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.

Neighbourhood Watch - Tuesday

‘So anything else I need to know about your home, something I may have missed?’ I ask as I sit in the living room, details and measurements taken, sales pitch to come.

‘What do you mean exactly?’ asks the husband defensively as his wife frowns. ‘Have you heard something?’

I ask these questions to personalise property details. To take them away from the anodyne, safe from prosecution, but boring to the point of self-harm when read, particulars most agents produce. A little nugget about the home’s history, a previous well-known owner, a tale about former uses, anything interesting - apart from ghost stories. Something is amiss here. I just hope it doesn’t include claims of the supernatural. They never help a sale - just flush out more weirdos.

‘Tell him.’ Urges the wife eventually, after the silence has become uncomfortable. I nod encouragement and the husband takes a deep breath.

‘Well,’ he begins. ‘I don’t want you to tell prospective buyers, but the man next door is a complete wanker.’

‘Language dear.’ Chides the wife, blushing beguilingly.

‘Well he is.’ Counters her husband. ‘He’s a world class tosser and we’ll be glad to see the back of him.’

Now I have a dilemma I could do without. Ignorance can be a drawback in the industry - just look at F, my intellectually challenged trainee - but occasionally being unaware of an issue, can be bliss. With nanny state legislation designed to help the lowest common denominator I’m obliged to flag up all sorts of potential problems to buyers. It’s not clear which ones - you have to wait until you are in court for clarification - but I need to know the nature of this animosity.

‘How long have you got?’Asks the husband, as I hear the wretched cat flap clatter in the background. An evil-eyed moggy slinks in, looks at me with distain and jumps into the wife’s lap. I can already feel my nose twitching faster than the cat’s tail. The allergy will have my nostrils weeping like the front row at a funeral before I’ve explained the sole agency form.

‘He’s just a nasty, evil man.’Offers the wife, stroking the cat lovingly. I can see hairs floating towards me in the sunlight and my back is beginning to itch already. I really don’t need this - except I do with properties hard to come by. If they have a neighbours’ dispute going on it will come up sooner or later. If not by virtue of awkward questions from viewers, it will be flagged-up when the buyer’s solicitor sends out standard pre-contract enquiries.

‘Could you enlighten me a little.’ I probe, sniffing back a thin trail of mucus which has started to flow. Seemingly, just by virtue of the visual clue the purring hairball sent me on entrance.

‘He hates cats.’ Answers the wife indignantly. I paste on my most neutral face, one the Swiss ambassador would be proud of.

‘How so?’ I ask, trying not to look at the pulsing mass of sneeze-inducing fur. The feline is eyeing me furtively. They know, even if the owners don’t.

‘The bastard tosses cat shit back over our fence.’ Snarls the husband, eyes blazing.

‘And Tabitha only ever does her business in a litter tray.’ Adds the wife. I’ve been round the bungalow and there were no signs of human offspring. I’m hoping Tabitha is the cat’s name and there isn’t an incontinent daughter somewhere, yet to be potty trained.

I’m guessing the dopy duo think their lump of snot-causing, itch-making, allergy irritating fur-bag doesn’t rip baby birds to shreds when they’re not looking, either. Something about cat lovers I just don’t get. And don’t even start me on the single women who keep them as hirsute baby, or a boyfriend substitute.

‘There’s no way it’s Tabitha’s do-do.’ Asserts the wife, before adding, ‘And he blocks our car in on the drive.’ I was coming to that thorny issue. Post war homes with shared drives are a nightmare. Planners were just glad a German tank wasn’t on the lawn back then. Nobody thought families would own two cars.

‘Any joy?’ Asks assistant manager T on my return.

Snot a lot.

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End Of Days - Tuesday

‘Good Christmas?’ Asks trainee F, after the shortest morning meeting on record. It’s the graveyard shift between the birth of Christ and the birth of another almighty hangover.

I ponder F’s question. Pleasingly, my sons were both home for the festivities, an increasingly rare occurrence. Equally gratifyingly, I wasn’t forced to mingle with too many unwanted family members and friends, death and an increasing propensity to not return non-business calls, saw to that.

‘Pretty good.’ I tell the failed Mensa applicant, apart from some joker seemingly swapping my favourite suit trousers for a pair 2 inches tighter, over the festivities. ‘You?’

F looks at me with those puppy dog eyes that usually make you want to chain him up outside and leave him to scare off unwanted visitors.

‘Bit rubbish.’ He finally says dolefully.

