Call Me - Wednesday

‘I’ve booked you a valuation this afternoon.’ Announces negotiator S, with that devastating smile. If the estate agency career ever goes pear-shaped she could make a passable living doing toothpaste adverts, either that or some sort of pay-as-you-go webcam based business…

‘Details,’ I prompt rubbing my hands with glee, like some latter-day Ebenezer Scrooge. ‘Details.’

‘All on the market appraisal form.’ Answers S a little smugly. She’s been well trained and will have all the information I need to get a competitive advantage. You might not need any qualifications to be an estate agent, but I’ve spent years learning my craft - and have the qualifications too.

‘Who am I up against?’ I quiz. Knowing that knowledge is power.

‘That’s just the thing answers S hesitantly. ‘Two of the usual suspects. Cheap fee Charlie and the corporate over-valuers.’

‘And?’ I ask, sensing there is one.

‘And one of those ridiculous, fee up-front, on-line outfits.’

Assistant manager T groans and says. ‘Rather you than me boss. They’ll be cheapskates who can’t see past the pound signs.’

T has a point. The on-line operators - most in the industry baulk at calling them estate agents as they don’t have a high street presence and little local knowledge - hence the call-centre tag, tend to attract the industry-naive sellers. They get the money up-front, unlike the traditional model where you only pay for a successful sale and completion, then have no incentive to continue promoting the home, or negotiating hard through the protracted sales’ process.

‘I don’t know why people fall for it.’ Says S. ‘The people they send out have no idea of the local market, tend to get the price horribly high, then disappear like mist on a May morning.’

‘Well it’s con isn’t it.’ States T, semi-rhetorically. ‘Mug them at the start for the money, tie them in to some slapdash battery-farm solicitors firm operating from a barn in Wales, then rely on the small print when they start to complain.’

T isn’t entirely wrong. The backlash against the several high-profile operators who advertise on television, funded by vast amounts of, less than savvy, investors’ start-up money, has begun. And if the market hardens, the directors who have, allegedly, been heavily offloading shares, will need those Spanish holiday homes to run to.

My clients don’t pay me, unless I negotiate a successful sale at a price they are happy with. It may be several thousand pounds, but it’s a results-based fee. If I screw up, if they, or their buyers change their mind. If one of dozens of reasons that can scupper a sale comes about - why one-in-three deals fail - they pay nothing. Nada. Not a sausage. 

‘Ah but the internet agent is £1500 cheaper than you.’ Says the potential vendor when I’m sitting in their pokey one-bed flat, later.

‘And they said our place was worth £15,000 more,’ chips in his girlfriend.

Like an incompetent Victorian canal-digger, I’m shoving water uphill again.

‘Where was the man from?’ I ask.

The couple look a bit sheepish.

‘Erm, a couple of hours drive. away.’ Admits the girl, finally.

‘So not exactly a local property expert.’ I tell them, unnecessarily. 

‘But he’s cheap.’ Persists her boyfriend.

Not if he doesn’t sell it and you’ve paid £850 you’ll never get back, I want to scream.

Successive government and a revolving door’s worth of UK Ministers have failed to get to grips with the housing crisis, but even those flawed policies look like a genius’s insight compared to the lack of understanding of the estate agent’s role and the need to ensure some level of minimum competence and perhaps some exams and licensing. I’ll be long gone before that is resolved.

‘We hear what you are saying.’ Says the boyfriend, as he shows me to the door. You don’t.

‘It’s just we’re saving so much money with the on-line lot.’ You’re not.

‘Can we call you if it doesn’t work out?’ Asks the girlfriend. No need. I’ll be contacting you much more regularly than the call-centre will.

Did you get it?’ Asks S, on my return.

I will.

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Same And Old - Wednesday

‘I’ve booked you a valuation this afternoon.’ Announces S when I return to the office. You’ve got to love her - only of course I can’t. Not without an expensive divorce, loss of house, job and love and respect of everyone I love. I’ve seen what feckless fathers can do first hand, and I’m not about to repeat it, no matter what the geneticists say.

‘Not sure how serious they are though.’ Continues S. ‘They’ve been on the market for twelve months and we’ll be their third agent if they swap to us.’ I ask S where the property is and she tells me. I try to suppress a groan of despair, she’s doubtless worked hard to gain the appointment so a negative response isn’t going to endear me.

‘Do you know it?’ Asks assistant manager T languidly. Of course I f***ing know it, it’s my job to, I think angrily. And his too.

