Tardy Tenure - Monday

At the unprepossessing entrance to our Palma Airbnb apartment I fiddle with the keys. As an estate agent of multiple decades’ standing, I pride myself on locating the right slab of sculptured alloy for easy access, with little difficulty. On the third attempt an elderly Spanish lady opens the communal door from the inside and looks at me suspiciously. 

With my wife muttering something inaudible behind, we commence an awkward Mexican stand-off - same language, just with less over-sized hats - until after my flurry of pigeon Spanish completely bemuses the poor old girl and I have to beckon her out with hand signals. She tuts as she passes and I wonder if she has me down for a Brexit voter who has opted to dismantle the European Union and no longer subsidise sunnier climes.

‘You asked her where the toilets were.’ Says my wife disparagingly, as we enter the dingy entrance hall.

‘Did I?’ I respond, uncertainly. I try my best to offer a little of the local language wherever I travel. It’s a courtesy easily applied with a little forward planning and I still bridle at ignorant Englishmen shouting in their native language, whilst  attempting to make themselves understood ordering a meal.

‘Servisios are the lavatories.’ Enlightens my wife, as I wonder if I may have ordered some still water and a beer from the confused old lady, too. My sons have mastered more than one language - and university degrees - and travel the world effortlessly, while I remain resolutely mono-lingual and stuck in a bigger rut than an open cast coal mine. Still, as a parent you wish for so much more for the next generation; it’s evolution at its purest.

‘Not very welcoming is it.’ Remarks my wife as we get to the end of the poorly-lit communal area.

She’s right. In a British block, this space would be full of notices, insurance certificates and dire warnings from the committee not to breach any of the myriad regulations. Could be why we are leaving the European union. Britain is the only country to take any notice of the rules.

‘I wonder if it’s really allowed, holidaymakers coming and going in the block like this?’ Ponders my wife, as the lift wheezes its way to the upper floor and I hope it doesn’t break down. I’ve seen the after effects of elderly people stuck in carriages for hours, and shitting in a shopping bag isn’t an option that appeals. 

My wife has a point. Leasehold in the UK is a second-class tenure and most arcane, wordy documents, setting out the rules and obligations in a block of flats forbid sub-letting, or temporary tenants such as we are. Vast swathes of London are held on diminishing term leases, where in theory the buyers are little more than renters in a shady shared-ownership scheme. The freeholder - some over-privileged landowner with a title, whose ancestors helped the winning monarch shaft scores of dis-enfranchised peasants - gets to charge a premium to extend the lease, or in worst case scenario, takes the property back at the end of the term. At least Dick Turpin had the courtesy to wear a mask.

‘They probably ignore the rules and just rent the flats out anyway.’ I speculate, as I pull open the patio doors and drink in the fabulous view. The sun is glistening on Palma bay, the magnificent Gothic cathedral stands sumptuously to one side and another mega-slab of cruise liner is inching its improbable way in to port.

‘Maybe they aren’t as strict as British leases.’ Suggests my wife, heading for the bathroom. Judging by the electrical sockets alongside the taps, nothing is as regulated. I’d imagine they loose several senoritas a year to hair dryer in tub accidents. Not to mention how many swarthy Spanish chaps are fried, using electric shavers on the bidet.

‘The whole system needs updating.’ I say, when my wife rejoins me and we make a dent in the first bottle of Rioja.

‘The plumbing?’ She asks, wrinkling her nose.

‘No, the property market.’ I tell her. But I’m running out of time to do it.

The second bottle will ease the pain.

--------

Love Me Do - Wednesday

‘I think you are going to like this one.’ I enthuse, as I pause by the front door of a penthouse flat I was delighted to be instructed to sell, only two weeks ago.

The husband looks at me with a half-concealed sneer. He clearly doesn’t like estate agents. He’s not alone. But then I half-sneered when I saw him pull up in his high-end German car, reeking of privilege and self-satisfaction. I’m just hoping I hid my contempt slightly better than he has.

‘Is this still available?’ Asks the man as his wife visually winces at his abruptness. ‘Only we’ve been mucked about by you lot enough, already.’

Now I’m really starting to dislike him. I try not to stereotype but it’s a weakness in all of us and the property industry doesn’t exactly get good press. I’m hoping to change minds - but not his. I still remember who pays the bill.

‘Yes, it’s available.’ I answer, as I open the door and hit the light switch for the hall. It’s the worst part of the flat and I need to make it seem bright and airy. ‘Although,’ I add. ‘I expect it to sell quickly.’

‘You would say that wouldn’t you?’ Snipes the man as he steps inside with his wife. I don’t mind, I won’t be selling to him. But then you rarely sell too the male - unless it’s a a gay couple.

I really took a liking to the owners of this top floor home -  a penthouse is always a bit of a stretch as a term, but when you are marketing it helps. They trusted and valued my opinion, left the keys with me as they are often out of town and didn’t quibble madly on the commission. In fact the wife said quite graciously, when given my suggested asking price: ‘Get us within £25,000 of that and we’ll be delighted.’ I love a challenge.

Bedrooms visited, I can already feel good vibes from the wife of the viewing pair. He’s more reserved, trying to remain aloof and disinterested for when the negotiations start, but she’s starting to visibly salivate. And I know they are in a good position, I’ve checked their status and they can proceed immediately, cash in the bank. I decide to try a trial close.

‘What would you do with the master bedroom?’ I ask her, seemingly innocently.

‘Oh nothing, I love the colour scheme as it is.’ She gushes back. Gotcha. Now it’s just down to how much, I think, the old excitement flooding back. It’s easy to forget how much of a buzz you can get from selling homes, with the day-to-day grind from suspect surveyors, lazy lawyers and barely competent banks. But it’s the best feeling ever - well almost….

I’ve left the two prime rooms until last. It’s a technique I prefer, build the interest then give them the reveal. A stunning recently re-fitted top-end kitchen and a panoramic view from the living room, with a full width glass-balustraded balcony. All facing the right way to catch the sunshine. 

‘Oh my God. I love it.’ Cries the woman. I’m guessing she doesn’t get much more excited than this and judging by her sour-faced husband I can understand why. Still, he won’t be making the decision - just writing the cheque.

I’ve done my homework and I have the local knowledge and experience that no just-opened outfit, or some remote on-line call centre with more naive investors than homes to sell, can offer. The flat has a share in the freehold of the block, the management is in house and service charges are sensible. It’s the best you’ll get while leasehold - the second class tenure - still holds sway.

‘What will they take off the price?’ Presses the man when I know I have them. £25,000, but you’re not getting it,bucko.

‘You’ve got us the full price?’ Exclaims the owner when I report in. ‘We’d have taken less.’

‘That’s what you are paying me for.’ I reply, a little smugly. We’re not all the same.

‘We’ll tell all our friends.’ The husband says, as he hangs up, audibly smiling.

Yes. Don’t keep it a secret.

-------

Download the ebooks via links to Amazon, on the right of page. They're not a secret either.