Not For Sale - Friday

‘Can I have a word?’Asks negotiator S after tapping at my - nearly always open - door. You can have three I think, politically incorrectly. She does look good though and a lot more attractive than some of the other rubbish in the office window. Injudicious thoughts shovelled to the back of my brain, I answer in the affirmative.

S take a half-step in and pulls the door semi-closed. Not sure if my gulp is audible but it’s certainly inappropriate. I wait in anticipation, nagging voice at the back of my mind already pushing unhelpful scenarios. If she’s resigning I’ll be gutted. If she’s pregnant I’m not sure, even with two decades worth of sales experience, if I could feign any form of delight. Fortunately it’s neither.

‘There’s a dodgy looking guy in the office.’ States S, hand over her mouth as she whispers.

‘Could you narrow it down a bit.’ I tell her, craning to look into the main sales area.

‘Good point.’ Concedes S with a disarming smile. ‘He ’s asking if he can have a word with the manager.’

‘Complaining or selling something?’ I probe, still trying to spot the character in question. F the idiot trainee is stood in my line of vision, waving his hands about excitedly. He’s either just taken an offer or about to have a seizure - either comes with a lot of paperwork and arguably, both could have a favourable outcome…

‘Definitely wants something from us.’ Predicts S. ‘Far too polite otherwise.’

‘But shifty though?’ I press.

‘Oh yes,’ confirms S. ‘Made me feel bit uncomfortable.’

It happens.

‘Alright.’ Begins the scruffy haired geezer in a rhetorical opening gambit, when he’s been ushered in to my office by S. He’s dressed in stained jeans, a t-shirt barely retaining a bulging beer-gut and a bomber jacket that has seen better days. I was, until you washed up like a turd on a beach I think, as I catch an unwelcome whiff of nicotine, carrying halitosis and body-odour-laced undertones.

‘I wondered if you might put some business my way.’ Says the man with a yellow-toothed grin, as he proffers a business card. I take the offering and peruse his details as he adds. ‘For the usual consideration of course.’

Great, everybody thinks all estate agents are bent. Plenty are of course and if you don’t have any licensing standards or exams for entry - like most other countries do - it’s not surprising some dubious characters get to don a suit and con a punter. I’ve never taken a back hander - although a few people have tried to slap me - and even after all this time, when someone offers me a “brown envelope” full of used notes I still take offence. 

‘Not interested.’ I say curtly to the man’s obvious surprise.

‘We do a lot of business with…’ And the man names one of our less professional competitors. It doesn’t surprise me.

‘We’ll do any house clearance, you know, goods and chattels if someone’s popped their clogs and the family aren’t nearby.’ Continues the man odiously. Do I look like an unprincipled bastard?  I think angrily, and the unhelpful inner voice gives me an answer I don’t need but the charlatan in front of me, clearly subscribes to.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been offered bribes by developers and speculators to favour them with the chance to buy at a reduced price and with no competitors but now the f***ing rag and bone man thinks he can buy me. Trouble is, plenty of agents take the money rather than offence. No wonder the press and the public vilify the profession.

‘He left in a hurry.’ Says S when I follow the man to the door, just to make sure he’s off the premises.

‘Not quick enough.’ I reply watching as the man sidles across the road to the office of the competitor he named. No doubt they’ll be laughing at me in there, shortly.

‘What did he want?’ Queries S.

‘To buy me.’

‘God don’t you hate that?’ Says S.

Gulp. Yes…

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Expletive Deleted - Tuesday

‘It’s not my fault.’ Pleads loose lettings lady B loudly over the phone, with a line familiar to teenagers everywhere. Her tone is rising dangerously. Fortunately there are no punters in the office, but that also means we’re all listening to her conversation. She’s oblivious, in that concentration zone where all you can focus on is the verbal battle you’re partaking in. It’s best not to swear.

The public can be difficult where property is concerned, moving home is the third most stressful life event after death and divorce, and come to think of it the former isn’t strictly speaking a “life” event. People forget the usual pleasantries if their dream home feels like it’s being snatched away by a combination of bad references, dilatory lawyers and awkward owners, add a ballsy bitch from our lettings department and you’re going to hear a few expletives.

‘I don’t make the…the rules.’ Snaps B, using another well-worn excuse. I fear for what she nearly said. I don’t have to wait long.

‘Don’t bloody well swear at me.’ Snarls B, forgetting all those customer service courses she’s been on. A classroom and some sticky post-it notes of soothing responses, never likely to replicate real life. It’s why those that can, sell. And those that can’t train.

I try to attract B’s attention, making clam down gestures with my hands, but she might as well be in a different office.

‘Perhaps if you paid your utility bills on time you wouldn’t have such a crap credit rating.’ Growls B menacingly, as I feel another complaint coming my way. I’ve already had the Ombudsman wanting file copies of a messy deal a few months ago and the Trading Standards officer doesn’t like me that much after she was gazumped last year. Not a lot of love coming estate agents’ way.

‘I could have let this flat three times over in the time I’ve spent on your tenancy agreement.’ Sneers B in what is looking like an unrecoverable spin towards a hard landing. I’m now waving like a signalman trying to stop a runaway train. I may as well not be there.

