Interior Life of an Estate Agent. Part 7

Inadvertently get off to a very unprofessional start because I get sidetracked by Tracey who is being quite rude, and she rather brings out the worst in me, so our talk becomes absolutely filthy, with hideous bursts of maniacal female laughter shrieking out in the office, at which point Andy appears in the doorway looking a bit tense and says he will get the keys for me for my 10 o’ clock appointment. I am abashed. I apologize and say I lost track of time, to which he replies, tensely I feel, 'Well, you have to have a laugh at work.' Yes, I say, but not so that I forget why I am there. Awful. The poor man’s paying me to behave like a fishwife. I must make sure I don’t sit next to Tracey at the Christmas dinner because I will certainly disgrace myself again.

I have only three appointments; the first is at a neglected 1930s house which, strangely, for all its stink of damp and its pitiable state of repair, I absolutely love. The ceilings are high, the rooms spacious, and it is the perfect set for a Noel Coward farce. The man who has bought it is there with his builder. Heaven knows where he found this builder but, when I hear the way they are discussing the renovation, it is clear that the new owner has never done any work on a house before, and the builder doesn’t have any idea about anything. There is bizarre talk of moving a wall etc, trying to create an en suite, in a very odd manner. I suggest making a wet room and ask if he is intending to do B and B if he needs to squeeze it in like that, all odd angles, and he says no, and looks more puzzled. Lord. What a pair. He doesn’t even know that reclamation yards will buy the iron guttering if he chooses to take it off, or that they will have any fittings he doesn’t require. Nor does he know that someone will buy the original AGA which his wife doesn’t want. I wanted to chase the pair out of there with a broom and do the job properly. The builder clearly has no sensitivity towards houses whatsoever, and I wouldn’t trust him to put up a loo roll holder.

The second place I go to is a novelty, a converted Sunday school, one big rectangular building made into a two bedroomed house. Quite interesting but why, I wonder, did the converters position a Victorian bath diagonally across a large room, devoid of any other bathroom fittings, not even a towel rail, and then put the loo, sink and shower in what seemed to be a hallway – leading to the washing machine and back door – in which there is no room to even get your trousers down. I look at the bath sited in splendid isolation in the otherwise empty bathroom, and felt that to have a bath in there would leave one feeling terribly exposed and vulnerable. The couple that look round manage to do so entirely without speaking to me, very peculiar. I try to speak to them but they merely pass on, with expressions of we-know-what-we-think-but-we’re-not saying.

And finally, back to the dear small man, the 80 year-old widower, in his tiny terraced house which he says is now too large for him, because he’s alone, and lonely, and hey, a very nice, unassuming doctor and his wife buy it, just like that, asking price, absolutely delighted, just what they want, thank you very much, and shake hands on the deal. Everyone treats this dear man gently, and we emphasize to him that we would not be hurrying him in any way, but to start things after Christmas. However, in the ten minutes it takes me to get back to the office to tell them the good news, he has already phoned another estate agents and made an offer on a property for himself. It could all be a ruse; he may have murdered his wife, and be keen to get out of the house, yet we all smile sweetly and are careful around him. He’s hot-to-trot, and I have redeemed the disgusting rowdy behaviour of the early morning by coming back with a done deal. I learn that the nice doctor and wife who are buying the tiny terraced house, to accommodate residential care workers for their Residential Home, have also just bought themselves a new home for 850K. A nice morning out shopping then? To look at them you’d never believe it; they are quiet, almost scruffily dressed, and very gentle people. Not another Shipman I hope. Andy sends us all home at 1 o’clock, so a free afternoon. Good day all round.

Interior Life of an Estate Agent. Part 6

It's quiet now. The crazy pre-Christmas house-buying spree has ended. The phone hardly rings. We drink coffee and eat chocolate to pass the time. I get a call from a desperate purchaser whose own sale has fallen through; their buyer has pulled out, causing them to lose the house they were going for. What can I say? It's sad, and annoying, but there's nothing to be done. People always get angry with estate agents for this sort of mishap, or blame the solicitors, yet its always some fickle punter who either backs out of a sale or withdraws their property from the market. Everyone wants to shoot the messenger.

This woman on the phone is saying they have found another purchaser and are prepared to sell at a lower price in order to continue with the purchase that had to be stopped, providing the seller will agree to continue at the same price he agreed two months ago. There's the rub. The owner has put the place back on the market for another £15,000, part of which he feels will cover the money he has lost in rental during negotiations. I call him and put the offer to him but he's reluctant. I have to ring back the disappointed woman and tell her he's not prepared to drop the price, continue to lose rental income, and possibly wait another few months. She keeps me on the phone for many minutes saying the same thing in a variety of different ways.

She's determined to convince me that she can effect her sale in a fortnight. I tell her it is rarely less than six weeks because her buyers have to start from scratch but she won't have it. First she tells me they are cash buyers then, when I ask her about this, she tells me they are in rented accommodation. This is not cash. Then she says they have a mortgage in place. This is not cash. If they have a mortgage in place it only means an agreement, the mortgage company still have to be satisfied about the particular property, and always require valuations and surveys. Two weeks. I wish it could be. I'm sorry for them. I'm less sorry for them as she goes on talking, on and on. I bring her to the point several times but still she goes over the same ground. If only it were cash. Who the hell has £240,000 in cash?

On a more optimistic note, after being with this firm for two months, and yet to make a sale, I get a call from a very Cornish man who's interested in a terraced Victorian property. He wants to know why the house next door looks so disgusting, filthy, with rotten windows, drawn curtains, and a terrible air of neglect. I find out and call him back to say that there's an elderly widower in there, who has no money to fix anything but that he has had the roof done. He's pleased about this because, for some reason, he thinks if it was empty it might make the next door house, the one for sale, damp. Not sure how this works, although the dilapidated place does lower the tone a tad. He books a viewing. He's in rented. Could he have cash? Lordy, lordy, let this be my first sale or I may not have this job for long.

A Month In The Country. Brian Friel after Turgenev. Dir Richard Beecham. Chiswick, London. 2nd December 2006

We’re seated around four sides of a square stage, set up as a wood planked drawing room, and only two feet above the floor of the hall. In the front row we are so close to the actors we could reach out and touch them, and this intimacy creates a wonderful sense of sharing the room with them, listening and observing this Russian family. There is no need for projection, and the actors’ and voices are set at normal speech level which adds to the atmosphere of inclusion. This play is deeply ironic, and a masterful observation of human emotion and character. The actors are staggeringly well-rehearsed, and their facial expressions are natural throughout.

Beecham has directed this play in such a way as to make the doctor likeable, Michel quite melodramatic, and Natalya more hysterical than I pictured from my reading of the paper text. There is more spirit on show. There is much laughter from the audience at the irony, even, most inappropriately when it is tragic, as much of it is. On paper, this play can be read as a piercingly accurate, and sympathetic, insight into human nature. It is a heart-rending tale of duplicity, betrayal, and self-sacrifice on the part of Vera. Vera’s character is wonderfully played, with humour and fresh vitality at the outset, altering to awareness and maturity as she learns that her ardent admiration of the young tutor, Aleksey, is unreturned, that her guardian is weak and treacherous, and that her childhood is over. She appears to cast away her life by marrying an old farmer with neighbouring land, but does this with great dignity and wisdom, her washed out mien, her red-eyed appearance, from genuine sobbing, and her poise lending her grace, even in defeat.