Friday On My Mind - Friday

‘For crying out loud does she think I was born yesterday?’ I snarl at the phone, as the handset rocks in its cradle again.

‘Problem boss?’ Asks trainee F perceptively.

‘F***ing solicitors.’ I tell him, with a resigned look towards the office swear box. F looks at me studiously.

‘Not literally.’ I say, realising F has taken a statement at face value again. Although we do have to kiss lawyers’ arses quite regularly, I’ve never gone the whole way.

The legal fraternity and estate agency have a love hate relationship, we have to pretend we love them - they hate us. The two professions grudgingly recognise an unwelcome mutual dependency but agents generally think lawyers are too tardy and not pro-active enough when it comes to conveyancing. Whereas lawyers see our commission invoices and in common with the rest of the public, think we charge too much.

‘They don’t like being rung on a Friday.’ Says negotiator S soothingly. She’s right, and as she does the majority of the office sales progressing, has a fairly good relationship with most of the legal practices in town. It’s the out of town outfits, who will probably never deal with you again, that tend to duck your phone calls chasing progress reports, or try to fob you off with some neutral comment like, “it’s all going well.”

‘Partner is in court?’ Asks S, eyebrows arched attractively.

‘With a client?’ Contributes assistant manager T with a grin.

‘Only works part time?’ Offers F, joining in the guessing game as to why I’ve nearly broken another phone.

‘Put the request in writing?’ Says fat mortgage man M waddling across the office unpleasantly.

I crack an unlikely smile. ‘Something like that.’ I concede. ‘Just, I knew the secretary was lying.’

Now, when I entertain a solicitor - an increasingly rare event since my bean counter boss started forensically scrutinising every expense claim - the legal-luncher is often at pains to point out they don’t like being bothered on a Friday. It’s the day most sales tend to complete (the moving day) and often - a few weeks before - when contracts are finally exchanged.

I accept that plea from the more pro-active practitioners. The firms who ring you back, willingly give progress reports to you, and by proxy their client. The type of organisation that move 

as swiftly as the antiquated English and Welsh conveyancing process allows - the Scottish are a whole different ball game. But as often as not, ducking my phone call is a result of not having touched the file in days, sometimes weeks, and the reluctant recipient hiding behind a “delayed local search” or protracted “mortgage offer”smokescreen

‘I think we should always deal with the solicitors we know.’ Says S emphatically. ‘They get our recommendations and give us reciprocal business.’ Once again she’s right, but the big corporate estate agency chains want group agreements with soulless outfits that run call centres and centralised conveyancing pens. In my experience the service is poor and the fee kickback goes to a central fund rather than the local office. But then my boss thinks I’m a luddite, or he would if he knew what one was…

‘Bean counter’s secretary on line three.’ Says S late afternoon. ‘He wants to know why our weekly stats are not in yet.’

Because I’m still chasing two much-needed exchanges and the sodding solicitors won’t return my calls, I think angrily.

‘Can you say I’m with someone?’ I asks S limply, realising even as I say it I’m parroting the fob-off I’ve been given several times today by my legal friends.

‘Don’t think she’ll believe me.’ Says S hesitantly. 

Of course not, but it’s hard to prove as long as S has punched the hold button securely and not just put her hand over the mouthpiece as that idiot F keeps doing.

‘Say I’ll call her back.’ I offer. The irony not lost on me.

‘We had a blinder of a week.’ Crows the ringleader of our opposition, as the two groups jostle at the bar. It’s a Friday night ritual - come good week or bad.

‘Smashed it.’ I reply loudly.

Cracked the phone handset actually, but it’s a brief exchange…

-------

I know, Robert hasn't worn well. In the meantime - or in between days - just time to nominate this Blog for UKBA15 Awards. Self-nomination is so tacky and not really worthy of an estate agent...

Link Below

http://www.blogawardsuk.co.uk/enter-ukba15-here/

Accompanied Viewing - Thursday

‘You’re never going to believe the latest.’ Says Assistant manager T as I return to the office.

The choices are endless, so in the end I drop my briefcase, sit at the spare desk and spread my arms.

‘This is classic.’ Begins T as the office falls silent and I notice everyone has stopped to listen, even bloated mortgage man M has waddled out to hear the story. This must be good.

T grins in anticipation and I can see he’s relishing an audience. At the end of the day all good estate agents are just frustrated thespians - with an income that fluctuates just as wildly. T begins by naming the local estate agent with the poorest reputation out of a bad bunch, quite an achievement with the sort of publicity the profession garners.

‘No hang on, let me get to the best bit.’ Presses T as the pantomime boos echo around the office.

‘He’s behind you!’ Shouts M to his own booming guffaw. Everyone looks disdainfully at the fat figure-fiddler as negotiator S says flatly. ‘He’s not.’ And given how the tail unfolds you wouldn’t want him to be.

T embellishes the story in a manner that makes me rather proud I’ve trained him. The intakes of breath and the hands clasped to mouths show he can carry an audience, it’s just a shame he’s not so good at maintaining his average fee and getting a board up. He finishes with a flourish and the office falls silent again

‘That can’t be true.’ Ventures S hesitantly.