‘Its been on the market for over a year.’ I announce sniffily.

‘She told you that.’ Counters T petulantly.

So I list the other two agents who’ve been marketing the home at way too much money, and for good measure I tell T the price it started at, plus the two minor price reductions since. That’s the difference between an on-line agent - or glorified call-centre - and a local property expert. I know my patch as intimately as a nicotine addict trying to ditch cigarettes.

‘Have you primed them for some straight talking?’ I ask S.

S smiles wanly. ‘Well I’ve told them you’ll be frank, but they seem a bit sceptical about estate agents and honesty.’ She replies.

S has a point, yet another recent survey placed our industry near the murky bottom of the public perception for trust, we’ve hauled ourselves above politicians and journalists, but it’s still not great company.

‘They are probably another pair in cloud cuckoo land.’ Predicts T with a sneer. ‘A fiver says they’ll tell you, “we’re not giving it away,” when you hit them with a realistic price.’

‘He won’t take that bet.’ Predicts fat mortgage man M, joining the conversation. Damned straight I won’t. I’ve seen more hopelessly deluded dreamers than Asif, the lottery ticket salesman at the newsagent.

‘Do you know what it’s really worth?’ Presses S.

I do. Of course valuing a home is more of an art than a science, and you need to see a property to gauge, presentation, condition, orientation, grounds etc, but this isn’t a one-off property, that might be hard to price. It’s in a road of very similar homes and I have a wealth of data on comparable sales, ones that have gone through, not just wishful asking prices,

I tell T what I’m predicting and he whistles expansively.

‘Good luck with that.’ H says dismissively, turning back to his phone screen. If he’s on Tinder again I’ll be setting something incendiary under him.

The house is probably still a good £50,000 over-priced and I have a feeling the vendors won’t be that well disposed to a dose of reality. But then you have to kiss a lot of frogs in his business and I’m used to having a sour taste in my mouth.

‘So you see,’ explains the wife, when I’m sitting in their lounge later. ‘We need to get that price for our house as we’re moving to a more expensive area.’ My heart sinks faster than a skydiver with a faulty chute. The impact is going to hurt.

‘Unfortunately you can only command what the area will sustain.’ I explain gently. Their argument is a well worn and irrelevant one. Unless their home is so unique it will create a lot of interest and justify a guide price and competitive bidding - which it isn’t - they need to get real. Or start unpacking.

‘You lot just want a quick sale and a big commission.’ Sneers the husband. He hasn’t endeared himself to me by not turning off the television, so perversely I’m battling some inane presenter trying to convince fat and balding couples to buy something second hand in the sun. I cut to the chase.

‘How much?’ They shout in unison.

Apparently, they’re not giving it away….

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Deaf And Dumb - Tuesday

‘What’s that going to be worth?’ Asks trainee F, after I’ve booked a valuation on a dated block of flats, slap bang alongside a busy road. It’s a good question, one assistant manager T answers for me.

‘A figure the owners won’t want to accept.’ He predicts, with a sneer.

T has a point. All property will sell, no matter how poor the condition, or location. It’s just down to the price. I’m pretty sure the elderly owners of the second floor flat, with no lift, are going to be in denial about the fact their home has an en-suite dual carriageway.

‘I wouldn’t live there.’ Says T Pointedly. ‘You couldn’t hear yourself think if you had the windows open, not to mention the diesel fumes. Ah, the great diesel con. We were all persuaded to buy an oil-burner, then the government ripped you off with excessive fuel prices and all the while you were poisoning school children and pensioners.

‘I would.’ Says F. ‘I’d live there. You could walk into town. And it’s close to the pubs and bus routes.’

‘It’s close to bus routes all right.’ Says T. ‘The whole top deck of the number 11 can see you squatting on the toilet, as it goes past your bathroom window.’

‘Yes but for the right price.’ Persist F.

‘They won’t listen.’ Argues T. ‘That sort won’t accept traffic noise is an issue.’

He has a point. But then when the elderly couple bought their flat the elevated section of road probably wasn’t there. Doubtless they will be half deaf, with those matching hearing aides that whistle wildly, like electric guitars too close to an over-cranked amplifier, if they put their heads close together.

‘What are they hoping to do?’ Asks negotiator S. It’s a great question, one I want asked before any valuation. Motivation is a powerful factor in driving a move and in instilling realism. If you can’t manage the stairs any longer, or want to escape an abusive relationship, it’s surprising how much more amenable to financial reality some people become.

