No Waiting Zone - Monday

‘Thank God you’re back.’ says negotiator S as I return to the office. She knows how to make a man feel welcome - at least I imagine she does.

‘What is it?’ I question warily, knowing without needing the harsh reality of the shaving mirror, that she doesn’t want me for anything more physical than a human shield.

‘I’ve had the buyers of number eleven on the phone three times already this morning wanting to know when they can collect their keys.’

I glance up at the office clock, not good. Late morning, lunchtime lurking and if their solicitor hasn’t wired funds to the sellers by now there’s a real danger of the virtual black hole between 12.00 noon and about 2.30pm . Experience tells me the chances of the lawyers in the chain aligning, in office, at the same time to send completion funds along the digital highway, are slim to zero. Someone is always out to lunch.

‘Have you asked them to chase their solicitor?’ I ask S to the sort of derisory look I might imagine receiving if I did actually offer her more tactile assistance.

‘They’ve tried but she was…’

‘Out of the office?’ I say swiftly.

‘No.’

‘In court?’

‘No.’

‘With clients?’

‘No.’ Says S sharply. ‘At a school meeting for her daughter.’

Someone needs a word with the legal lady’s secretary. You can give out too much information.

‘Do you think having children affects you’re career prospects?’ Asks S pointedly.

Jesus, I can’t be giving an opinion on that, I think warily. I may have been around a long time but even I’ve learnt what is way off limits in today’s workplace. I’d be in less trouble if I did actually encroach into S’s personal space - probably…

Politically correct fudge given, I return to the matter in hand.

‘Have you tried the vendor’s solicitor?’ I ask. ‘See if they are ready to go.’

‘Of course.’ Replies S tartly. I sometimes forget she’s one of the good estate agents. It’s one of the reasons she’s on display in the window.

‘The buyers are getting really stressed.’ Continues S.

‘I’m not surprised.’ I reply. ‘Hire a cheap solicitor and you get what you deserve. Next you’ll be telling me they’re doing the removals themselves.’

S looks at me and grimaces. ‘They are on their way to the office in the rent-a-van. Had it loaded by 9.30pm.’

You can’t tell people.

‘Why can’t you just give us our keys?’ Demands the weary-looking man, one hand clutched to the small of his back, wife slumped in a chair while their two pre-school toddlers run amok. Because they’re not your keys yet, I think grimly, glancing at the clock and seeing it’s still not 2.00pm. The last phone call to their solicitors office got the answer phone - a piece of kit that should have gone the way of William Caxton’s first printing press, by now.

’It’s more than my job’s worth.’ I tell the agitated man as his wife looks daggers at me and her offspring try to prise apart the office window display. £7,000 for a few low-voltage bulbs some acrylic panels and a reel of piano wire. I’m in the wrong business.

‘I know they’re just out the back there.’ Says the wife acidly. ‘Surely you can let us start to unpack. What could possibly go wrong?’

Lady, I could write a book. In fact I have, but that’s another story.

‘Well don’t expect us to give you any more business when we move.’ States the husband, wincing as he moves.

Probably not the best time to point out they haven’t paid us a penny. The vendor picks up my tab and this couple and their ill-mannered kids aren’t picking up my clients keys until they’ve paid for them.

‘Anyone’s hired van bumped up on the pavement across the road?’ Enquires assistant manager T as he returns from a viewing. It’s nearly 2.45pm.

‘It’s mine why?’ Demands the fractious not quite buyer,

’Traffic warden is eyeing it up.’ Replies T nonchalantly.

‘Oh for f***s sake .’ Snaps the man viciously. ‘Can it get any worse?’

His pre-school offspring parroting his expletive apparently. 

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Back In The Doghouse - Wednesday

No sooner have I rung the doorbell than the frantic barking and scrabbling of paws on parquet begins. Behind the glass panel I see a huge hound bouncing up and down with excitement at the thought of biting – or at least slobbering – over a man in a suit. Great.

Now, we had pets when I was a child, dogs and a cat, but now I detest the creatures with a vengeance. They shed hair on your clothes, dig their claws in when the owner isn’t looking and invariably try to shag your leg. And the owners wonder why the house won’t sell? No matter how much they are is in denial, the house will reek of dog, or cat. The litter tray in the kitchen doesn’t exactly help viewings either. And my pet hair allergy just seems to get worse with age.

‘Get back Buster.’ Yells a harassed female voice as a shadow appears at the door and stoops to tug on, what I hope, is a very robust collar. I can already feel my eyes beginning to water and the first sneeze can only be minutes away. Nothing worse than trying to get a sole agency form signed with drops of snot leaking from your nostrils, on to the paperwork.

