I am struggling up a set of ill-lit stairs, mood sinking in step with the climb. You can judge a building by its communal areas – and this block exudes a distinct lack of landlord love. Best practice dictates preparation, so I’ve done my previsit research. As the rickety, wire-caged lift I spurned on entry wheezes past me, I’m painfully aware that the lease is shrinking, the ground rent is rising and the pointing is crumbling. And, as ever, the stairwell reeks of overstewed vegetables and damp.

“Come on in, my dear,” says the elderly lady owner of the flat I’ve come to value. “I’ve put the kettle on.” And the cabbage, too, I think uncharitably.

Given that the public’s opinion of estate agents is pretty much as low as it can go, I am already wary of the owner’s effusive welcome. I’m here to give a valuation on the flat on behalf of a reluctant developer considering a part exchange: for once, I’m not doing the wooing.

“Of course, we’re nice and handy for the shops,” gushes the game old girl as she attempts to sell me her dingy home. Unfortunately, even as she extols the virtues of her property, I spot a telltale water-ingress bloom on the ceiling. Top floor, flat roof, British weather: it’s a bad combination.

“You’ll put the price as high as possible, won’t you?” she pleads as I leave, stomach already regretting the flowery earl grey she foisted on me. “Only I really want that new flat.”

“I’m afraid it’s not up to me,” I reply evasively, knowing the developer won’t want to touch this place with a bargepole – something its poor owner might need if the bitumen above fails completely.

Back in the office, the perpetually perky demeanour of S, the buxom negotiator, banishes my depression and straightens my back – until she reminds me that I’ve a site meeting to attend. The developer is getting twitchy at the lack of sales, hence the grudging offer of part-exchange deals.

Cashback deals to help the balance sheet, dubious gym memberships that won’t be used after Easter and guaranteed rental returns all come at a price – one that’s usually loaded on the front end.

In tandem with utility providers, builders are quick to increase prices when market forces allow, yet loath to drop – unless you can catch them at financial year-end.

“He should just chop his asking prices – then we could shove the savings down the chain,” suggests T, the assistant manager, evidently reading my thoughts. Meanwhile, in the background, B, the lettings manager, is shouting at a tenant who has had the temerity to complain. Given that there is water leaking through their light fitting, they do have a point.

The developer is indeed unhappy: allegedly, another bland block close to the one we’re marketing sold two units last week, despite the increasingly untenable list prices.

“So what are we going to do?” he demands as I sit, palms sweating, in the show flat. He’s paid silly money for a prissy designer to mask the miserly square footage with extravagant drapes, undersized furniture and garish throw cushions. The whole thing is an illusion – as I discovered one wet Saturday after nibbling at a wax apple from the fruit bowl.

Shall I tell him the truth? That, in the absence of suitable houses being built, these flats are simply too small for the money. Despite endangered first-time buyers downsizing aspirations and adapting, I still believe that an Englishman’s home should be a castle – not a chintzy airing cupboard.

I brace myself to deliver the bad news. “Before you say it,” the builder growls, “I won’t reduce my prices.”

Momentarily, I think experience has deserted me. But the stress this commission is putting me under must be showing. “What about a free holiday?” he asks.

Yes, please! Then I realise the flights are not for me. So, passport unused and prices unchanged, I promise more advertising. And hope for a brighter outlook.

www.agentsdiary.blogspot.com

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