Alive Still Kicking - Friday

‘Don’t get old will you.’ States the grey-haired man rhetorically as I sigh internally. If I’ve heard that statement once, from an elderly owner, I’ve heard it a thousand times. But you have to humour potential vendors if you want their business - particularly if you’d like to sign-up a sole agency before the complications of probate and bickering beneficiaries. 

‘I just don’t know where the time has gone.’ Ruminates the old fella, as I glance at the overgrown garden and think; well you didn't spend it cutting the shrubbery back.

‘I sometimes forget how ancient I’ve become.’ Continues the man, eyes focused in the middle-distance. Yes, yes. Here we go.

‘And then I look in the mirror and hardly recognise the old fool looking back at me,’

That I can relate to, granddad. 

Ageing and the housing needs of the baby boomers who are suddenly becoming unsteady on their feet, is a massive demographic ticking-time bomb. I don’t think over-priced, shrunken-square footage, sheltered homes are the answer. Particularly with onerous leases, unfair clauses for re-sales and spiralling service charges just when the owners are running out of funds. 

‘The family keep telling me I can’t cope with this place.’ Continues the man waving his hand towards the overgrown garden. ‘But I've had the best times of my life here. I don’t want to go and live in a box that smells of cabbage, where old women play whist all afternoon with daytime television on at volumes even I can hear.’

I’m warming to this sparky pensioner, something I try to avoid. Liking your client is dangerous. Particularly if you are tempted to tell them to stay put and get a home help in three times a week - until you fall over on the nightly piss run, too often. I’ll always do my utmost to get a good result for a vendor, it’s a matter of professional pride, but becoming fond of them is a luxury I can’t afford.

‘I told you Patricia is in one of those ghastly care homes, didn’t I?’ Says the old man. ‘Only I’m becoming forgetful.’

He did and I don’t blame him for trying to forget it. His wife is apparently totally unaware when he visits, being kept alive for no real hope or reason, and it’s costing this poor old man £1500 a week.

‘Two years she’s been in there, young man, God alone knows what its cost me.’

£1444,000. And it’s the reason the family think he needs to downsize. If he’d been profligate and not bought his own house and had savings of less than about £23,000 the local taxpayer would be funding his wife’s care. Its a funny old world.

I pitch a price and my fee and he becomes sharper than before.

‘My son says I can get it done for just an up-front fee with one of those inter-web things.’ He means an on-line agent - or call-centre, as professional agents name them.

I start to counter this argument, with cautionary tales of impersonal, non-local service, dearth of industry knowledge and a lack of motivation to see the deal through, if you’ve been paid irrespective of result.

‘Oh you don’t need to tell me that.’ Says the man decisively. ‘ I’ve been around long enough to know you get what you pay for.’

Care homes, excluded, I think fleetingly.

‘I don’t want some kid in shorts dealing with my property.’

That’s the stuff, sir..

‘I want someone a bit long in the tooth - like yourself.’

Not so flattering….

‘What do you think about those sanitised boxes, with the pull cords and a communal lounge?’ Asks the man as my pen hovers, in his trembly hands, over the sole agency agreement. I hate them with a passion, they rip-off vulnerable old folk and are often worth less than the dead parents paid for them, when the grieving family come to sell.

I feel a bit sick as I leave. I’ve indulged in more fudge and had an unwelcome glimpse into my future.

Still, a sole agency and a For Sale board can’t be bad.

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Fawlty Towers - Tuesday

‘We were hoping for  bit more than that.’ Says the elderly lady, and her crinkly husband nods in agreement. Either that, or he’s fallen asleep.

I’m sat in another dusty, overheated lounge, shelves stuffed with a lifetime’s mementoes. It’s mostly gift shop tat and doubtless will go in a skip when the beneficiaries get to clear out the couple’s last resting place.

‘Well you did say you wanted a realistic valuation, Mrs Glover.’ I counter gently. ‘And the developer will be needing the same.’

‘That’s true dear.’ Mumbles the man. Reassuringly he’s still alive. Probate can really hold up a sale.

‘It’s just….’ Begins the old lady falteringly.

‘Go on.’ I urge.

‘It’s just that the other two agents said much more than you.’

‘They were barely out of short trousers mind.’ Says her husband. ‘Didn’t like the cut of their jib.’

