Right To Rent - Thursday

‘She’s prickly today.’ I whisper to S, my negotiator, as I see B the loose lettings lush arguing with a young couple, at her desk. The pair are giving as good as they get, albeit in a sort of guttural slang English, peppered with language richer than they appear to be.

‘She’s been moody all day.’ Confides S, nodding towards B, as the heavily tattooed and heavily pregnant female she’s arguing with - an earlier production model in a pushchair alongside - starts to spout a line about unfair treatment. I grind my teeth. You don’t need accusations of that kind, no matter how false. The paperwork wipes out rain forests…

‘They can’t, like discriminate us, ‘coz we’s on the social.’ Spits the woman, as her neanderthal partner grunts in agreement. He has multiple piercings and a big ring through his nose that I’m thinking might come in handy if I need to lead him, forcibly, from the office. His tattoos are less inky than his girlfriend’s, but do extend up his neck in a fetching manner, that he might think fashionable, but pretty much precludes him from working in any public-facing position.

‘What a pair of retards.’ Offers fat mortgage man M, in a wheezy stage whisper as he waddles past us, en-route to the kitchen.

‘You can’t say that.’ Replies S, bristling, turning to me and adding. ‘Can he?’

Best not to tell her what I was thinking - pretty much a mantra to stick to all the time with S, as it happens.

‘They do seem a little agitated.’ I say to S soothingly. B is now spouting some line about her landlords not wanting tenants who don’t have their own income and employment, to cover the rent. It’s not an unreasonable request, and one I’d want to make if I could ever afford a second property as an alternative to my pitiful pension.

‘It’s f***ing guaranteed.’ Shouts the female, swooping to pick up the soiled dummy her child has spat on the floor. The chubby girl is too old to be sucking on the comforter but as her mother - and possibly her father - are still locked on to the State’s virtual tit, it seems ironically appropriate. 

Actually, when the state paid rent direct to landlords it was a fairly safe vehicle for buy-to-let landlords, but once the benefits were diverted to the tenants first, the problems started. The off-licence and the drug dealer, sometimes got the cash before the landlord. It’s a cliche, but most cliches are rooted in unfortunate fact.

‘You shouldn’t pre-judge people.’ Says S softly, as the argument continues across the office. My money is on B, if the two feisty bitches start to fight. I reckon I can take the pig-nosed bloke if it kicks off, he’s wearing enough ironmongery for me to get painful purchase.

‘We try not to.’ I reply in a conciliatory fashion. And I don’t; I’ve sold enough homes to scruffy-looking individuals who turned out to be loaded, just with poor fashion sense, to know that. But the endless stream of deadbeats, who seem to know more about their rights than contraception, are starting to test, even my loosely liberal, ideals.

‘They just need somewhere to live.’ Continues S. ‘It’s not their fault housing costs in this country are a joke.’ I nod in agreement. She is right, and successive UK Housing ministers who last about as longs as an epileptic virgin on his wedding night, haven’t helped the problem. But this angry couple must have spent six month’s worth of rent on their absurd inkings, they don’t come cheap. And the over-sized baby in the pricey pushchair has managed designer boots and pierced ears, before she has jettisoned the dummy and been potty-trained.

‘I tell you what, I’ll swing for some of these people one day.’ Growls B, after the punchy pair have left, and the office door still rattles in its frame

‘Couldn’t you have found them somewhere?’ Asks S.

‘Would you want scum like that in your flat?’ Snaps back B.

‘I haven’t got one.’ Says S, haughtily.

‘Hypothetically.’ 

Probably not.

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Alphabet Soup - Wednesday

‘More f***ing regulations to discourage my landlords.’ Exclaims loose lettings lush B vehemently. 

‘What this time?’ Asks assistant manager T, wth barely disguised boredom.

You should know, I think spikily, but I pause just in case…

‘They are ruling tenants can insist property is brought to a higher energy rating if it’s an F or G band.’ Answers B moodily.

‘What’s that again?’ Enquires trainee F, as I shake my head in disbelief. I’ve explained the European regulation - that insists all homes have an Energy Performance Certificate issued, telling prospective buyers or tenants how energy efficient their new home is likely to be - more than once.

‘It’s a load of bollocks. No one cares.’ Says T.

‘Exactly.’ Agrees B. ‘As if they haven’t tried to discourage landlords enough by levying extra stamp duty levy when they buy multiple homes.’

‘It’s meant to stop first time buyers becoming locked out of the market.’ Says negotiator S sharply.