‘Why do the communal areas always smell of boiled cabbage?’ Asks F later. I’ve managed to park the company car in the limited space available, ignoring the dire warning of cowboy clampers patrolling the site. I’m relying on my trusty Doctor On Call badge - nobody likes a deceased GP but it was hanging around the dead doc’s house and the beneficiaries just wanted everything cleared…

‘It’s just bad ventilation.’ I tell F, as I eye the steep and gloomy concrete stairs and realise it will be a hard sell on any viewings. That’s if I can shout loud enough over the constant traffic noise still intruding, despite the fact I firmly shut both the inner and outer, heavy communal doors.

Every home has it’s own unique smell. Most pet owners will be doggedly unaware of it. But it’s there, just think of the aroma when you come back from holiday and open your front door - assuming you can get past the junk mail. Blocks of flats have an unpleasant amalgam of every homeowner’s cooking, living and animal smells. This one is no different. I just hope nobody has a pet sheep. I still have flashbacks to that particular visit - thankfully it wasn’t wearing a dress but the owner was overfond of a Dorset Horn.

‘God it’s noisy.’ Shouts F as we measure up the second bedroom. The elderly owners are busy making tea which they may demand back once I tell them what they’ll need to price at, to get a buyer with badly impaired hearing, yet fit enough to make the stairs. I’m wondering about a mail-shot to the deaf school?

I glance out at the constant stream of traffic buzzing by. Despite some ancient looking secondary glazing, with the sort of insect collection that would keep David Attenborough engaged for hours lodged between the panes, I can feel my ears starting to vibrate and I’m pretty sure a filling is on the move too.

‘How much?” Shouts the husband indignantly, when I tell him my suggested asking price.

He wouldn’t hear of it.

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Enfranchise Me - Thursday

‘Fancy a valuation later?’ Asks assistant manager T as I return to the office. I’m immediately on my guard. T wouldn’t give away an easy instruction on a new property, so I’m sensing a curve ball. I sometimes wonder if pooling commission in the office is the best method. It’s less divisive and means fewer bust-ups over who won the business/sold the home, but it can benefit the lazy ones.

‘Where is it?’ I ask. T looks more sheepish than a Welsh shearer and negotiator S just looks down at her keyboard - which must be difficult with those huge breasts.

‘It’s somewhere naff, isn’t it?’ I say tersely.

‘Not exactly.’ Counters T unconvincingly.

‘Cough.’ I instruct. T tells me and I groan inwardly.

Now, you’d think any new home to sell on your books would be welcome and in general that’s true. You can’t sell it if you haven’t got it and a shortage of units to sell is the perpetual problem for most agents - until the market really turns. But T has just named a crumbling block of flats, with a short lease and a notoriously difficult absentee freeholder. Leasehold is a secondary form of tenure endured primarily by Londoners and flat owners. Only they don’t own their flats, they lease them for 99 years or more and in theory have to give them back at the end of the term.

‘You know they’ve got short leases don’t you?’ I tell, rather than ask, T.

‘Yeh, but they can use the legislation to extend.’ Counters T.

He’s right. Leasehold Reform laws offer a route for lessees to compel freeholders to extend their lease, or sell the freehold to a collective of residents, but it’s arcane, complicated and expensive. Particularly with a reluctant landlord intent on milking the building for all the income he can extract.

‘Isn’t that the block where there’s a huge hole in the sinking fund?’ Asks S. She’s right, the maintenance has been neglected and rumour has it a new flat roof is required at a six figure sum. A sum to be divided between the luckless owners.

‘And you won’t get a mortgage any more if there’s less that fifty years to run on the lease.’ Adds financial services man M, as he waddles towards the kitchen. ‘Cash buyers only.’ He adds, as I hear the kettle being filled with just enough water for one.

‘Is it even worth having on our register?’ Asks S after some protracted discussion on the inequities of leasehold and the number of rogue freeholders we’ve dealt with over the years.The shitesters who have separate building companies under a hidden ownership, that always get the overinflated maintenance work needed on the building. Not to mention the slyly written leases that have inflation-busting rises in ground rent designed to milk lessees until they are dry. And it’s usually the elderly.

‘We’re hoping to move into one of those nice new retirement flats.’ Says the ancient husband as I sit in the run-down block, later. Endearingly the old couple are holding hands and looking at me earnestly, as they perch on the saggy sofa.

