Help The Aged - Tuesday

‘Is that Mr and Mrs Lattimer looking in the window?’ Asks negotiator S softly.

I look up from the jammed again colour printer - having narrowly resisted thrashing the wretched machine, like Basil Fawlty, primarily due to the lack of convenient shrubbery.

I spot the elderly couple, I recognise the elderly couple, only without S’s wonderful memory - and mammaries now I come to mention it - I’d never have recalled the name.

‘Yep, it’s them,’ I whisper like a poor-quality ventriloquist, all the while grinning inanely towards the ancient pair. ‘Only what the hell do they want this time?’

‘Perhaps they just want to pop in for a chat?’ Suggests S, half-heatedly. She knows it’s unlikely. If people want camaraderie and a sympathetic ear it’s the pub before the property man, or failing that a phone call to the Samaritans.

Now sales trainers - the folk who can tell but not sell - will have you mining that invisible seam of repeat business everyone searches for. It can work in lettings, where relationships build, develop and might prosper, but according to recent research the average British homeowner only moves every 21 years. Looking at the Lattimers they haven’t got that long.

They were good clients when they sold with me - please don’t call vendors customers, any more than my office is a shop - but if there is another move in them it will be straight out the door on the undertakers gurney, or a squeeze into a sheltered retirement home. Not much difference square footage-wise, except for the brass handles on the box.

The Lattimers are all smiles as they greet me, so they obviously want something for free. They also remember my name and use it. I’d tell you, but it would mean the end of a beautiful friendship and a contract that would definitely complete.

‘We wanted your advice.’ Gushes Mrs Lattimer with a lipstick-smeared-teeth smile. She looks like a wrinkly velociraptor in drag and compounds my distaste by keeping hold of my outstretched hand and leaning in to plant a slippery smacker on my cheek. Yuck.  Not even close family get a kiss on the cheek unless I’ve been drinking heavily, and don’t even start me on those vapid city types who think they are part-Parisian and need to air-kiss on both bloody sides.

With the elderly pair ensconced in my office, somewhere I prefer more and more to avoid, particularly after the intranet server blocked the more entertaining websites, I ask how I can help?

Before they can answer there’s a tap at the door and S appears with a tray and three steaming mugs of something hot and tasty. Take away the decrepit Lattimers and lose the drinks and I’d be happy to accommodate S, but that’s another story…

‘Well we’re in a bit of a dilemma.’ Begins Mr Lattimer, as I think welcome to the club, while still silently cursing S for bringing in unrequested drinks. If this pair are wasting my time I’ll need an asbestos-lined gullet to drink the tea as quickly as I’d like and even then they’d still be sipping and pontificating. The retired have no real concept of time when they’re stealing it from you, yet never stop moaning how quickly it hastens them to the grave. I’ll be different, of course.

‘We’re thinking of an equity release scheme on our house.’ Reveals Mr Lattimer, after unsolicited news of their offspring and an imminent grandchild.

Don’t do it. I yearn to say abruptly, while mentally holding the door for them. But it’s complicated. It’s always complicated.

They explain, as if I’ve never heard it, how they are worried how long they’ll live and if their funds will last and how long they can stay in their home without help and a stairlift. Then they reveal their children are tapping them up for a bank of Mum and Dad handout.

With UK house prices often defying gravity it’s a relatively new way of kids getting cash without waiting for their parents to croak. 

What was my advice?

Well you can book a free, no obligation, consultation - if you can find me.

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The UK Blog awards nominations are open - link here http://www.blogawardsuk.co.uk/enter-ukba16 - just saying....

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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