A full day's viewings thank heaven, and out of the office where the phone never stops. I start with an open house at the seaside house with Mundic foundations so I am doomed to an hour in the stinking damp and dirt with the great hole cut in the floor exposing the true horror. It occurs to me that I could market this as an ideal opportunity to create a subterranean indoor pond with koi carp as a feature. With strengthened glass, this could be a striking feature of the hallway, and most fitting for a house with breathtaking sea views. Five parties come to look round and most are faint hearted but two are more game, and I tell them their minimum spend will be £40,000 to secure the foundations with top grade concrete, and to add a kitchen extension. After that, the expense will all be cosmetic and optional. The brave will make money here, but it's a big project.
My next call is to my favourite property and the couple meet me outside and annoy me instantly. They park in someone else's driveway and upset them, then wander towards the gorgeous barn conversion making disparaging remarks. As they are determined to be miserable I make no attempt to jolly them along; I can read them a mile off as contrary, and so it proves. Whatever I do say on behalf of the property is indeed negated, including that the rooms are smaller than they thought. Yes, they do have the room sizes on the particulars but they imagined they would be bigger. That's why we measure them and write it down. I'm glad they don't like it; I would hate for them to live in that interesting house with its sensitive design and quirky layout, its tasteful wood detail and fresh, simple curtains. Sadly, I can't afford it.
A cancellation condemns me to return to the office to relay phone calls and scribble down messages before rushing out of the door with a half mug of tea still in hand, to drive out to the next viewing, late, with the mug sloshing liquid around in my passenger footwell, but I am hungry and thirsty and there's no lunch break, so I gulp it down as I drive. I am given an embarrassingly low offer, at £25K below the asking price, on a perfectly presented modern house, so am obliged to put it to the vendor but have to hope that she won't take it as a personal affront from me. It comes from an extremely likeable Indian gentleman who wants to haggle but the owner will not understand that cultural expectation. I hope he can be brought up to the mark by the office team while I spend the week elsewhere.
A couple of calls are uninteresting but the last visit is out in the country to a glamorously converted cottage, once a tiny subsistence farm where the owners scratched a living near to the extensive mining in Cornwall, and now a cosy cottage with a fabulous master bedroom and en suite with pine vaulted ceiling and an almost entire glazed wall opening out onto the garden. I'd feel like a movie star in this bedroom. It's one of those days though; all my clients have no offer yet on their own properties, and I finally understand why agents are so reluctant to spend time with those unfortunates who have no firm offer. I hated this when I was in their position but, until an owner has an offer, there's a stalemate. The people viewing this nice old place love it and it seems to suit them perfectly. Let's hope they get their place on the market on Monday and it's snapped up. I'd love them to enjoy it.
My next call is to my favourite property and the couple meet me outside and annoy me instantly. They park in someone else's driveway and upset them, then wander towards the gorgeous barn conversion making disparaging remarks. As they are determined to be miserable I make no attempt to jolly them along; I can read them a mile off as contrary, and so it proves. Whatever I do say on behalf of the property is indeed negated, including that the rooms are smaller than they thought. Yes, they do have the room sizes on the particulars but they imagined they would be bigger. That's why we measure them and write it down. I'm glad they don't like it; I would hate for them to live in that interesting house with its sensitive design and quirky layout, its tasteful wood detail and fresh, simple curtains. Sadly, I can't afford it.
A cancellation condemns me to return to the office to relay phone calls and scribble down messages before rushing out of the door with a half mug of tea still in hand, to drive out to the next viewing, late, with the mug sloshing liquid around in my passenger footwell, but I am hungry and thirsty and there's no lunch break, so I gulp it down as I drive. I am given an embarrassingly low offer, at £25K below the asking price, on a perfectly presented modern house, so am obliged to put it to the vendor but have to hope that she won't take it as a personal affront from me. It comes from an extremely likeable Indian gentleman who wants to haggle but the owner will not understand that cultural expectation. I hope he can be brought up to the mark by the office team while I spend the week elsewhere.
A couple of calls are uninteresting but the last visit is out in the country to a glamorously converted cottage, once a tiny subsistence farm where the owners scratched a living near to the extensive mining in Cornwall, and now a cosy cottage with a fabulous master bedroom and en suite with pine vaulted ceiling and an almost entire glazed wall opening out onto the garden. I'd feel like a movie star in this bedroom. It's one of those days though; all my clients have no offer yet on their own properties, and I finally understand why agents are so reluctant to spend time with those unfortunates who have no firm offer. I hated this when I was in their position but, until an owner has an offer, there's a stalemate. The people viewing this nice old place love it and it seems to suit them perfectly. Let's hope they get their place on the market on Monday and it's snapped up. I'd love them to enjoy it.
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