Out of the frying pan into the fire, I think glumly. Assuming anyone will buy there cobwebby home, they’ll sell low and buy high at an overpriced retirement block and the extortionate maintenance charges will still be with them. I’m getting a stair lift and staying put, when my time comes.

‘I don’t understand.’ Says the wife, eyes rheumy and watering, after I’ve explained how lenders won’t advance funds until the lease on their flat is extended, or the freehold owned by the residents.

Neither do I grandma.

‘But we can’t afford to pay him any more.’ Says the husband angrily. ‘There’s already a huge bill coming for the communal boiler.’

Shit, I didn’t know that. I only just stop myself from looking at my watch - a cardinal sin. And I assume the impoverished pair don’t even know about the roof replacement.

They’ll be staying - until the undertaker comes.

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Room For Improvement - Wednesday

‘This looks a right dump.’ Says assistant manager T gloomily, as we pull up outside a boarded-up mid-terrace house, in the less salubrious part of town.

‘They don’t exactly hoover the carpets before they go.’ I tell him sarcastically.

‘I’ve got no sympathy.’ Replies T. ‘If you don’t make the payments what do they expect? They’re not exactly Greece.’

I glance at the newly minted set of keys lying in the car’s coin tray. The house we’re about to enter is a voluntary repossession - not that the word voluntary ever seems appropriate when the lender snatches back someone’s home. The keys arrived in the post along with our instructions to market the house once two independent valuations have been carried out. Carried out by sports jacket wearing surveyors who live at home with their mothers and have to ask us what the house is worth, before they put their professional opinion in writing.

‘At least the locksmith has done the hard work.’ Speculates T, nodding towards the flaky paint front door, where a new brass lock barrel is shiny incongruously against the general neglect of the front elevation.

‘Did you remember the torch?’ I ask T, as I clamber out and feel my sciatic nerve ping like a racquet string popping.

‘Yup.’ Answers T nonchalantly.

The boarded windows are to keep squatters out but it’s a safe bet all the services will have been disconnected. We’ll be stumbling around in near darkness with God only knows what littering the floor. I should get danger money. Instead I get commission.

‘More keys than a jailor here.’ Says T, as he tries to open the door while I glance at the paperwork. It might be a digital age but those lenders still like lopping down rain forests.

‘Got it.’ Mumbles T as he frees the door and pushes inwards. A sickly waft of fetid air rises in our faces.

‘Food left in the fridge?’ Asks T, features creased in distaste.

‘That or another dead body.’

T fumbles for the torch switch, as he kicks away the junk mail piled high against the door sill. Nothing happens. Preparation! I want to scream, but according to my wife I’m more OCD than the mumbling man who pushes a shopping trolly round town, matching plastic bags arranged meticulously down each side. He probably used to be an estate agent….

‘Did you check the batteries were working?’ I demand tetchily.

‘They were last time.’ Counters T petulantly.

One more dead man in an empty home might not be noticed, I think fleetingly. Before heading back to the car to get my own torch from the glove box.

‘I though someone was supposed to have cleared this place.’ Says T disdainfully. The smell is getting stronger and we’ve not made the kitchen yet. Boxes of junk are piled against the walls and several black plastic bin liners are spilling content that would look at home on an Mumbai rubbish tip.

Then something suddenly moves in my peripheral vision.

‘Ayeee. What the f**k was that?’ ScreamsT, like a schoolgirl.

Heart pounding, I sweep the beam towards the abrupt movement, just in time to see a unfeasibly long curled tail skittering out the door.

‘Tell me that wasn’t a rat.’ Says T, designer glasses flashing in the half-light.

‘Well I don’t think they left their pet gerbil behind.’ I answer with a shiver. We’re going to need pest control again. I wonder if I can strike a deal and get them to terminate the cheap-fee agent that opened last year, at the same time?

‘Smell is definitely coming from the fridge.’ I tell T as he flings open the back door and some welcome light illuminates what is left of the kitchen. All the cabinets have been torn from the wall, leaving just two copper pipes with taps balancing on the end above where the sink used to be.

‘Why don’t they leave the white goods in the garden like the other chavs round here.’ Snipes T. Nodding towards the offending fridge. He’s yet to be made redundant. But he’ll learn.

Think it was once, a bag of prawns.

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Battle Zone - Friday

I’m outside a pleasant semi-detached house in one of the nicer parts of town. I want it on my books - but so will every other estate agent locally.

