Stop Pressing - Tuesday

‘Some reporter from the local paper rang while you were out,’ says negotiator S as I bustle through the office door. ‘ Wants some quotes about the property market.’

‘It’s f••ked.’ Suggests assistant manager T, with a sneer.

‘Swear box.’ Says S, admonishingly.

‘Alright, it’s screwed.’ Continues T. ‘ Too many people, not enough houses being built, overpriced new homes when they do sling them up and a load of Nimbys complain whenever someone wants to built on a bit of crappy common land that they use to let their dogs shit on, without scooping.’

‘Wow. Who pulled your chain?’ Asks S.

‘Every tosser and time-waster that comes though the door, pretty much.’ Concludes T, heading for the kitchen. And I thought I was the cynical one.

‘Did you tell the hack I can’t give quotes without running them by head office, any more?’ I ask, S.

‘Well I wasn’t sure if you would want to speak to them.’

‘The paper, or head office?’ I ask.

‘Either.’

To be honest I’m surprised the local rag is even printing still. When I first started they had a huge circulation and a vast property pull-out, every week. But since people started getting their news and property porn, for free on-line, the paper has been in terminal decline. As a wannabe writer I should be  saddened, but in truth they shafted me for years with over-inflated advertising rates and a virtual monopoly they rinsed relentlessly. I hoped that would all end with the rise of on-line platforms, but like a hooker who swapped pimps, I’m still getting used - just by another abuser.

‘You could tell him the rental market is still strong.’ Suggests B from her lettings desk.

‘Until the government meddle with it and start altering tenancies in favour of left-wing wasters who don’t like being evicted when they trash the property and spend the social money on fags and drugs, instead of the rent.’ Says T, popping his head round the corner. The kettle is starting to rumble but he’s already at boiling point.

‘Maybe you could suggest what the politicians could do to start solving the housing crisis.’ Says S, sweetly. She has more faith in me than I do.

‘They wouldn’t listen.’ Says fat finance man M, joining the conversation. ‘They are only interested in short-term posturing and legislating for idiots who whine when they’ve made a bad investment.’

‘Like an endowment mortgage?’ Asks S, pointedly.

‘That wasn’t my fault.’ Responds M, with a jowly pout.

‘Are you going to talk to the reporter?’ Asks T, returning to the office clutching a steaming mug. No sign of making one for anyone else.

‘What’s the point?’ I say, semi-rhetorically. ‘ By the time I’ve got a response from one of those jobsworths at head office, the paper would have gone bust. Either that, or any comments would have been so heavily redacted it will look like an affidavit from Richard Nixon.’

‘Who’s Richard Nixon?’ Asks trainee F. God I feel old, some days.

‘Like Donald Trump, only more credible.’ Says B.

‘Is that right?’ Asks F.

‘Pretty much.’

‘They could do with a few people like you on a housing committee.’ Persists S. They couldn’t. ’People with years of industry experience who could make them understand how the property market works.’

‘Those wastrels wouldn’t listen.’ Sneers T, slurping his tea loudly. ‘ And most of them are gone by the time the shit hits the fan. They are too busy fiddling with their expenses and their interns.’

‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’ I ask T. His head sinks.

‘The Richardsons’ chain broke when you were out, ‘says T flatly. ‘Bad survey, massive down-valuation and the first time-buyers at the bottom have decided to go backpacking instead.’

‘F••k!’

‘Is that a quote for the paper?’ Asks M, with a wobbly-bellied chuckle.

‘Swear box.’ Says S, nodding towards the over-used tin container.

‘Can it be saved?’ I ask desperately.

‘Old news,’ says T. ‘ Seems it happened last week and both solicitors involved neglected to tell us.’

Nobody would print the next bit.

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If Not Now Never - Thursday

‘So have you been searching for property long?’ I ask, gazing into the car rear view mirror trying to gauge the response. I don’t do many viewings. The sharp end of property sales is securing the instructions to sell a client’s home. But today the rest of the team are booked solid, so I have a mid-fifties couple in my motor and I’m not sure they’ve been qualified properly.

In a world of uneven demand and supply, exacerbated by a burgeoning population and several decades of ineffectual UK housing policy - and a swing door for inept, under-briefed ministers - you need to target your efforts. Such is the pull of property porn and the non-stop diet of tv programmes feeding the addiction, you could spend every working day ferrying round dreamers and fantasists without the intention, or wherewithal, to actually sign a contract on the dotted line.

‘Well we’ve looked at over fifty properties.’ Says the woman, as I catch a hint of despair in the husband’s eye. I’m not far behind him. Time-wasters are the bane of an estate agent’s life. With more buyers than sellers through the majority of the property market cycle, you can only sell each home once and spending time with people who believe they are serious, but in reality will never be the best buyer for your client’s house, is ruinous to your health - and bottom line. 

‘Oh, why is that?’ I ask as neutrally as possible. This pair are booked to look at three homes with me and it will be at least ninety minutes until I can dump them back at the railway station, like some sub-Uber taxi service.

‘Well it’s you lot isn’t it.’ Continues the woman, as I hear the hint of a groan from her long-suffering partner. Terrific, not only are they getting a free guided tour round town but now the saggy-necked old goat is about to insult my profession.

‘Not now dear.’ Whisper her husband flatly.

‘Why not?’ She enquires aggressively. ‘They need to know if they’re not giving the right service.’

