Skip to main content

Interior Life of an Estate Agent - part 8

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.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Running ‘till your nipples bleed

An email from a friend of mine arrives; she complains that, at work, she is routinely subjected to gruesome accounts of female colleagues’ intimate medical procedures and gynaecological problems. I am all commiseration because I, too, have had years of listening to workplace chats about periods, childbirth and sex lives. Oh please. Later, I wander off for a walk in the early evening sunshine and it is so silent and so beautiful that I flop down on the grass and lay awhile gazing out over the rolling fields, and the mouth of the river, and fall into a reverie. Two men pass by. A few minutes later sounds of women’s talk float nearer and, by the time the two females of the species draw level with me, I have risen up from my deliciously recumbent position in the meadow, alert and tense, something like a meerkat. “I do feel for her. Going down that IVF route is such an emotional roller coaster. I was never prepared for how terrible it was going to be.” I remain frozen in my meerkat position...
Post a Comment
Read more

Ian McEwan. Amsterdam. London: QPD, 1998

McEwan’s novel about ambition, personal betrayal and revenge features Clive, a modern composer trying to complete a major orchestral work, his friend Vernon, an editor trying to save his ailing newspaper, and Garmony, an unscrupulous right-wing politician on the rise. In common, all three have, in previous years, been lovers of recently dead Molly. They meet at her funeral and the story follows the next few weeks of the men’s lives. Vernon and Clive act as one another’s conscience, each infuriating the other. Which is more important, honesty, friendship and trust or Vernon’s newspaper and Clive’s symphony? The novel presents the difficulties of balancing personal and public morality, the importance of private shame and public reputation, the conflict between taking a moral decision for the greater good, or putting first ones own desires. Not just a simple exposé of a politician with a vulnerable side, Amsterdam is full of double standards and surprises, and takes a long, cynical look a...
Post a Comment
Read more

Ralph McTell, Truro, 19 April 2007

Ralph's mates from Pentewan have all turned up in a mini bus to hear him sing and play, and he walks onto the stage looking comfortable; he's amongst friends. He's a big man; very charismatic, with a warm smile and a beguiling aura of powerful gentleness. He's relaxed, we're relaxed, and he sits with his guitar, chatting easily between songs, and playing with an easy familiarity with us, and with his material. His guitar playing is intricate and playful; going from ragtime to blues to folk, and his voice is deep and rich. He comments that he's put together quite a serious programme for the two hours he's on stage; it's true that the lyrics are thoughtful and the subjects serious, but there is light material too; a tune about Laurel and Hardy, and one or two covers of old blues numbers. When he sings Streets of London there are happy sighs and the audience sing along very softly; as softly as a whisper. It feels as intimate as if we were just a few people...
Post a Comment
Read more