This is a familiar problem. Ever since I entered the industry I’ve been plagued by over-valuers. Agents who mislead potential clients to get their property on their books - often on a long sole agency - then batter the hapless vendors down to a sensible price once competitors, who were honest and accurate with suggested pricing, are locked out.

‘Well, did they show you comparable properties to yours that have actually sold?’ I ask. 

‘Not really.’ Admits the wife.

‘Told you they were charlatans.’ Croaks the old fella. I’m really warming to him. Just hope he lasts the protracted sales’ process.

‘Yes but it’s thirty thousand pounds.’ Continues the wife doggedly.

Not if you’re never going to get it, I want to shout.

‘And the flat we want is ever so pricey, we need every penny we can get.’ Says the old lady, not unnaturally.

‘Thought we were downsizing,’ confides the husband. ‘But we’re going to end up hardly banking anything once we’ve bought the sheltered flat.’

It’s a pet hate of mine. One that grows with every passing year as I move towards the same dilemma this pair are facing. The largely illusionary safety of an old persons’ home, with built-in security and the comfort of a pull-cord to tug when you collapse on the bathroom floor. In reality any shitester can con a resident to buzz them in to the building and the emergency call goes through to a dis-interested call-centre worker somewhere at the cheaper end of the Commonwealth.

‘What do you think we should do?’ Presses the husband. Damn it, and I really like this couple. I could tell them it would be cheaper to stay put, get a gardener and some home help. Avoid paying , way over what I consider sensible for a one bedroom retirement flat. A flat with punitive service charges, an onerous lease full of pitfalls and unfair charges for the beneficiaries when they come to try and sell, and one that will be worth less than their parents paid for it.

I could open a tourist shop with the amount of fudge I’ve dispensed over the years. We agree to market the home at £20,000 more than I’d like, but £10,000 less than the smoke-blowers have suggested. It’s a win, of sorts.

‘Got the developers of the retirement flat, the Glovers are hoping to buy, on line one.’ Says negotiator S, an hour after I’ve returned to the office and before I’ve even uploaded the sales’ particulars. I tense. I don’t like this lot, but then I deal with people I wouldn’t share a drink with, daily. 

‘Cheers. Put them through.’

‘How much could you sell it for, in six weeks?’ Presses the lady sales consultant. 

I offer her a gift-wrapped, metaphorical, 200gms of salted caramel product.

‘We need absolutes.’ She says curtly.

You don’t get those in property, lady.

‘If we take their house in part-exchange we want it sold quickly.’

I bet you do. And you’ll offer them 85% of it’s actual value - my original price not the over-inflated figure - and expect them to pay, what is about 150% of the true price, for your shrunken square-footage box.

Have a feeling I’ll be needing that gardener’s phone number.

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Golden Oldies - Thursday

Negotiator S appears prettily in my peripheral vision and for a moment I think it’s another of those awkward dreams. Finally, I register she’s really there and the screen that had almost hypnotised me is the stark reality of my office profit and loss accounts - not one of those dodgy sites now blocked by the main server…

‘Got lovely old Mr and Mrs Lockwood in the office.’ Begins S with a winning smile. I try to surreptitiously glance round her to see the office sales area, but she’s standing sideways and it’s a big ask without appearing pervy, or dislocating a couple of neck vertebrae.

‘Err, just remind me…’ I say pathetically. I can remember just about every home I’ve ever sold but the names are too much data to keep, with my ageing hard drive.

‘From The Avenue.’ Prompts S. ‘We’ve got a sale arranged on their house but they haven’t found anything to to go to to yet.’ Of course I remember. A sweet old couple who have wracked up some of those more obscure wedding anniversaries between the precious metal milestones. I need them to find somewhere or my potential commission will be stalled forever in the sales pipeline, with no chance of converting to hard cash.

‘Great news.’ I say to S, before hesitating. ‘So…why do they need to see me?’

S sighs and smiles again. God, she’s so hot she should carry an over 18s only, certificate. ‘They like you,’ she continues. ‘They want your advice on the flat they’ve seen.’

Now I want my vendors to like me. I positively crave their affection when I’m pitching for the business against several other estate agents. But, like a serial shagger, once I’ve consummated the deed - and bagged a signed sole agency - I’m keen to move on to pastures and punters new.

I sense a dilemma looming. I’m not a big fan of shared communal space living and with the leasehold laws in the UK as they are I wouldn’t want a flat without a peppercorn ground rent, a share in the freehold and an in-house management company. At the very least.