I don’t need an ideological argument in the office again, particularly as my loyalties are torn and I swing more wildly than a weather vane in a hurricane. The latest piece of Government meddling in the property market is probably meant to help, but invariably the law of unintended consequences comes, with ill-thought through legislation.

‘What about my landlords?’ Argues B. ‘Half of them are only in the buy-to-let market because some leftie chancellor stole their pension pot, then pissed off to work as a consultant in the city.’

’Not that one.’ I correct her.

‘You know what I mean.’ Counters B, with a snarl. I do actually.

‘When was the last time anyone actually gave a toss about a home’s energy rating?’ Asks T, in my direction. Well of course they don’t. People buy homes with their heart, not their head - fortunately. It means an experienced campaigner can push physiological buttons no drone in an on-line call-centre outfit, ever could.

‘That lady last weekend was interested in energy efficiency.’ Says S, a little weakly.

‘She was a weirdo and a complete time-waster.’ Counters T.

‘Tree-huggers can’t afford homes anyway, so I don’t see why you are bothering.’ Contributes fat mortgage man M, not exactly helpfully.

‘You’re a big arse.’ Responds S.

Not grammatically correct, but as is often the case, I’m with her.

‘The point,’ continues T. ‘Is it’s just a load more paperwork that nobody needs. If you fall in love with a thatched cob cottage you don’t give a flying fig if it has a G energy rating. You just want beams and an Inglenook.’

‘But the certificate will tell you how inefficient the insulation is.’ Says S, a little unconvincingly.

‘They don’t give a shit.’ Snaps T. ‘They just whack the wood burner up and incinerate a few more trees.’

‘What do you think?’ Asks S, in my direction. Terrific. Now I’m going to upset someone, whatever I say. Fortunately I spot a timely intervention, coming across the road towards the office.

‘You should ask this man.’ I say pointing towards the dull-as-ditchwater Energy Performance Certificate issuer, coming our way.

‘Oh not that twat.’ Says T dismissively. ‘I’ve had more interesting conversations with my mother’s goldfish.’

T has a point. The man could bore for England. But then that’s what you get when head office, and the bean counter boss in particular, eschew good local practitioners for corporate agreements with the lowest cost provider willing to give a secret profit kickback, on their fee. Strictly speaking it’s illegal under the Estate Agents’ Act 1979 - unless declared to the client - but then the bean counter isn’t an estate agent. And anyone can be one. No study or qualifications required. I still wonder why I bothered….

‘I’ll email my report to you within twenty-four hours.’ Says the EPC man flatly, as he leaves the office with a set of keys for an empty home we have just listed. He needs to keep to the rigid service standards agreed corporately. But the truth is, nobody cares.

I’d tell the boss, but he likes to remain insulated from the truth.

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An Ill Wind - Monday

‘You’ve been around for, like, ever haven’t you?’ States trainee F rhetorically.

It’s not the best opening gambit I’ve heard, but as it’s pissing with rain and I don’t fancy a leaflet drop, I decide to humour him.

‘And?’ I reply, thinking fleetingly he might want to quiz me on interest rate prospects, the way the housing market is going to run this year, or even the best bet for the 3.30pm horse race at Doncaster.

‘Well, how long is this weather going to last?’

F never fails to disappoint. A plethora of pithy replies run through my head, most with the sort of expletives attached we’re no longer supposed to use in a mixed sex, mixed race, mixed-up work environment. In the end S, my big-hearted negotiator, comes to the rescue.

‘How is he supposed to know?’ She tells F primly. ‘Anyway he’s not that old.’

You’ve got to love her. Only it’s best to do so solo, if you know what I mean…..

‘I didn’t mean that.’ Blusters F. ‘I just thought you might know if it’s going to continue. And whether it’s that global warming business.’

‘The jury is still out on that one.’ I tell F to his obvious confusion. Before he asks about a court case I’m not even aware of – unless the summons is in the post – I tell him nobody can say for certain if the storms, rain, floods and winds are a recognisable pattern, a biblical punishment, or just a plague on those with houses built near water.

‘Yeh, you wouldn’t want to be living in Riverside Walk or The Meadows development.’ Speculates assistant manager T joining the discussion as the skies darken again and a deep bass roll of thunder shakes the ceiling lights, unless fat finance man M is in the gents’ toilets again.

‘And guess what will happen if they get planning permission to sling up those units at the end of Lakeview Drive.’ Says B from her lettings desk. ‘I wouldn’t want to put tenants in there when some naïve buy-to-let virgin gets one because their pension is screwed.’