B is a nightmare to man manage, primarily because she manages more men than me, plus about half a bottle of gin most days. I should get rid of her, but the process of sacking staff, no matter how incompetent, is so convoluted with employment law as it is that the best you can often do is recommend them for a transfer to another office and shift the problem elsewhere. Promotion works well too.

‘If you abuse me any more I’m hanging up.’ Warns B feistily, as I sense a messy ending. She’s had a few by all accounts and her fair share of abuse outside of the office. Some folks attract the wrong people like magnets - some pick them up in wine bars. It probably isn’t B’s fault the deal is going belly up, or that she’ll probably be adopting the same position with a stranger in about seven hours time, but sometimes you need to know when to back down.

‘I’ve told you. I’m just doing my job.’ Continues B the end of her tether now visible to everyone in the office, observing like rubber-neckers at a car crash. I listen and watch, fascinated and horrified in equal measure. I’ve been close to similar meltdowns a dozen times before but somehow have managed to keep my equilibrium It’s just a mater of time. A salesman’s shelf life is finite.

‘You hear this?’ Demands B theatrically, grabbing a sheet of A4 from the printer and ripping it in two. ‘That’s the sound of your tenancy application being terminated.’ My heart sinks as I think of the extra paperwork this action will doubtless generate. No wonder the rain forests are disappearing.

‘And you have a good day too.’ Shouts B before holstering the phone thunderously, with what sounded distinctly like plastic cracking. ‘F***ing public.’ She says with the hint of a sob. She’s been known to do that, I think, uncharitably. And if it helps get a deal through I’d probably turn a blind eye.

After all, selling is the second oldest profession…

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Love the Public - Wednesday

‘Good news.’ Announces assistant manager T as I enter the office having dodged the winos in the park, the Big Issue salesman and the traffic warden successfully. In this business good news, like punters, requires qualification. It’s really only good news when the sale has exchanged and completed, plus the cheque has cleared.

‘One of our competitors gone bust?’ I ask optimistically as I glance at the message book and see I need to ring bean counter boss. My mood darkens. How many times a week can he ask how the week is going? Just wait until the stats on Friday you figure-fiddling f***er.

‘No.’ Answers T. ‘Sadly not, although I hear that lot up the road have only three sales in their pipeline.’ I nod in appreciation, as T gets to the point and tells me we have an increased offer on a house I’ve been negotiating on for three, drawn-out, days. I should be delighted, but the owner has been less than enthusiastic and I sense they might be cooling on the whole process, something that might potentially cost me £7,500.

The first offer was admittedly £20k off the asking price and once I’d checked the buyers’ credibility; the finances, the chain and the state of progression, it was turned down dismissively, as expected. Sometimes a deal needs to “cook” a little. Too quick an acceptance from either party and doubts begin to surface. An extra £10k was the first revised bid; then yesterday I got within £5k of the asking price as the buyers began to needle in tandem with the reluctant sellers.

‘Full price offer.’ Crows T, before adding a premature. ‘Another one in the bag.’ He has a lot to learn about property and even more about human nature.

‘You don’t think they’ll turn it down do you?’ Asks negotiator S, showing more perception and a distracting amount of flesh with the low-cut blouse she’s wearing.

‘I just got the feeling they were getting cold feet.’ I say cautiously. ‘Sometimes they bleat for months about nobody wanting their home. Then when it comes to the reality, to an offer and the prospect of packing and moving, they panic.’

‘They’d be mad to turn it down.’ Persists T. ‘It’s the full money. They can’t.’

‘They can do what they like.’ Says loose lettings lush B acidly. ‘People jerk me about all the time.’ I really don’t want to take that conversation any further, so I retire to my office to make the call.

‘So’ I conclude. ‘After some tough negotiation we’ve got them up to the full price and of course they are in an excellent position.’ The reiteration seems needed because the resistance is almost palpable. I wait, silence being an old friend where negotiations are concerned. I’m rewarded with a heavy sigh before the owner says. ‘Let me talk to my husband’ We’ll think about it.’

‘It will put you in a fantastic negotiating position for your next property.’ I urge, needing some positive spin on what is fast becoming a dead wicket. ‘The trouble is, we’ve seen nothing that comes close to our house.’ Grumbles the woman. ‘I’m wondering if we’re too cheap.’

‘Five months marketing.’ I shout angrily, once I’m back in the main office and studying the computer screen, ‘Four adverts. Over five hundred unique web visits. Four mail outs. Twelve accompanied viewings. One broken for sale board and three days of negotiation and she thinks she’s we’ve not done enough for the money.’

‘The public always screw you over.’ Pronounces B rising and click-clacking towards the ladies’ loo. I can’t be bothered to take the easy points I’m so demoralised.

‘We’ve thought about it.’ Says the owner last thing when I ring, bean counter’s voice still ringing like tinnitus in my ear. ‘And we’ve decide to withdraw from the market.’

I try half-heartedly but the horse has long gone.

‘We won’t be charged will we? It’s no sale no fee.’ Says the woman rubbing the salt, before adding.

‘You’ll tell the buyers won’t you? We’d rather not speak to them again.’

Leave that with me. I’m an expert at disappointment.

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