‘Who is it mummy?’ Calls a young voice and my enthusiasm falters further. Surely it can’t be half term again?  It’s not, as becomes apparent as the door is opened to a stressed looking lady in her late thirties struggling to hold on to a vicious looking mutt that if it isn’t on the dangerous dogs list, bloody well should be. The hound is looking at me as if I’m one of those cartoon steaks in a butcher’s window. It’s dribbling some sort of pre-rabid froth from its mouth. In common with the public, it seems dangerous dogs don’t like estate agents.

I make my introduction warily, as the dog strains at the collar eyes alight with bloodlust while the owner of the younger voice reveals herself. The little girl is clad in pink pyjamas that might be My Little Pony, or some sort of Barbie princess line – I have boys and girls are a mystery to me – and she’s clutching a fistful of tissues. Her eyes are red and she already has a trail of mucus sliding from her nose, before me.

‘Who is that man?’ Asks the virus-filled brat, coughing in my direction, as I imagine the millions of spores spiralling across the hall looking - like the owners – for a new home.

‘The estate agent Emily,’ replies her mother wearily. ‘I told you to stay in bed.’ The woman turns to me with an apologetic shrug. ‘Sorry, she’s off school with a cold so I thought it would be a good time to get you round to value the house.’ I’m beckoned in to the warm fug of cold germs and doggy smells. I feel a tear welling in my eye.

‘What does an estate agent do?’ Quizzes Emily with a phlegm-filled persistence. It’s a question I’ve been asked a thousand times. Often when we’ve arranged a quick sale and the vendor is fussing about the fee. You wanted me to sell it and now you’re complaining I’ve done my job Sir? Got to love the public.

My initial pitch and confirmation of the lady’s requirements over, we embark on the tour of the house, dog and little girl snapping at my heels. Not sure which one will bite me first, or which will be the more infectious. Upstairs we troop into the master bedroom and the mutt bounds free from the owner’s hand and attempts to push me on to the bed. It’s not the first time a dog has tried that move, but that’s another story.

‘Get down Buster.’ Screams the woman in a voice that could crack crystal. The dog ignores her and jumps on to the bed and sits panting, watching me warily and depositing drool onto a grubby-looking blanket on top of the duvet.

‘He’s not supposed to sleep on the bed.’ Says the woman, with a shrug. ‘But he’s a big softy really, so we let him if he’s feeling down.’

Room for one more?

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Touch Me Feel Me - Monday

‘Have you made your vendor contact calls?’ I ask my team irritably. I’m fed-up with looking out the window willing someone to come in yet half-hoping they won’t – particularly as 90% of the people we deal with are time-wasters. Not in their own eyes obviously, but in the final analysis, in the brutal spotlight of the sales figures and bean counter boss’s beloved balance sheet.

Vendor contact has always been an unloved job in the industry. You battle hard to win the owner’s instructions to sell their home, often caught up in the inflationary cycle of suggesting higher and higher asking prices just to please, just to shut out the other agents promising unlikely riches and a cheap commission structure, then nobody wants to view and the backtracking starts.

‘God I hate ringing some of these idiots.’ Carps assistant manager T, as my hackles rise. We’re nothing without good customer service skills and if the march of virtual estate agencies, DIY sites and bucket shop outfits with shady staff and suspect practices is going to be halted, it’s down to old-fashioned values – except where asking prices are concerned…

‘I’ve done most of mine.’ Says negotiator S, a hint of smugness in her voice. T scowls at her, so at least I can be sure he’s not shagging her – yet. I turn to look at imbecile trainee F. He looks nervous. That rabbit in the headlights look, with none of the benefits of being able to run him over without repercussions and a lot of paperwork.

‘Have you done yours yet?’ I ask F. I’ve only given him a shortened list to keep tabs on. Admittedly the owners are mostly the dreamers, over-optimistic and the out and out nutcases you only recognise once they’ve signed a three-month sole agency, but we all have to start somewhere.

F gives a less than convincing, slowly stuttering to a halt explanation as to why he’s not done what we, as a firm, promised to do from the outset. Keep in touch.

I can feel the anger and the ulcer burning, an inflammatory process not helped by the sight of B, our loose lettings lush, staggering in on unsuitable heels from what appears to have been a long, boozy – possibly x-rated – lunch. She has no problem keeping in touch with clients…

I let an expletive slip out. F visibly flinches while B totters to the kitchen. S and T just stare at their computer screens. There was a time when I never swore in front of my staff, but time, changed morals and dealing with property have loosened my inhibitions just as surely as they’ve loosened B’s bra straps.