‘Complete washout.’ Suggests T with a chuckle.

The point is a moot one. Nobody disputes we need more housing and if the majority of my staff, and my two sons, want to own their own home it needs to be built where there are jobs and at an affordable cost. And I’d be happy to have more housing stock to flog on my patch, even though inevitably several new estate agent operations would blossom like mushrooms overnight, most of them probably toxic. The problem is, nearly every conurbation in this overcrowded island evolved around a port or a river and the land the NIMBY (not in my back yard) objectors don’t want built on, is often low-lying and hasn’t been used because nature set it aside as flood plain.

‘Some of those house with the sandbags against the doors will be uninsurable next time the premiums are due.’ States M gruffly. He’s appeared from nowhere to join the conversation and now I’m wondering if the earlier acoustics were actually his.

‘I wouldn’t buy near a river now.’ Says T emphatically. He wouldn’t be able to buy at all, not with his credit rating and a salary predicated mostly on commission. The self-certificated, liars’ loan, are hard to get nowadays – unless you know the right people and can falsify letterheads…

‘I’m sorry to hear that madam.’ Says S, as she takes a phone call and a mouthful of abuse. ‘But it’s really not my fault.’

I’m listening intently now, despite the door rattling in the wind.

‘No we can’t be held responsible for that.’ Continues S gamely, as outside I’m distracted by another umbrella inverting on a struggling pedestrian.

‘Double figures today.’ Chuckles T, nodding towards the distressed woman trying to re-assemble the brolly without poking her own eye out.

I turn my attention back to S, warning bells chiming.

The manager’s name?’ Repeats S, as I resist the temptation to do that throat–cutting motion.

‘Sorry;’ whispers S, hand over the mouthpiece. ‘One of our for sale boards has blown into her car and she insists it’s our responsibility.’

Of course it is.

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All Too Typical - Monday

‘I’d rather you go in first.’ Says lettings lush B as she pauses on the doorstep of the flat with the dodgy tenants. She’s given the requisite notice to inspect but as they haven’t paid rent for three months and the chavvy woman in the flat opposite - who is still watching us - has told us they are long gone, I’m not expecting a welcome.

‘Cautiously, I move forward, heart pumping audibly in my chest. I’ve had a few punches thrown at me, and several pieces of office furniture, but usually there’s a bailiff when we’re taking possession of properties. Obviously it looks better for the company if male members of staff get assaulted, and they only pay for rape alarms for the women, but I feel pretty vulnerable.

‘God knows what you’ll find in there.’ Says the fat neighbour with a hint of glee. Her mewling baby is demanding a feed and the dead-eyed toddler is tugging at her tracksuit bottoms for attention, but she’s too busy watching the show to take any notice. No sign of either of the Dads.

‘Ugh, what’s that smell? Asks B throatily. A stench of something decaying has almost physically assaulted us as I swing the door open to reveal a dank hallway full with black plastic bin bags. A big bluebottle zigzags towards the light and not for the first time I wish I’d paid more attention at school.

‘They’re dirtbags.’ Suggests the neighbour disdainfully and for a horrible moment I think she’s referring to the plastic liners slumped ahead of me. It wouldn’t be the first time my day turned into a bag of shite. But I realise she’s referring to the late, none to lamented, tenants.

‘I’ve had to call the police, the social and environmental half a dozen time.’ Moans the woman as I think uncharitably, they’ve probably got your number too love. ‘You lot shouldn’t let scum like that rent in here.’ Continues supermum as the toddler starts to whine about missing a Peppa Pig episode. There’s a sty here you can wallow in kid.

‘Who’s going to clear up all the mess?’ Persists the woman as the baby paws at her ample breasts and my stomach churns unpleasantly. I’m just waiting for her to ask about compensation but B shoves me inside the hall and pulls the door shut. ‘Fat slapper.’ She spits ungraciously. B’s never been called fat as far as I’m aware but a pot, kettle, black line runs through my head until I see the kitchen and much darker cooking utensils.

‘Oh terrific.’ Moans B surveying the detritus. The hob has several months’ worth of spillages baked onto the enamel and the work-surfaces are covered in unwashed crockery and saucepans. By one of the gas rings I can see the remains of home made baking of some description. I’m no expert, but a tarnished spoon, some tin foil and half a dozen spent matches doesn’t look like they’ve been cooking cupcakes.