Probably the mad mother falling out with another “Uncle”, or one of his half-brothers taking his room and the contents of his wallet again. I should call Social Services but he’s a white male, so probably won’t match any quotas…

I hesitated before taking the working days between Christmas and New Year. But every now and then some long-distant socialist in me decides to lead by example and insist staff shouldn’t be given a job you aren’t prepared to do. I’d make an awful City banker. Politics is a no-no too.

‘Where’s B? Asks F as if he’s only just noticed our loose lettings lady is not at her station. I clocked it as soon as opening time arrived. I consider the options. Drunk still, almost certainly. Horrendously hung-over, a given. In a strange bed with a strange person - about 50/50 depending on how harsh the lighting was at her last port of call.

‘She’ll be in about lunchtime, I guess.’ I tell F. In the meantime we’ll field calls from irate tenants who had no heating over the holiday period, or suffered damp, either rising via the floods, or falling through the ceiling where someone’s washing machine overflowed. Not that F and I are busy. The diary has more gaps than a wino’s teeth. I’m only here because the bean counter boss insisted all offices had a skeleton staff and judging by the way my waistband is digging in, that shouldn’t have included me.

‘Is it always like this?’ Asks F mid-way through the morning as the procession of shoppers clutching sales bags flow past the door, but nobody actually comes in. The phone has only rung, as predicted, with problems for the still absent B in lettings. I’ve wandered to the back of the office several times to look at the diary, as if consulting it might magically provide a nice probate valuation or even a divisive matrimonial dispute. I’ve even been tempted by the dozen or so mini Bounty bars still sitting in the tub on top of the filing cabinet.

‘Pretty much.’ I tell F still irked he hasn’t offered me a cuppa, particularly as I made the drinks before he even arrived. I might be audibly dehydrating, unless the tinnitus is back.

‘I could have covered it this morning.’ Suggests F breezily. He couldn’t. Then the phone rings. It’s the bean counter boss. On a sun-bed somewhere hot again, judging by the reception.

‘How is it going?’ Probes the figure-fiddler. He knows how it’s going. He has the P & L accounts, the weekly key performance indicators and my invoice register. All I can add, is I’m half a stone heavier, tens of thousands light of the year end target and liable to die of thirst while a borderline retard looks on wondering why I’m lying on the office carpet leaking tears I can ill afford to shed.

‘Not too bad.’ I tell him. What does that mean? Screams a voice inside my head, as the bean counter echoes the thought, word for word - with just a hint of satellite lag.

‘Getting a few bites.’ I tell the boss, hoping a malarial mosquito is chowing down on him even as I prevaricate.

‘How was the boss, boss?’ Asks F, after I’ve ended the call.

‘We need to do better in the next twelve months.’

‘Isn’t that always the case?’

Yep.

Happy New Year.

Cold Not Comfortable

Slip-sliding across the sort of frozen pavement that causes fallers and shattered limbs in the elderly population, I can’t help wondering if the probate business might pick up in a month or two. Every cloud has a silver lining.

‘Spare some cash for a cuppa?’ Calls a gruff voice as I sashay sideways like some inept celebrity, dancing on ice. I spot the unshaven tramp-like figure lurking in a boarded up doorway. The unit will shortly become a charity shop, which might help the dishevelled man eventually, or heaven forbid, another estate agent that most definitely won’t.

I’ve spent a couple of decades avoiding wastrels and beggars who plead for funds to fuel drinking and drug habits while I work fifty hour weeks to keep a roof over my own family’s head, but lately as I attend yet another repossession, I’ve started to think but for the grace of a god I’ve seen no sign of, it might be me one day. With my sales experience I’d hope to make a more convincing case though - there’s no way this guy would spend any money on a mug of tea.

‘Sorry mate.’ Says a voice I recognise and I hurry on and nearly take a tumble for my troubles. Black ice and an increasingly black mood will have me falling sooner or later. A phlegm-filled expletive is spat in my direction as I hurry on towards the office. I think another wino might just have realised my profession.

‘It’s cold in here.’ I say out loud as the ringing of the just-silenced alarm fades away. The talking to myself has become an all too regular occurrence. I’ll be stopping strangers in shops soon on the pretext of not being able to reach some item on the top shelf, them trying to engage them in conversation. Only a short step to asking estate agents to come and value my home, when I’ve no intention of moving.