‘We’ll all take a section of the register and we’ll be done by the end of the day.’ I eventually say, as I tap the relevant keys and the printer whirs in to life behind me. I could have done without the paper jam.

‘As long as I don’t have to ring that miserable cow.’ Argues T as he looks at his portion of the slightly crumpled sheet of A4 paper he has been allocated. Admittedly, I felt a bit guilty underlining the woman’s address in the colour-coded highlighter pen I decided to use for T’s portion of the list. Although I broadly subscribe to the mantra: Never ask a subordinate to do something you wouldn’t do yourself – there must be some perks in being the boss.

‘The sooner you call her the easier it will be.’ Says a voice I belatedly recognise as my own. The lady is a fully-wicker-bound basket case, aiming to spite her ex-husband by staying in the marital home for as long as she can. The man, living in a bed-sit somewhere, with his younger girlfriend – a lesson for middle-aged lotharios everywhere – is one of the few vendors wanting to sell at a realistic price. His spurned spouse wants mad money for the home and half his pension. Got to love the public.

‘How did it go?’ I ask the team when I emerge from my office after a prickly phone call with the bean counter.

‘Three taken off the market, one price increase and some new insults.’ Replies T sourly.

Not bad then.

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The Way It Is - Friday

‘That tool on London road is back on the market with someone else.’ Announces assistant manger T dismissively, as he walks through the door bristling. I’m guessing the market appraisal he’s just been on was a waste of time, but then seventy percent of them are. If it’s not another agent cutting fees or over-inflating value, it’s an owner with unrealistic price expectations, no serious intention of moving, and wanting a figure for their divorce negotiations or building insurance claim.

‘He’s a tosser.’ Agrees negotiator S feistily. She usually charms the vendors with regular contact – something, if they’ve seen her in person males and the separating lesbian couple, crave even more – but the miserable man at the house in question was immune to her assets.

‘It’s not an easy sell.’ I agree, not wishing to be seen denigrating a client without the cloak of anonymity.

The house is right on a busy road, with difficult access and a poor plot size. Families dislike the proximity to the traffic for fear of children running out into the road, older buyers are not prepared to put up with the noise, at least not at the figure the owner expects. Annoyingly, I told him all this at the time but he insisted on a higher than recommended asking price. In a moment of weakness and under pressure from the bean counter boss on my new instruction targets, I relented.

‘We should find out how much it’s on the market for.’ I say, wondering how much he’s reduced now he’s swapped agents and cursing inwardly for the lost marketing costs, not to mention the hurt a rival agents sold board will inflict every time I drive past, until completion.

‘Already done that.’ Says T smugly waving his web connected mobile. It’s the famous one that people will pay a premium price for - no matter how close to the dual carriageway they are. I tried to master it once and failed miserably, which doesn’t say much for my intellect. Outwitted by a smartphone.

‘Have a guess.’ Teases T shaking his head in seeming disbelief. I go first; lopping £50,000 of the price we laboured at for four months. T just continues shaking his cranium. S tries £30k lower than before and T scoffs in derision. Five fruitless minutes later as S and I compete in an ever-spiralling series of reductions that eventually get back to 1990 prices and an approximation of affordability, we give up.

There was a time, pre internet portals, when you had to resort to subterfuge to find out what other agents were marketing at. Registering on their mailing list with a false identity, ringing up and disguising your voice pretending you’d seen the board and were a serious buyer, or waiting until the weekly property paper appeared and scanning that. They did it to us, so we had no choice but to reciprocate. Now you just look on-line

Then dozy trainee F pipes up, bringing me back to the price guessing game as he says ‘I reckon it’s gone up.’

I spit out a derisive laugh as S shakes her head and her tits follow in tandem, but even before my sarcastic chuckle, or S’s breasts have stilled, I realise the uncomfortable truth. The idiot savant is right. And T confirms it.

‘Yep, it’s on the market for £20,000 more than we had it for.’ Scoffs T waving his phone in confirmation.

‘Nobody will ever pay that.’ Predicts S confidently.

‘And if they do,’ I begin less confidently, before I regain my equilibrium by appending a more certain. ‘The surveyor will down-value it ruthlessly.’

‘They down-value whatever the agreed price is.’ Sneers T with feeling.

‘So why would the other agent put it on for such a ridiculous price?’ Asks F with the second sensible comment of his career to date.

And I tell him: because they can, because they are probably under pressure to maintain their market share, board count and register. Because the person they sent to value it is probably unqualified, and inexperienced, with a bad suit and a badly sign-written car. ‘It’s ridiculous.’ Concludes F.

Make that three.

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