Preparation is everything in a sales situation. I have a briefcase full of promotional material, agency contracts, print-outs of suitable buyers I have registered looking for similar homes to the one I’m about to value - and most importantly of all, data on comparable properties sold recently.

I glance at my watch, then double check with the car clock. I’m at least fifteen minutes early after the last appointment turned out to be the biggest pair of time wasters since….well….since the previous ones.

In the days when I used to help train new recruits, before I was deemed too dated and dowdy, I would labour the importance of never being late for a valuation appointment. The owner - at least the house proud ones - would have tidied up and been looking at the clock for at least ten minutes before the agreed time. Run behind and turn up just five minutes late and your potential client may well have been looking out the curtains fretting about your arrival, for at least quarter of an hour.

This bitch clearly hasn’t though, I realise, as I look across the road and recognise a bitter rival’s company car. It doesn’t have the tacky paint job, or the corporate logo down the side but it’s just as conspicuous to me. Damn it. I’m on a beauty parade and having pulled down the sun vizor and checked a few moments ago, I’m going to need to labour the charity work and world peace angle. Calling it a vanity mirror was painfully accurate.

My mobile chirps insistently. I really need to change that irritating ringtone, but I’ll need to wait until one of my sons is back from University. I can’t have the office thinking I’m more of an inept Luddite than they already do.

‘Yes?’ I enquire curtly, seeing it’s the office calling. I was about to turn the phone off. You don’t want it ringing when you are half way through trying to convince an intransigent owner their home really isn’t worth the £30,000 more a rival agent told them they could get.

Negotiator S comes on the line, her soothing tones a loss to the Premium Rate phone industry.

‘Could you fit in a late valuation this evening?’ She asks artfully.

I can’t afford not to, even though it could mean another charcoaled dinner when I finally get home - and my wife doesn’t do barbecues…

I jot down the details, hoping it won’t be me and several other agents this time.

‘Did you know I was going to be in a queue of oily liars in suits, on this valuation?’ I ask S. She laughs.

‘What?’ I demand.

‘Well that sort of indicates you’re a greasy bloke in a three piece.’

As it happens, I ditched the waistcoat after too much ridicule from my unsympathetic team. In truth, it was too sweaty anyway. Nothing worse then reeking of body odour when you are trying to appear fragrant and professional.

‘She didn’t say there’d be others.’ Answers S defensively. ‘But then there always is, isn’t there?’

There is. Unless it’s a probate sale. The dead are less argumentative than the living, although the squabbling beneficiaries more than make up for it.

‘Do you know who is in there?’ Quizzes S, as I look at the dashboard clock and wonder how long to give it before I cut short my opponent’s sales pitch

‘The shitester with the zero-fade haircut and loud ties.’ I tell her sourly.

‘God, you’ll not be able to breathe in there for aftershave fumes.’ Chuckles S.

More importantly, I’ll have to push my suggested sale price to stratospheric proportions. The outfit the man works for are notorious for misleading sellers to secure a sole agency, before starting to work on big price reductions.

‘We reckon you should sneak over and let his tyres down.’ Says S mischievously.

It’s tempting, but knowing my luck I’d be caught on someone’s home CCTV.

I’ll just pull his for sale board down after dark.

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Thick And Thin - Monday

‘Got a valuation for you this evening.’ Chirps negotiator S as I return to the office.

She should be pleased, these are the lifeblood of any estate agent. Without homes to sell you don’t survive, no matter what the market’s supposed to be doing. The only cloud on my immediate horizon, is the “evening” bit.

‘How late?’ I ask cautiously, not wanting to put a dampener on S’s success. 

‘Only 6.30.’ She replies with a winning  smile.

Yes. I think, but it’ll be 7.30pm before I’m out of there even if they are complete nutters, and there will be a pretty angry wife waiting with some incinerated supper. Still it could be worse.

‘And he’s a bit creepy.’ Adds S sheepishly.

‘How creepy?’ I ask hurriedly. Estate agents have been abducted by homicidal people before and I don’t particularly want to be the first to be dismembered and served with those African beans and an Italian red.

‘Not chop you up creepy. I don’t think.’ says S reading my mind. Fortunately, she can’t do that all the time.

‘Just desperate and gullible creepy.’ Adds B, from her lettings’ desk, with a sneer.

Gullible I don’t mind, particularly when it comes to negotiating a sole agency fee, but desperate isn’t always good - unless he’s lost his job and has to sell…

I look at S for some further information but she clams up and looks embarrassed.