I punch the heating control to no avail. The bloody system isn’t firing-up again. I can see my breath in the air and a quick glance at the thermometer confirms a temperature that the Shops and Factories Act might not find acceptable. I have a feeling the guidelines state something like 16 degrees centigrade, or 13 in an active environment. Not sure if folding leaflets for a chilly drop later, counts as active, so I decide to hide the thermometer instead.

‘Bit parky in here isn’t it?’ States assistant manager T, arriving moments before opening time. There’s still no sign of the other staff.

‘I hadn’t noticed.’ I fib, cheeks colouring and sending a little warmth my way.

T marches to the heating programmer and fiddles with the buttons, as he presses and curses the rest of my team arrive, puffing and stamping feet.

‘Heating is f***ed again.’ Announces T unhelpfully.

‘What’s the thermometer say?’ Asks lettings lush B.

‘It’s not on the wall.’ Replies T turning to look at me accusingly.

‘Tea or coffee guys.’ I ask, using a well-tried distraction technique.

‘If he’s making drinks there must be a catch.’ Rumbles obese mortgage man M. No danger of him getting chilled to the bone.

‘Isn’t there a statutory minimum temperature you have to have, or you can go home?’ persists B despite the viscous black coffee I’ve made her.

‘It’s just advisory.’ I tell her to less than convinced glances. ‘I’ve called the engineer. I’m sure he won’t be long.’ Both statements lack credibility but I’m betting the former will be the more accurate.

‘Oh great.’ Moans T, looking out the window and sipping on his own tea.

‘What is it?’ Asks negotiator S, hunkered down over something hot and steamy I’ve provided. For clarity, her coat and my trousers are still on.

‘Mad Mrs Munroe.’ Replies T. ‘Hasn’t she got anything better to do?’ Probably not, her husband died some time ago and like a lot of people she’s been fantasising about property and a second coming for years.

‘Nothing for you today Mrs Munroe.’ Says T heading her off at the door. The poor woman looks confused.

‘You know my name?’ He’s been in her bedroom three times, despite the sign on her front door.

No cold callers.

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Nine Lives - Wednesday

‘Couple of messages in the book for you.’ Announces negotiator S as I come through the office door weary, vaguely conscious I’m feeling and smelling stale.

‘Anything good?’ I ask more in hope than expectation. The business being predicated on steps forward and back, and the hope you’ll have actually made progress during each working week.

‘Not really.’ Answers S with a smile and a compensatory shrug. She’s an asset - and more desirable than some of the over-priced tat alongside her in the window.

As I sit at assistant manager T’s vacant desk, I read the tasks that await me. A chain is wobbling with a seller threatening to pull out unless completion dates match their holiday requirements. A buyer has a survey that they want to discuss – read demand a reduction – after damp and roof spread has been indicated, and a vendor wants to see me and discuss why her home is not selling.

‘Why does she want me to go round?’ I moan.

‘Who?’ Asks S, putting aside a pile of sales files, one not as big as I’d like with my targets.

‘Mrs White-Young.’ I reply, referring to the woman who wants a personal visit to tell her to drop the price to the level I recommended five months ago.

‘You know what she’s like.’ Says S with a rueful look. ‘Maybe she just fancies you?’

The wrong one’s always do, I think, as I click on the activity report and feedback for Mrs White-Young’s house.

I definitely don’t fancy Mrs W-Y. She’s the sort of desperate divorcee who has been through more than one husband and only retains their house and their surname each time. I felt uncomfortable when I was there the first time. Against my better judgement and short of properties to market, I foolishly allowed her to instruct me at a price I knew was unachievable even before I made the front gate.

‘It’s the right location. If you can get her to see sense.’ Encourages S as I gather up my briefcase and comparables, later. She’s right, far better to have a run-down property in a good area than the best one in a grotty one. But only if the price reflects the work required and only if there aren’t better homes, more attractively priced, available elsewhere. The supply and demand curve never lies.

‘Haven’t seen much of you recently.’ Begins Mrs White-Young acidly, as I offer my hand having negotiated the overgrown front garden and managed not to snag my suit trouser on any of the wildly rambling rose bushes trying to snare unwanted callers, or her next unsuspecting husband.

She ushers me though a cluttered hall with faded paintwork and I smell the stench of cat even before we make the scruffy sitting room. The smelly hairball sees me immediately and slides from the hair-encrusted couch and starts to wind its way round my legs. It’s all I can do not to kick the purring feline away, as I feel my suit gaining several pounds of moulting fur and the first prickle of an allergic reaction rising in my throat.