‘Where have they found?’ I quiz S, frantically thinking of the blocks in my area that don’t have greedy freeholder issues, diminished lease terms and huge holes in their sinking funds. S tells me the name of a well known retirement home builder and I grimace.

‘Really?’ I say rhetorically.

‘Really.’ She answers unnecessarily, adding. ‘They really like it. It’s the security and the companionship.’

And the rip-off prices, I think sourly. Hoping, not for the first time, that if I make it to the Lockwood’s advanced years I won’t be too senile to remember why I hate the shrunken square footage and overpriced warrens the elderly are wont to move to.

‘So what do you think?’ Urges Mr Lockwood in his reedy voice once S has sat them in front of me with two mugs of tea, and I’ve greeted them like long lost friends. I have a sneaking feeling Mr L is not long for this world . Like many ailing partners, he’s probably trying to manoeuvre his wife into a home that will suit her once he’s gone - there’s certainly not enough room for two people for too long.

Well, he’s paying too much. The ground rent goes up regularly at punitive levels. The lease is a paltry 99 years - fine when you are looking at twenty max to live but not so great for re-sales and disappointed beneficiaries -  and the service charges are a licence to print money. And yet, it gives them something they think you can’t always put a price on. Peace of mind.

If it were my parents I’m not sure what I’d advise, but that decision is no longer one to trouble me. The truth is I might change my opinion if I make it as far as the Lockwoods. Through rheumy eyes the world might look a different - scarier - place.

‘They seem pleased.’ Says S after I’ve seen the old couple to the door. ‘What did you tell them?’

‘What I thought they wanted to hear.’

It’s the bottom line.

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Last Stop - Thursday

‘It doesn’t look as bad as you painted it.’ Says trainee F as we pull up outside a 1980s built block of retirement apartments. I’ve brought F along to help measure up, an old habit I can’t shake from the days when you needed someone to hold the end of a tape measure if you didn’t want to keep trying and failing to attach the sharp end to a door handle, or skirting. 

I now have a new generation laser measure, the early adapter versions were about as accurate as hawking down a well and guessing the distance when you heard spittle strike water. F is basically redundant, something I’ve been striving to engineer for some time as it happens. Despite the buffoon being, strictly speaking, surplus to requirements it does help to have two pairs of eyes on a new instruction. If I’m out of the office at least F can tell a prospective buyer what the property is like.

‘That’s the illusion they sell the old folk,’ I tell F as I pull into a parking bay marked Strictly Authorised Visitors Only. ‘They also think they’ll have lower overheads and a staff member on site to look after them if they’re unwell.’ I continue sourly. Personally, I wouldn’t want to die in one of these soulless shrunken square footage caskets but someone just has - so we’re here to try and sell it.

‘When they first started marketing this concept back in the late eighties, they were all the rage.’

‘Wow.’ Responds F. At least he’s taking information on board now, then he adds woundingly.

‘I wasn’t even born then.’

You might die earlier than expected, I think angrily, as we exit the car and I glance up at the bland red brick four-storey elevation and see half a dozen sets of net curtains twitching. The eyes may be old and rheumy but they still need to see if the men in suits are estate agents or undertakers.

‘We’re meeting the manager,’ I tell F as we head for the communal entrance. ‘They used to be called Wardens when they first started the concept and if you ask me it was more accurate.’

‘Why’s that?’ Replies F. Sometimes I feel it’s me who is on a life sentence. It would be quicker to train a chimp.

‘Just keep her sweet.’ I hiss to F as I press the buzzer. ‘They can make or break a sale.’ An officious sounding female voice echoes through the speaker grille and I present my credentials. She doesn’t sound that impressed but the door vibrates and I grab the handle, nothing worse then missing the electronic release and having to buzz again.

‘I have a list of people interested in coming to the block.’ Says the mid-fifties woman condescendingly as we exit the lift and walk along the indentikit corridor, resembling a downmarket budget hotel chain that will remain nameless. Worryingly, when the sheltered retirement flat concept first started fifty-five was the minimum age to qualify for ownership. It’s not that far away for me and it would take at least three more decades and a loss of marbles before I’m ready for an overpriced box - unless it’s supplied by the funeral director, in which case it won’t be my problem.