‘He’s one of those fat, bald, ugly middle-aged blokes with a young Thai wife in tow.’ Enlightens B with a knowing smirk.

‘I didn’t necessarily mean that.’ Counters S defensively. She probably did.

‘You know the type.’ Continues B, hitting her stride. ‘Can’t get a British woman, because they have a mind of their own and can be picky about sweaty creeps with body odour, so they abuse some third world girl with the offer of untold riches and an ex-council flat.’

Wow. B’s goods are more damaged in transit than I thought.

‘She seemed perfectly nice.’ Counters S, with an awkward look my way.

I have a horrible feeling I might have some forms to fill in to send to Human Resources, I’ve detected sexism, possible racism and fattism, at the very least.

‘They are all nice until they get their feet under the table.’ Says obese mortgage man M, entering the fray. He’ s still smarting several years after his wife left him for a man who could see his own penis without a mirror.

‘Keep on her good side.’ Suggests assistant manager T, to M. ‘You might find she’ll be keen to load him with big portions and a bigger life policy.’ M’s podgy face lights up. Since they rumbled endowments and PPI policies he’s been looking for the next big thing.

‘They are all on the make.’ Says B. ‘Before you know it the stupid sap will be sending money back to Thailand for some made up relatives.’

‘That’s just so wrong.’ Snaps S sparkily. She’s rather splendid when riled.

‘It’s just as well nobody knows what we say.’ Says T with a chuckle. ‘The public wouldn’t like to hear what we really think of them.’

Hmm. Fortunately my team don’t show much inclination for reading, blogs or books. At best I’d guess we have a couple of men’s magazine perusers, a buyer of fantasy mags from the geekier end of the sci-fi spectrum and a closet Mills and Boon fan.

‘You can mock me.’ Continues B. ‘But I know how men work.’ That’s beyond dispute.

‘And you are all suckers for pretty girls, even ones half your age.’

‘Bit of a sweeping statement.’ I say, trying to avoid looking at S.

‘Bollocks.’ Snaps B. ‘And everyone knows the sort of oddballs that get Thai wives off the internet  wouldn’t have a hope in hell of shagging a British girl.’

‘Apart from the fat ones who will bonk for biscuits.’ Says T, unhelpfully.

The awkward silence hangs in the air like a fart in lift.

‘What?’ Asks M eventually.

‘Nothing.’ I say, thinking of the forms again.

‘I’m not fat, I’m big-boned.’ Says M huffily.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

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Reanimator - Monday

  

‘Can you do a viewing on number 21?’ Asks negotiator S as I come through the office door.

‘The dead man’s house?’ I ask, plonking my briefcase down and glancing at the message book.

‘Ugh, I wish you wouldn’t call it that.’ Chides S, pretty face frowning.

‘It’s just a fact.’ I tell her seeing with sinking heart that ‘Bomber’ the surveyor will be valuing a sale we agreed ten days ago. Might as well stick the For Sale board back up, I think glumly. Bomber’s idea of valuing is to find out the agreed price and subtract 10%, to arrive at his valuation.

‘Yes but it’s so creepy to think about what happened there.’ Continues S, as I fantasise about catching Bomber in a loft carrying out a Home Buyer’s Report and snatching away his step-ladder.

‘It’s Bomber’s office on the line boss, has anyone seen him since he surveyed London Road? Only he’s been missing for two days.’

‘Tell them I can’t discuss that over the phone, they’ll have to wait for my written report….’

‘Don’t even think about all that nonsense.’ I tell S coming back to reality. ‘It’s just bricks and mortar and anyway the dead vendors aren’t so fussy about the sale price.’

‘Beneficiaries are though.’ Retorts S. She has a point – two quite prominent ones.

‘Can’t T or F do the viewing anyway?’ I grumble, looking at the office diary and then scanning my inbox. God I yearn for a time, pre-email, when the only disappointment was daily when the postman came, or when you trudged to the Document Exchange box in the nearby lawyer’s office. I see the bean counter boss has sent me three missives in the space of an hour. There’s a man who has never stood on a damp doorstep waiting for viewers who aren’t going to show. He doesn’t even need to push a pen any more – just the Return key.

‘F has the dentist.’ Replies S as a fleeting fantasy involving a large drill and no pain relief for the idiot trainee, flashes through my mind. ‘And T has to visit his Grandmother in hospital later.’

‘I’m sure he’s been to two funerals for dead Grandmothers already.’ I gripe ungraciously.

‘He hasn’t.’ Replies S curtly.