I feel my hackles rising. Out of towners: so no home for us to sell and no sister office where they live. No funding required and their own insurance advisor and they won’t take a solicitor introduction. That just leaves trying to source  an introductory commission from the local removal van company, but as this pair have been looking to move since God’s dog was a puppy, I won’t be spending the Harrods voucher any time soon.

‘What seems to be going wrong?’ I ask, as a boy with facial hair - so old enough to know better - skateboards the wrong way down the road I’m negotiating. All I need now is some fully-formed adult, with headband, 1980’s shorts and a set of roller blades and I’ll be tempted to risk the paperwork by running them into a ditch.

‘Well you never listen to what we want.’ Whines the woman, as I wonder if I can dump them at the wrong platform just in time to see their train leave on the other side of the station. Little things and little minds.

‘What she means is by the time we hear about a suitable home you’ve usually sold it to someone else.’ Clarifies the man, in a semi-conciliatory tone. That’s because they are in a position to proceed, or at least have shown some commitment by placing their own home on the market, I think acidly.

‘Have you thought about marketing your own house first?’ I say by way of some mild entertainment as I can’t have the radio on. Of course I know the answer.

‘That’s out of the question.’ Replies the woman, true to form. ‘We won’t be rushed into anything.’ Not even after several years on everyone’s mailing list?

‘Anyway,’ she continues. ‘Very often there’s nothing as nice as our own house.’

‘Let’s see if we can change that.’ I tell her, with little enthusiasm.

‘Oh no this won’t do at all.’ Says the woman, in the first dining room. ‘We’d never fit our furniture in here. It’s completely failed the table test.’

Derailed again.

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Oddball Out - Thursday

‘The creeper came in while you were out.’ Says negotiator S, as I return to the office. I seem to miss all the fun while on appointments, but I’d hate to be shackled to the desk nine hours a day like some call centre drone - or on-line estate agent, as they want to be called.

‘Which oddball are you referring to?’ I ask S, dumping my briefcase and scanning the message book for problems.

‘He has a point.’ Says assistant manager T. ‘There are plenty to choose from.’ And as he speaks trainee F returns from the gents’ toilets with that vacant possession look on his face again. ‘See what I mean.’ Continues T, with a nod towards the idiot savant.

‘What?’ Questions F, head on one side.

‘They think you’re a creeper.’ Says lettings’ lush B, unhelpfully.

‘I didn’t say that.’ Announces S, hurriedly. ‘I meant that weirdo from the flats off the high street.’

‘The creepy one?’ Questions F, to groans of despair.

Every agent gets them. The freaks and weirdos with a fascination for bricks and mortar, fuelled by endless daytime television programmes for property porn addicts with no real job to go to. The regulars soon become known to even the newest recruit, as they come in with disturbing frequency, proclaiming to be looking to buy, sell or rent. The only certainty, is they never actually do. It doesn’t stop them coming in though.

‘What did he want this time?’ I ask S.

‘One of us tied to his bed wearing his late mother’s dress, probably.’ Says T unpleasantly.

‘Don’t say that.’ Cries S. ‘He gives me nightmares as it is.’

‘I’m just saying.’ Defends T petulantly. ‘I bet there’s nothing good going on behind his door of an evening.’

We get to see some curious things, having access to the public’s homes with just a key and an inquisitive nature. It’s why I’m loathe to let F do too many viewings after the missing underwear controversy. I’m fairly sure it wasn’t him and the woman just misplaced some of her laundry, but you can’t be too careful.

‘Do you remember that repossession with a drawer full of girly mags for amputee fetishists?’ Asks T, with a smirk.

‘Oh, for goodness sake.’ Snaps S. ‘You made that up.’

Please don’t say it, I think. Looking at T firmly, but fat mortgage man M, beats him to it.

‘Don’t worry, he can’t prove it. Hasn’t got a leg to stand on…..’

Reprimand for inappropriate behaviour in the office issued and a quick check on the Human Resources handbook to ensure I don’t need to fill out some sort of incident report, and we’re back to the creeper.

‘He said you can value his flat again if you want to.’ Continues S, with a grimace. I’ve visited at least three times over the years and there’s no way he’ll move without the help of an undertaker. The stale-smelling home has curtains perpetually drawn and his late mother’s clothes hanging in the wardrobe.

‘I don’t want to.’ I announce.

‘Maybe he could rent it out?’ Suggest T, looking at B.

‘F**k off.’ Snaps B. ‘There’s no way I’m going in there without an escort.’

‘Nobody goes there, except me.’ I instruct sternly.

People don’t exactly put estate agents at the top of their most popular profession list, but I still remember a female negotiator who was kidnapped two decades ago, from a firm I worked for. And the infamous case of Suzy Lamplaugh the agent who disappeared without trace in 1986 after an appointment with a Mr Kipper, who didn’t exist.

‘We follow company protocol to the letter.’ I remind everyone citing the failsafe checks for outside appointments, particularly for our female staff.

‘If you do visit him you can borrow my pepper spray.’ Offers B.

‘And her handcuffs.’ Says T with a chortle.

‘The creeper probably has his own.’ Suggests S, with a visible shiver.

I decline the offer of a visit, with brush-off phone call. The creeper seems disappointed.

I just hope he hasn’t spent out on a body bag and wet wipes.

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