The papers are full of hand-wringing editorials about the overheated property market in London and the South East. Who should we blame for this rocketing house price inflation – vote-chasing politicians or the invading hordes of cash-rich overseas investors, who could obviously give Croesus or Carlos Slim Helú a run for their money?
I blame estate agents. Tennyson once wrote, “In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.” But it’s greed, not romance, that sends London’s army of estate agents into a feeding frenzy at the first sign of springlike weather. With their clipboards, shiny shoes and gigantic bunches of keys, they’re out to seduce you – into a quickie sale.
In the past week, my letter-box has been rattling like a badly installed sash window, as unsolicited mail from local estate agents drops onto my doormat. “I know you are not currently on the market and I’m sure you must be receiving a lot of unwanted correspondence from estate agents in the area,” began once such missive. You’ve got that right. Sadly, after that rare moment of insight, the letter degenerated into the usual mixture of excited claims about double-digit price increases and chain-free buyers who can “move as quick or as slow as is needed”.
I am excited that estate agents now have access to a supply of dual-speed, chain-free purchasers, but it seems to have come at the cost of employing adverbs. This letter did come from Dexters – the apostrophe-free estate agent – so perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that grammar isn’t a strong point.
It’s greed, not romance, that sends London’s army of estate agents into a feeding frenzy at the first sign of springlike weather.
When they’re not writing letters, estate agents are penning columns and posing for photos in glossy magazines like Absolutely West, one of a raft of publications from Zest Media. According to its website, Zest “produces luxury lifestyle magazines for the ultra high net worth residents of London”. This is property porn: pages of “magnificent, one-of-a-kind” residences to salivate over, just bursting with desirable period features, well-appointed wet rooms and “mature” gardens.
Television has got a lot to answer for too: property gurus like Kirstie Allsopp, Phil Spencer, Sarah Beeny and the unctuous Kevin McCloud have been trampling all over the schedules for the past decade. Watching people buy, sell and attempt to renovate their homes has become one of the nation’s most popular spectator sports. How many times can you watch some dreary couple walk into a master bedroom and say “This is so big!” without feeling the urge to defenestrate them? Rather than knock down any more stud walls, I think someone should take a sledge-hammer to Kirstie Allsopp.
So be warned: if you live in one of London’s property hotspots, you will be bombarded with carelessly drafted mailshots until you give in and agree to a “FREE VALUATION”. From there it will be a rollercoaster ride of open-house viewings, leading to feverish negotiations, sealed bids and possibly a spot of gazumpering or gazundering. Your friendly estate agent collects his commission for doing bugger all. Game over.
To borrow a phrase from Burt Bacharach and Hal David, “A House Is Not a Home” in 21st-century London and it’s certainly not a humble abode in which to relax at the end of a long working day. I’d just like all the estate agents to leave me in peace, so that I don’t feel as though I’m trapped in a reality TV version of the board game Monopoly.
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