‘What time? I ask throwing in the towel. You need to be resilient in sales but you also need to know when you’re beaten, or you’ll take a lot of unnecessary punishment.

‘Erm, it’s a late one, sorry.’ Says S with a shrug. Not much chance of the owner doing the viewing, short of an unlikely resurrection – particularly as they cremated him.

‘It’s a bit chilly in here.’ Says the woman as I try not to glance at my watch and imagine how incinerated my supper is going to be. Not as toasted as the outgoing owner, but even so…

‘I’ll shut some windows.’ I say, smiling at her and receiving a scowl from her boyfriend in return. Calm down mate, I think, I might want to shaft her but I don’t want sex with the woman.

All the windows I opened on arrival ten minutes before the viewing time, pulled in, smell still lingering in my nostrils, I turn back to the couple. He’s younger than her. Second time round for the lady, divorce proceeds to spend. She is some sort of Cougar; he’s some sort of parasite, suggests the little voice unhelpfully. Don’t judge, just get them to buy it, I answer internally – and stop talking to yourself

‘The sofa set would fit in here easily.’ Says the woman to the sponger, flagging up an Olympic-sized buying signal. The supper can wait. I sense a deal.

‘Can we afford it?’ Asks the man artfully. You mean can her ex-husband? I think.

‘Will they take an offer?’ Asks the lady, smiling at me for the first time.

The ex-owner won’t return my calls, but his bickering children seem keen to get the cash.

‘I’ve got two more viewings tomorrow.’ I answer obliquely. The smile vanishes faster than cake at a Weight Watchers’ Christmas party.

‘You would say that wouldn’t you.’ Sneers the man-boy.

‘We’ll take it.’ Says the decision maker.

Week saved - back from the dead.

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Parklife - Wednesday

‘Do we sell park homes?’ Asks trainee F, phone cupped ineffectively instead of on hold, as I always keep telling the numbskull.

If it’s a home set in a park, I think, yes we’d be delighted - if it’s an overpriced shed, not so much. But with new instructions to sell always a battle, I waver, despite the evidence of history.

‘Get some more details.’ I tell F having walked over and stabbed the mute button on his phone base. ‘Then see when I can go and visit.’

It’s a long shot. Park Homes, for the uninitiated, are what used to be called mobile homes until someone realised you’d get more money for them if you took the wheels off, hooked them up to a rudimentary sewerage system and provided electricity for daytime television viewing. In the United States, I believe they’re known as trailer parks, in the UK they are similarly trashy only without the need for air conditioning units. The parks tend to be populated by elderly couples who failed on the property ladder of life, or have downsized ill-advisedly, thinking a timber cabin with stick on rubber roof tiles is actually a bungalow, only cheaper, thereby allowing them to eat more than value meals and tinned horsemeat for the rest of their naturals. The beneficiaries are never thrilled.

‘So they’re, like, really good value?’ Enthuses F after I’ve given him the low down.

‘Not exactly.’ Interjects assistant manager T.

F frowns that bovine look that makes you think slaughterhouse and a humane bolt-gun administered to the cranium - no questions asked and only minimal paperwork for the Personnel Department.

‘Nobody will lend on a park home.’ Continues T. ‘At least not mainstream banks and building societies.’

‘Waste of time.’ Echoes fat mortgage man M as he seesaws past, masticating.

‘Cash buyers only, as a rule.’ Says T.

‘And they’re too skint to take out decent insurance policies.’ Adds M. ‘Property underclass. I wouldn’t have one if you gave it to me.’

He would.

‘Thanks for letting me come with you.’ Enthuses F, as I negotiate the bumpy track and see the Park entrance. A paint-blistered sign promises high-quality new homes from a price point I still consider expensive. I’m already regretting my generosity twofold; one by coming to value a timber caravan I probably can’t sell, and two for bringing the only type of owner these places will appeal to – albeit in about forty-five years time after F’s inevitable failed marriages and ineffective career. I really must look into registering as a charity. I’ve talked about it and there are plenty of empty shop units in the high street for a rent-free outlet. I just need to get round to the paperwork.

As I daydream and slowly motor along the cramped, weed-strewn lanes of shabby units, an officious little man with a goatee beard and an attitude problem steps in front of the car and holds his hand up, traffic policeman style. I’m sorely tempted to accelerate, but of course I don’t. Window down, I wait for the inevitable lecture.

‘Who is this?’ Hisses F as the sour-faced man walks around the car towards me.

