This old house....

This week I've given over my blog to a 'popular' local agent whom I met whilst selecting a large piece of Blueberry pie at Logie Steading. We reminissed on the virtues of getting old and of course the local property market, here's what he had to say - I'm sure you'll enjoy it ......

As I pause before the mirror and contemplate another day flogging homes, I check the reflection and grimace. Countless old buzzards in crumbling homes, matching their crumbling frames, regale estate agents with portentous warnings about not getting old, seemingly unaware that the alternative isn’t too peachy an option.

I know it’s because they’re lonely and painfully aware that life is effectively over - just the care home and the adult sized nappies to negotiate – but I’m already prone to mild depression, in this business.‘Not too bad for your age.’ Chuckles my wife not entirely helpfully, as I fiddle with my tie knot.

I’m aware I’m no matinee star, but I like to feel I’ve aged better than most of my peer group. With the rapidly greying temples, I’m trying to cultivate the salt and pepper George Clooney look, but in truth it might be closer to George Fornby.

‘Maturing.’ I say pausing before adding. ‘ Like a good wine.’ It hands my wife the perfect opportunity too confirm wryly, that she knows I do.

‘You’re doing okay.’ She grants graciously, then hurries to the kitchen to avoid any further fabrication.

I occasionally run into old school contemporaries, often valuing their home for a matrimonial split. It’s a bittersweet moment judging, as we both are doubtless doing, who has done better since the faded yearbook picture. The ones that give me a warm cheer are the over-achievers who peaked early. The sort of kiddie who was football captain, had a trial for a minor league outfit, and always picked you last in the traumatising P.E. team selection process.

Obviously it’s bad for business pointing out the balding big-bellied man about to lose his home hasn’t worn too well. You can’t afford too much blatant vitriol in sales. On reflection, it might be why I’m persevering with this blog, cheaper than a therapist’s couch and any carping won’t cost precious deals.

‘You’ll be late.’ Warns my wife, as I check my e-mails. I’ve been tempted by another Friends Reunited teaser and dipped into that oddly addictive time warp. I’m not scanning for first love availability mind, I’ve attended too may forced sales where one spouse has been seduced by a twenty-five year old memory of his classmate in a gymslip, to know it’s not a wise move.

Although relationship break-ups do fuel the sales market nicely. Perhaps my crummy outfit should investigate a link to the site. Not sure how the photos posted on-line would stand up to the property misdescription act though, as most of them are ten years and ten pounds out of date.

‘Don’t I know you?’ Asks the grey-faced man who opens the door to me later. He looks like a barely animated corpse, and as he stares at my business card we both realise we attended the same failed educational experiment. A vast comprehensive forged by the amalgamation of a reluctant Grammar school and a notorious secondary modern. He used to kick me as I waited at the bus stop, a fact he’s conveniently forgotten, unless he’s got early onset Alzheimer’s.

I remember though.‘Best days of my life.’ He reminisces nostalgically; confirming he’s either completely lost his marbles along with his wife, or has had an exceedingly dull thirty years since.Then as if to confirm he reached his apex in maths lessons, he brings out a dusty set of school photos and ignoring the fact he routinely bruised my ankles while I waited for the number ten bus, he starts meandering down memory lane.

The man is clearly more depressed than I am, so once I’ve humoured him with the odd sanitised anecdote about the crappy emporium we both attended, and more importantly ascertained his soon to be ex-wife’s solicitor has okayed the imminent house sale, I hit him with a top rate sole agency - one that stings almost as much as my legs used to.

‘I’m thinking of organising a reunion.’ The man continues once I’ve the paperwork and a for sale board safely confirmed. God help his creaky-limbed internet-sourced dance partner when Slade are played at the disco, she’ll need to watch her shins.I’ll just wait for their re-sale in a couple of year’s time.

See you at the reunion- Until next time,

Mr Jackson.