A smarm. That should be the collective term for estate agents. They seem to think very highly of themselves, convinced of their utter genius at making money for old rope. You can probably tell I’m not a fan. It’s a curious irony that the place you lay your head and fill with your love should be infected with such opportunistic self interest just because you would like to move from one place to another.
It’s hard enough anyway, without all that. When you make the hard decision to move, whatever your reason, it can be a tough process to bring yourself to an acceptance or even enthusiasm for. You may want to move, need to move, be ready for it. Yet, it may also be the case that a deeper part of you will take some time to bring itself to a point where it’s ready.
During all this I’ve been having dreams about the sea o’ertopping its confines and flooding onto the land. Most nights for a while that was a feature. My life wasn’t in danger, but it was made clear that part of me was feeling this was a risky thing to be doing. My unconscious has tried to persuade me it’s really not scary. The last dream of this nature I found myself in a tropical paradise, where the sea was a crystal clear turquoise. Yet it still came into my room, and had a beautiful fish and a frog in it. Dream me squealed in a way quite uncharacteristic, terrified of this stunning wildlife.
It seems as if, though I need to move for practical reasons, and am also bored out of my skull, part of me, a deep part, feels safe here, and doesn’t want to be challenged or shifted from it’s little haven. I need to persuade it things will be better, not worse. But the influx of those damnable estate agents really doesn’t help.
I’ll change their names to preserve their anonymity. They mostly seem cut from the same cloth anyway. I decided I was initially going to go with an online agent, simply because it cost so much less, and also that it would be the only one that does no sale no fee, so I didn’t stand to lose financially as a result. Most of them you pay up front and if they don’t sell then hard luck. But it made sense to get valuations from a couple of local agents, so I had a better picture of what it was actually worth, and to make a choice as to which I would go to if I needed to.
Enter Roger, with his gelled sticky up hair, shiny suit, and excess of self belief. For some reason he seemed to want to spend most of the time he was here raving about how fantastic his estate agency was, what an amazing person he was, and very little on my house. He was entirely clueless as to how to value it, and was unable to make sense of what I was telling him about the property. He lived in a little bubble of self referential certainty, where he was right because he was right. I decided there was no way I could possibly go with him. I did receive a letter from him revealing that he had listened to me, but since it contradicted everything he’d told me he actually thought I wasn’t convinced. I wrote telling him that. I’ve been hassled by the agency a number of times since then, revealing they don’t share information at all.
Henry was a bit different. Much older, in the business for a lifetime, but like an old puppy. Enthusiastic, bouncing around attempting to engage and to give the impression he was interested in what I was saying. He too had a sense of his own fabulousness, and of achieving all sorts of wondrous things in house selling. But he was without guile, and went away and thought about what I’d said, coming back me with a better offer. I decided if necessary I’d go with him.
This is long enough now, I’ll continue in the next post, but suffice to say Henry’s enthusiasm is a tale all on it’s own.