The park owner, or warden to be more accurate.’ I whisper. ‘Little Hitlers most of them. He’s about to warn us nobody sells without his say-so.’

And true to form, we’re informed.

‘So you’ve met that grubby little man.’ Says the lady owner, as we sit in her open plan lounge, slight swaying motion as the wind whistles round the angles. She’s made the best of a bad job with a mock fireplace housing an electric fire, and a sagging sofa set arranged toward an ancient cathode ray television set with a digital box perched on top. It’s still a caravan though, just without the option to shift elsewhere that easily. I tell her we’ve had our card duly marked. The owner reminding us all the homes are on leases granted by him and that he has to approve any new incomers - effectively making the whole flyblown couple of acres his own creosote-coated fiefdom. Needless to say, he’s already offered to ‘buy’ the unit, at a price even I wouldn’t dare to suggest.

Moving on.

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Not Many Lives Left - Tuesday

‘And here she comes.’ Announces assistant manage T with the sort of weary resignation I’ve been dreaming about for years now.

Negotiator S bobs her head up from behind the flatscreen and smiles in recognition when she sees the approaching woman. All offices have them, the regular time-wasters - as opposed to the casual ones who bowl into your working life like a whirlwind, promise to buy or sell then blow you off.

‘Bloody nutcase.’ Proclaims M the morbidly obese financial advisor. He tried to flog her some life cover, a re-mortgage and even, in desperation, some pet insurance last time she was in. But this type is a window shopper for life.

‘Who’s this?’ Asks trainee F, wide-eyed and innocent, only without the charm of a fresh-smelling baby you can hand back before their Snugglers become soiled.

‘One of our habitual lookers.’ I tell F, contemplating whether I should let him talk to the woman as part of his ongoing training. The trouble is he’s so naïve he’ll end up making viewing appointments that the woman will happily go on for something to do and doubtless book my fourth valuation visit to her home. One she convinces herself and every new agent in town she’ll be moving from in the near future, when in reality the only way she’ll be leaving is feet first on an undertaker’s gurney.

‘She’s called that cat lady.’ Enlightens T, as F stares at the approaching target vapidly. I can see the animal hairs on her grubby fleece from across the high street and already my nose and eyes are twitching just from the memory of my last, abortive visit, to her flea-infested home. Five cats and counting plus that all pervading pong of animals which pet-owners are in persistent denial over.

‘Why’s that?’ Asks F, comprehensively confirming his unsuitability for any role involving common sense. The private school his mother and various stepfathers coughed for - just to keep him away from home - somehow coached and cajoled him to some spurious mid-range, heavy on the coursework qualifications, but the school of life has yet to see him sign the register.

‘She has cats you numpty.’ Informs lettings lush B from across the office.

‘Yeh and we all know about women with cats.’ Says T chuckling.

B glares back at him. ‘One is acceptable, two at a push.’ She says challengingly, adding the old chestnut. ‘They’re more reliable than men.’

‘Let’s not start that one.’ I plead, as I track the approaching woman, hoping against hope she’ll misjudge the road crossing and give me about a one in fifteen chance of getting the probate business.

‘The loser women who can’t hold on to a man get cats instead.’ T tells F unhelpfully. I can sense the, along gender lines, friction building.

‘You’re just saying that for a reaction.’ Says S looking nervously at B as her hackles rise.

‘You can’t say that sort of thing.’ Spits B angrily, before turning to me and asking. ‘Can he?’

Probably not out loud.

Trouble is I pretty much agree with T on this one. My experience of neurotic man-loathing women tends to lead to the same, staring-eyed, let them sleep on the bed, cat-loving conclusion. These females – and it is almost exclusively females who own cats – seem to turn to feline companionship after a fruitless love life. Ultimately, cohabiting with several sets of hairballs, rather than one errant set of hairy balls. It still stinks, particularly with the elderly ones who the neighbours eventually smell decomposing. Someone has to go in to clean up the mess and see what is left of the owner the ungrateful pets haven’t eaten. It takes forever before I get the new carpets, the keys and a for sale board.

‘Hello Miss Bryan how are you?’ Greets S, saving me the bother.

‘You now my name?’ Queries Miss Bryan.

‘You were in last year.’ Says S gently.

‘Was I?’

Perhaps I should have let F see her after all.

‘We don’t have any little bungalows.’ Informs S kindly. ‘And most flats don’t allow pets in the lease.’

‘How did you know I have pets?’

And they still say we don’t earn our money.

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