‘True as I’m standing here.’ Counters T with a grin.

‘In their flat?’ Asks trainee F incredulously.

‘In their double bed.’ Answers T with a prurient chuckle.

‘Doesn’t surprise me.’ Says loose lettings lush B with a shrug. No it wouldn’t I think, not if the rumours are true.

‘Let me get this straight…’ Begins S.

‘That’s what he said.’ Interjects T to riotous laughter. I hold a hand up to restore some decorum. There’s a couple looking in the window and seeing a group of estate agents all rocking with laughter isn’t going to restore their confidence in the profession - particularly if they think we’re chortling about the asking prices they’re perusing.

‘So he shagged the office secretary in a client's apartment?’ Questions S, shaking her head in disgust.

‘While they were away on holiday.’

‘My God that shouldn’t happen.’ Sates S grimacing.

‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’ Says B scornfully. So the rumours are true, I think grimly, But she’s right. Clearly - and thankfully as it happens - none of my team have read my book. They’re in good company…

‘That sort of story has been a regular over my years in the business.’ I tell S. ‘It’s just the owners don’t usually have motion sensor cameras set up.’

‘Imagine how they felt when they say that on the hard drive.’ Says T with a laugh.

‘Don’t even go there.’ I caution F swiftly, as he lifts a hand to say something inappropriate.

‘They were sacked of course.’ States S rhetorically. ‘For gross misconduct and inappropriate behaviour?’

‘More for being caught, I think.’ Replies T.

‘What the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t grieve over.’ Offers M.

‘True,’ concedes T. ‘But you can’t ignore the evidence.’

‘The video footage?’ Says F.

‘That and the sheets.’ Answers T, to a communal groan of distaste.

‘It’s no wonder the public hate us.’ Muses S as the phone rings and the office tempo picks up.

‘We’re not all the same.’ I tell her in a dignified response. Yep, thank God she hasn’t downloaded the book. Some things need to stay secret - or at least anonymous.

‘They should be banned and never allowed to be estate agents again.’ Continues S censoriously as another unlikely fantasy withers and shrinks.

‘That’s not going to happen.’ I reply, killing two birds with one stone. ‘He’ll be back flogging homes and cutting corners within the month.’

‘He shouldn’t be.’ Says S pouting distractingly.

She’s right, but all the time there’s still no licensing for estate agents in the UK and no minimum standard of entry - well, people are going to get shafted.

--------

No Waiting Zone - Monday

‘Thank God you’re back.’ says negotiator S as I return to the office. She knows how to make a man feel welcome - at least I imagine she does.

‘What is it?’ I question warily, knowing without needing the harsh reality of the shaving mirror, that she doesn’t want me for anything more physical than a human shield.

‘I’ve had the buyers of number eleven on the phone three times already this morning wanting to know when they can collect their keys.’

I glance up at the office clock, not good. Late morning, lunchtime lurking and if their solicitor hasn’t wired funds to the sellers by now there’s a real danger of the virtual black hole between 12.00 noon and about 2.30pm . Experience tells me the chances of the lawyers in the chain aligning, in office, at the same time to send completion funds along the digital highway, are slim to zero. Someone is always out to lunch.

‘Have you asked them to chase their solicitor?’ I ask S to the sort of derisory look I might imagine receiving if I did actually offer her more tactile assistance.

‘They’ve tried but she was…’

‘Out of the office?’ I say swiftly.

‘No.’

‘In court?’

‘No.’

‘With clients?’

‘No.’ Says S sharply. ‘At a school meeting for her daughter.’

Someone needs a word with the legal lady’s secretary. You can give out too much information.

‘Do you think having children affects you’re career prospects?’ Asks S pointedly.

Jesus, I can’t be giving an opinion on that, I think warily. I may have been around a long time but even I’ve learnt what is way off limits in today’s workplace. I’d be in less trouble if I did actually encroach into S’s personal space - probably…

Politically correct fudge given, I return to the matter in hand.

‘Have you tried the vendor’s solicitor?’ I ask. ‘See if they are ready to go.’

‘Of course.’ Replies S tartly. I sometimes forget she’s one of the good estate agents. It’s one of the reasons she’s on display in the window.

‘The buyers are getting really stressed.’ Continues S.

‘I’m not surprised.’ I reply. ‘Hire a cheap solicitor and you get what you deserve. Next you’ll be telling me they’re doing the removals themselves.’

S looks at me and grimaces. ‘They are on their way to the office in the rent-a-van. Had it loaded by 9.30pm.’

You can’t tell people.

‘Why can’t you just give us our keys?’ Demands the weary-looking man, one hand clutched to the small of his back, wife slumped in a chair while their two pre-school toddlers run amok. Because they’re not your keys yet, I think grimly, glancing at the clock and seeing it’s still not 2.00pm. The last phone call to their solicitors office got the answer phone - a piece of kit that should have gone the way of William Caxton’s first printing press, by now.