‘So you can see we’ve extensively marketed your home.’ I tell Mrs W-Y as her pet torments me – they always know – by trying to jump into my lap, despite my efforts to fend it off with my clipboard and the owner’s half-hearted attempts to stop her.

‘Now leave the man alone.’ Chivvies Mrs W-Y as her cat leaps up beside me while a line about two annoying pussies whirrs unhelpfully in my head. ‘I know why it hasn’t sold.’ She continues, before pausing dramatically.

The clock ticks noisily while the moggy eying me seductively, vibrates like an idling six cylinder car. I run through my data internally: Three local paper adverts, several hundred on-line views, twelve actual, real-time, real people visits, constant availability on four different web portals, one low offer she should really have taken - all not to be sneezed at.

‘It’s because you are sending round the wrong type of people,’ Mrs W-Y eventually elucidates, as my nose starts to leak. ‘It’s too cheap. We need to put the price up.’

Not a cat in hell’s chance.

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On The Job Training - Thursday

Trainee F comes to my open office door seeming troubled. I feel the same way. I just try and avoid the gormless look.

‘How can I help?’ I ask, automatically framing an open question after years of schooling.

F frowns and I see he’s clutching a buff sales file. I click off the internet site I’m allowed to browse by the internal filters and beckon him in.

I’ve given F his own sale to monitor. Often the hardest part of a deal reaching fruition comes after the first flush of enthusiasm between buyer and seller, when the solicitors, surveyors and lenders get involved. Add in the dreaded chain of third parties you have no control over and it’s little wonder one in three sales are destined to fail.

‘I’m not really sure what’s going on.’ Falters F, in a candid admission of his career progress so far, but it’s the sale progress he’s referring to. The skilled agent will nurse your sale obsessively, checking the chain, chivvying professionals and amateurs alike, negotiating and re-negotiating problems until a successful exchange of contracts. In this case I’ve entrusted F to a fairly straightforward transaction. After all it’s not always the chief pilot at the controls and everyone has to learn. I just can’t afford too many bumpy landings.

‘There’s some sort of hold up in the chain.’ Stutters F uncertainly. I take the file, trying hard not to snatch it and scan his spindly longhand notes. It might as well be a doctor’s prescription. I ask for more detail.

‘Something about a septic tank and a….’ F stumbles. ‘An easement, maybe?’

I beckon him to sit down. This might take a while.

‘So,’ says F after a brief history of rights of way and private drainage systems. ‘What you’re saying is they don’t have like proper sewerage and stuff.’

‘Not mains service.’ I tell him warily. ‘It’s not uncommon in older more rural properties.’

‘Like one of those listing buildings?’ Suggests F brightening.

My quip about structural problems is wasted on the dolt. Sometimes I genuinely fear for his future children. Amazingly, judging by the parade of dippy girlfriends, he seems to have no problem getting laid. And he excels at screwing up...

‘So it must be like really ancient, this house.’ Continues F, oblivious to my body language.

‘Not necessarily.’ I reply, sensing another asinine aphorism.

‘Probably built before the war, I’m guessing.’ Ventures F, with a silly grin.

I now desperately want to ask which war the idiot is referring to? If he mentions either Gulf conflict, I’ll fire off my own Exocet. He already thinks I fought in the Falklands campaign after a joke about old comrades in an overflying Chinook spiralled out of control. The truth is I was in my first selling job when the naval flotilla set sail for the South Atlantic. It’s been a battle ever since.

‘I suggest you speak to the solicitor involved, or their secretary.’ I tell F, referring to the chain diagram on the inside cover of the file. One carrying surprisingly good detail if you could read F’s handwriting. His face falls.

‘I don’t really like speaking to lawyers.’ He says as I think you and me both pal. They’re a supercilious, condescending bunch of tossers at the best of times. But I’ll still have lunch with them if there’s a good probate department.

‘They treat you like you’re an idiot if you ring up and ask what’s happening.’ Continues F gloomily. Some open goals are just too easy, so I move on.

‘Be sure of your facts, ask politely for an update and tell them if they can’t help, you’ll report that back to their clients.’ I advise.  F grimaces, as I add. ‘Just don’t ring on a Friday afternoon when they’re trying to get completions through.’

‘How come it’s all so complicated and people say we don’t do anything for the money?’ Queries F as he gathers up the file reluctantly. It’s his most salient question so far.

‘We’re like swans.’ I tell him, immediately regretting the analogy.

His guesses involving long necks and hissy fits left me floundering and far from serene.

Guess I’ll just have to keep paddling.