‘It stinks in here.’ Says F after the manager has left us in the cramped one bedroom unit, with dingy little kitchenette at the rear of the tiny lounge. The room is crammed with large unsuitable oak furniture clearly from a much bigger house and the carpet has some unpleasant looking stains. I don’t like to tell him, so push open the window to a buzz of road traffic.

‘The ground rent is high and the service charges escalate horribly once you are in.’ I tell F as we squeeze into the minuscule bedroom. ‘The developer often owns the management company and use it as a cash cow.’  I regret the phrase immediately.

‘So what’s a cash cow exactly?’ Questions F.

‘Something you milk.’ I tell him as he spots and absently tugs an orange pull cord.

Nice to speak to  Parindra. Don’t think he’s sending an ambulance.

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Learning Curve - Tuesday

‘Our viewing figures are down.’ I tell the morning meeting with all the relish of a soggy burger left too long on the warmer, waiting for someone who actually wants pickle.

‘There’s no point in taking out punters who are just time-wasters.’ Counters assistant manager T, sipping his tea gingerly.

‘It’s a numbers game.’ I hear myself saying, not liking the whiny echo of my bean counter boss’s proclamations. Statistically, it’s true the more viewings you carry out, the closer you are to your next sale. But there needs to be some quality control, otherwise you’ll be ferrying, nutters, habitual lookers and just about every other socially incontinent individual, plus a few genuinely incontinent people, round your whole housing register - with nothing to show for your efforts other than disappointment and damp car seats.

‘I’m not sure people come into agents’ offices like they maybe used to,’ speculates negotiator S, adding hurtfully. ‘Than, perhaps when you started.’

There’s a choked communal giggle round the table, as I try not to take offence. I’m sure in ancient communities the elderly used to be respected for their wisdom and accumulated knowledge. Nowadays they are shunted off to overpriced boxes with orange emergency pull cords, an absent manager and rising service charges.

‘Yeh but you are always banging on about qualifying applicants properly.’ Continues T doggedly. ‘There’s no point shunting round dreamers like Mr and Mrs Brownlee, who’ll never move in a million years.’ There’s a soundless chorus of nodding heads – if such a thing can exist - and I can already feel my enthusiasm waning, that’s before I mention the lack of financial services introductions we’ve made for M, our moribund mortgage advisor. He’s on some continuing professional development course in a budget chain hotel, learning how to circumnavigate the latest mis-selling legislation. Financiers and insurers don’t like paying out if they can avoid it.

T has a point. Mr and Mrs Brownlee have been looking for the perfect property for at least a decade. I go to value their house every eighteen months, but in the unlikely event of ever listing a home they’d consider, I’d have several other better placed buyers before they’d finished haggling over their asking price, my fee and the fact that nobody could come to view unless they took their shoes off and hadn’t eaten peanuts in the last twenty-four hours. Yet, they’ll still be in the office several times a year, asking to see what we have available in roads they can’t afford.

‘Granted we need to manage our resources.’ I acknowledge, as I sip my weak drink and wonder just where central purchasing sources the dusty teabags from? Judging by the quality of the self-seal envelopes and the flimsy A4 paper that keeps jamming in the printer, it’s nowhere near what used to be called Ceylon, in my youth.

‘So it’s a circle you can’t square.’ Announces dozy trainee F bullishly. We all look at him and his confidence drains faster that lettings lush B’s glass most lunchtimes. ‘The fact that you want us to push more viewings but don’t want to waste time with… with…’ F trails off.

‘Idiots?’ suggests T pointedly.

Maybe the Brownlees’ are a dying breed, I ponder? The sort of greying-purchasers that are not internet savvy. Who need to physically visit an outlet for their holiday and property needs, rather than surfing the web and getting their jollies on-line like all the other porn-lovers - property or otherwise. At least Rightmove and Primelocation don’t ask for your credit card details before showing you the pictures and the occasional point-of-view video inspection – although they financially abuse us every month when the invoices roll in.

‘We need to aim for well-qualified applicants AND maximum viewings.’ I tell my team sounding like one of those training women, with the slightly too fat arse for a trouser suit, we employ. The sort with no direct sales experience who flog e-learning click-and-tick computer programmes that supposedly confirm you understand Money Laundering regulations and the difference between Data Protection Laws and Freedom of Information legislation.

I wonder if the Brownlees’ fancy a visit? They do make a nice cuppa.

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