own home and balls and to stick to fantasy - or the free trial sessions on-line.

It’s a hard job.

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Golden Duck - Friday

‘This should be a good craic.’ Says massive mortgage man M, using the Irish term that has mushroomed everywhere, along with faux-pubs sporting shamrocks and a pissed bloke at the bar wanting a free pint of Guinness because he’s down on his luck. He usually is when he taps me up.

‘All you can eat and drink and it’s free gratis.’ Continues M rubbing his chubby hands with glutinous glee. It isn’t exactly, I think sourly, as I wonder if I’ve done the right thing by accepting the corporate-jolly ticket, which became available with a late withdrawal by somebody higher up the greasy promotion pole. The latent lefty in me hasn’t entirely withered, even after twenty years of mortgage and pension payments. I sometimes hear a retro punk rock track on the radio and think I could still pogo, until I look in the mirror or try to tie my shoelace without bending my knees.

‘If you get asked any questions about current rates or lending criteria.’ Suggests M leaning towards me conspiratorially and giving me a blast of garlic-breath that would clear a colony of vampires. ‘Just refer them to me, or act dumb.’ I can do the latter easily enough, it think, as the train comes to a halt at a crowded platform and the jostling for position, I’m about to experience at a linen-clothed round table, begins early.

I hate public transport with a passion. Another reason my dwindling man-of-the- people credentials don’t stand close inspection. I’ve driven a company car for longer than my two sons have been alive and apart from reluctantly allowing punters in the back when I’m ferrying them to viewings, I prefer not to mix with the public. Windows up, music and air-conditioning on is now my default mode. Which is pretty incongruous, as I’m en-route to a venue where thousands will be milling and drinking with no central locking.

The invite is from a big lender with labyrinthine corporate ties, kickbacks for introduced business and glamorous sponsorship deals giving access to prime sporting events the likes of me don’t often get to. M’s immediate boss had a better offer at an event he clearly preferred. I recognised at an early age - after standing next to the fat kid, looking like a junior M, in the school football team selection process - that I wasn’t ever going to be first choice. It was a theme that continued at awkward school discos and job interviews. I was always somewhere down the batting order, but this day at the cricket was too enticing to miss.

‘Here’s your invite in case we get separated.’ Says M as we sit in our seats and the crowded carriage sways back and forth, standing room only passengers towering over us and looking daggers. I was taught to give my seat up for ladies but the only woman I can see is too far down the aisle, and after that awkward time when a rotund woman refused prissily and I realised she was probably not pregnant - just greedy - I’ve become wary.

I take the golden ticket like a wrinkled Charlie, en-route to the Chocolate Factory. The goodies will be of a more adult theme. A bag of bribes paid for by borrowers, limitless alcohol, a welcome buffet and a three-course lunch with high tea, but I’ll still be mixing with “Wonkas”

‘What part of the organisation are you from?’ Asks some plum-in-the-mouth voiced hooray as he leans towards me clutching a glass of bubbly. I’m still stunned by the greenness of the grass below our lofty eerie of a private box with balcony, and feel - as I often do in homes I’m valuing but could never afford - like an impostor.

I give a puffed up version of my role with the sort of sales hyperbole I’m no longer allowed to use since the Property Misdescription Act. He turns to the guy in the other seat. Fine by me, I think, as the bubbles start to take effect and the pretty girl in a short skirt and access to a free bar, comes to top up. So easily corrupted.

I didn’t score.

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