’It’s more than my job’s worth.’ I tell the agitated man as his wife looks daggers at me and her offspring try to prise apart the office window display. £7,000 for a few low-voltage bulbs some acrylic panels and a reel of piano wire. I’m in the wrong business.

‘I know they’re just out the back there.’ Says the wife acidly. ‘Surely you can let us start to unpack. What could possibly go wrong?’

Lady, I could write a book. In fact I have, but that’s another story.

‘Well don’t expect us to give you any more business when we move.’ States the husband, wincing as he moves.

Probably not the best time to point out they haven’t paid us a penny. The vendor picks up my tab and this couple and their ill-mannered kids aren’t picking up my clients keys until they’ve paid for them.

‘Anyone’s hired van bumped up on the pavement across the road?’ Enquires assistant manager T as he returns from a viewing. It’s nearly 2.45pm.

‘It’s mine why?’ Demands the fractious not quite buyer,

’Traffic warden is eyeing it up.’ Replies T nonchalantly.

‘Oh for f***s sake .’ Snaps the man viciously. ‘Can it get any worse?’

His pre-school offspring parroting his expletive apparently. 

--------

Inflate After Leaving Aircraft - Friday

‘How about these two?’ I suggest to my wife, holding up a couple of summer casual shirts that I maybe shouldn’t have bought last season. Her look alone confirms I won’t be shopping alone for clothes again in a hurry.

‘I’ll find something and get them ironed.’ She says, as I look at the two dodgy purchases as if for the first time and remember how the female shop assistant duped me into buying the garish-patterned tat a Hawaiian would be embarrassed to wear. She must have been on commission.

‘Don’t be late tonight.’ Cautions my wife as she studies her third or fourth list religiously and a pile of clothing, enough for a month’s expedition somewhere exotic, sits behind her while the iron ticks up to temperature. She can’t be serious. Last day before holiday is a nightmare every year. If you didn’t need a break beforehand, nine hours of trying to ensure everything in the office will run smoothly without you is enough to send you gibbering towards airport security looking deeply suspicious. And that’s before they check your occupation in the passport….

‘So that’s the list of things to take care off.’ I tell the team at my last morning meeting before leaving. T the assistant manager takes the printout, one I’ve also emailed to everyone’s inbox as a belt and braces exercise. Sales and surveys to chase, vendors to keep sweet, viewing and valuation targets to meet. The list isn’t exhaustive, but I’m pretty knackered already.

‘Just relax and have a great time.’ Says negotiator S sweetly. My wife said something similar last night, but I was too stressed to start the holiday early. It never helps that one of the countless television stations satellite services afford, is invariably running a scare programme the week before you go anywhere, called something like: Terror in The Skies, Air Crash Investigation or Three minutes and 35,000 Feet To Live…

‘I just find the nearest airport bar and down a couple of Gin and tonics when I travel,’ informs lettings lush B unhelpfully. I’m supposed to be driving the hire car at the other end, so that is not a great option. B’s other vacation-time recreational activity is – allegedly - shagging every Spanish waiter she can find. Not sure my wife would approve of that either, no matter how many tips it might save us.

‘Off somewhere nice?’ Asks the dusky lady in Boots the chemist, as I go to the counter. I’m clutching copious medicinal supplies, together with several gallons of sun tan lotion, after beach treatment and enough insect repellent to fend off more MPs than can usually be found in The Commons at question time.

I tell her the destination as I pile my purchases on the counter. She’s pretty, but too young for me. I’m still relieved I decided to pass on the intriguing battery-powered ring-shaped device placed alongside the prophylactics, one that apparently gives vibrating pleasure to both partners, but might cause a stir at the X-ray desk. I’m not going through that rubber-gloves indignity again. Anyway with my back I can hardly lift the cases, let alone touch my toes.

‘He’s not back until after the weekend.’ Says the solicitor’s secretary I ring with the clock ticking and my list growing, not diminishing. This is the third conveyancing clown I’ve rung in as many minutes. One was ‘in court.’ A lie. The other was, ‘with clients,’ equally improbable. All three won’t be getting any lawyer-free buyers introduced to them for a while. I’ve a memory like an elephant where snubs are concerned.

‘Bean counter, on line three.’ Announces trainee F, late in the day. I’ve told him not to announce my boss like that. Granted it’s my nickname for the little figure-fiddler but F is more likely to forget to put him on hold.

‘Everything under control?’ Begins the bean counter in a lethally loaded question. If they can cope without me it’s not the best signal to send. On the other hand, if I’ve not left the office on an even keel he’ll be even more pedantic approving future holiday dates. I take a chance.

What could possibly go wrong?

-----

Back in two weeks, might Blog/Tweet from the pool if I get a signal and get bored. In the meantime happy property times to all and if you need a fix, download the exclusive content ebook on Amazon. All formats supported. Links below.

http://amzn.to/ttGZ4j

US Readers: http://amzn.to/vXpFJf