  

‘Junkies. I knew it.’ Says B gloomily. ‘Who the hell are we going to get to clear this mess up? The Polish guys have gone home and nobody local will touch this place for sensible money.’ She has a point. The flat needs stripping, disinfecting and redecorating before any new tenants can be shown round. I have a feeling group legal will be getting involved.

‘This is what you get if you give low-life’s free accommodation and drug money.’ Rails B in a Daily Mail moment.’ God, she’s got it worse than me. From bitter experience I look to the fridge. Yep. It’s been unplugged.

‘Watch where you tread, there might be needles again’ I advise B, as I decide not to open the grubby Electrolux door. The maggots will wait. I’m just here to make sure B isn’t assaulted, other than her nostrils.

‘God.’ Groans B looking into the bathroom in disgust. ‘The water must be off. The toilet bowl looks like that rainy festival when I had to have a dump in the chemical loo. There were things in there nobody should be excreting.

‘I f***ing hate humanity.’ Says B - ahead of me for the first time.

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Stereotypical - Friday

‘F***ing tenants!’ Exclaims lettings lush B with venom, bashing the phone down with maximum velocity. Momentarily I think it’s a summary of her week, as she’s rumoured to have screwed a few - and not just on their security deposits - but I catch the look in her eyes. Tears aren’t far away.

I should reprimand her over the expletive still bouncing round the office, but as nobody has come in for the last thirty minutes and as she’s about to start sobbing I decide against it. Who said estate agents have no empathy?

‘What is it?’ I ask, despite the inner voice telling me to not get involved in more emotional turmoil. When I made branch manager nobody told me I’d have to be psychiatrist, social worker and salesman all rolled in to one.

‘These people I deal with are the scum of the earth.’ Spits B, swallowing hard. Another scurrilous inter-office story enters my head unhelpfully and I have to gulp down myself. Laughing when you should be empathising is never a good thing and B has a viciously sharp letter-opening knife in her top drawer.

‘Naff tenants again?’ I ask needlessly and she sobs an affirmative and says.

‘They don’t deserve to live anywhere. Scumbags.’

‘What is it this time?’ Asks negotiator S from over my shoulder. Id’ much rather be comforting her but she seems to stay on a more even keel, which given the size of her tits is quite an achievement.

‘Trashed the flat, in arrears, Environmental Health have been called and the landlord thinks it’s my fault.’ Answers B emotionally. We always get the blame. I think glumly, whether it’s prices climbing, price falling or rats infesting. B doesn’t discriminate; she hates all tenants equally and thinks they should sleep in the gutter. But with two sons growing up fast and needing their own accommodation, I’m painfully aware the next generation need to live somewhere.

‘Now he expects me to go there and do a report on the mess.’ Sniffs B. ‘I did all the references properly, it’s not my fault they turned out to be junkies and hookers.’ She continues angrily. Don’t get too involved, urges the inner voice as B pulls a box of Man Size tissues from her drawer and I see the letter knife glinting menacingly.

‘I’m not going there on my own.’ B announces in between two snotty trumpets into the one tissue. ‘I don’t feel safe.’ She adds knowingly. That’s me done, I think sourly. The company standing orders allow the female staff to play the personal safety card at will. Sadly there are too many nutters out there wanting to do damage to pretty property professionals and our rules mean you need to be a bit of a prick to take the hits. That’ll be me then.

‘Is this it?’ I ask warily, as B and I stand on an ill-lit landing in a cheaply converted Victorian property, now housing several one-bed flats. The grubby prams and battered bicycles in the downstairs hall told a tale about the economic group most of the occupants inhabit and the smell attaching itself to my suit jacket confirms it. Another dry-cleaning bill coming my way and even before B has turned the key in the lock, I’m starting to itch.

‘You’re wasting your time there.’ Calls a female voice from behind us. I turn to see a fat woman in the next flat’s doorway dressed in baggy sports leisure wear. She’s clutching a dribbling baby on her well-padded hip and a toddler is peering round her bulky thighs, while sucking on a Chupa Chups style lolly. God, I despair of humanity.

‘Not around any longer?’ I ask neutrally, as the B opens the door and the smell intensifies tenfold.

‘Pissed off two weeks ago and good riddance.’ Snarls the young mum, who seems a little too articulate for the Jeremy Kyle show slot I placed her in moments earlier. ‘It was me what called the council.’ Adds the well-fed woman. ‘I can’t be doing with whores and smackheads with me kids on the same landing. I’ve got standards.

You and me both lady - I’ve just compromised mine.

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