Rage, Rage Against The Buying Of The House

For one reason and another I have had the misfortune to have quite a lot to do with estate agents recently. I try not to buy into stereotypes, I really do. I am fully aware of the nature of unconscious bias and the damage it can do. I hate it when people apply sweeping generalisations to entire sections of society. It makes me want to burn things down.

Despite all this, I find myself growing increasingly frustrated with and annoyed by every, single estate agent I have had the misfortune to have dealings with over the last few weeks. This is, in large part due to the fact that no matter how many chances I give them to buck the trend, they will insist on playing to type. And that also makes me want to burn things down.

Would a judge be lenient if I went up before the beak for pyromania brought about by the red mist of estate agent fuckery? It’s too risky to call it, so while negotiations are ongoing, I must be steered away from flammable materials and made to sit in a corner, barricaded in by a wall of stress balls and soothing lift music.

During lockdown we sold our house and rented the one we are currently living in. My parents also sold their house and moved into a rental property. Recently they have bought another house. Every, single interaction with estate agents, whose sole job it is is to help people buy, sell and move in and out of houses, made it a thousand times harder for us to do those very things. Throw in a pandemic for good measure and it’s fair to say that I carry a lot of house related trauma.

This means that in the current negotiations I have little to no patience and the minute I am approached by someone brandishing a platitude I want to run, screaming into the sea.

So far we have walked away from two properties because of general and specific fuckwittery. We have exited a deal in which we were the only interested party and where we offered exactly what they wanted, when we were told they needed to ‘consider their options,’ which is thinly veiled estate agent speak for ‘we are trying to get a bidding war going here, back the fuck off.’ This was done and dusted quite quickly due to the six weeks prior to that being wasted by a man who absolutely wanted to sell us his house, according to the agent but who refused to appoint a solicitor, answer the phone or fill in a form. By the time we got to the loafer clad, Mini driving twit who believed he could manipulate us into coughing up extra for a house someone had died in and nobody wanted to buy but us, I had had enough.

If it weren’t for the fact that renting is dead money, this house is like living inside a freezer, albeit a very pretty, Victorian freezer and my son has just won a place at a drama school that is too far to commute to, I would never move house again.

My friend and I used to muse over the idea of setting up our own; no frills, no bullshit, no fuckery estate agent. I still like the idea of this except that I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s a bit like an illness that creeps up on you. What if we started it in good faith and then in 18 months time we started wearing shiny, nylon suits with knock off Gucci loafers, driving a fleet of Minis and trying to sell a pigeon loft as a great starter home with plenty of potential?

Jason would have to do the decent thing and just burn me down.