Well, this certainly is a big week for blogging. Knitting one day, real estate agents the next. I just thought I should share today with you now instead of clogging up my weekly post with ruminations on those abominable members of society known as REAL ESTATE AGENTS.
Depending on your level of intelligence, you may or may not have noticed that the subject of 'fake people' is synonymous with 'real estate agents'. Or, as they now call themselves, 'property managers' (same diff, doesn't make a skerrick of difference to me). First of all, if you are a nice real estate agent or know a perfectly nice real estate agent, I'm not talking about you, I'm talking about the other 99% of your profession who do a great disservice to humankind.
In my three week experience of looking for a place to live, all the agents have been one or more of the following: unprofessional, arrogant, disorganised, patronising or just downright rude. In no other 'selling' profession would you be successful with this laughable lineup of qualities but unfortunately demand for property is so freakin' high that it's a seller's market.
Take, for example, this morning. My good buddy, (soon to be flatmate) Sireesha lined up a second inspection for an apartment in Artarmon at 8:30am. Considering how far Artarmon is from where I currently live, 8:30 is early. I drove. I picked up Sir and Ass and we made our way to Artarmon. About five minutes away from the property, and ten minutes before we were supposed to meet the agent, Alexandra, she calls. Someone has put a deposit on the apartment. Sorry sorry sorry. There is no f*cking WAY someone just called her up at 8:19am and said "oh yes, I've decided to rent this place". They would have called her the previous day, giving her ample time to inform us and let us sleep in. That, my friend, is disorganisation and a complete lack of courtesy.
Anyway. So we had a peek-a-boo at a place in Chatswood that we were to see later, then I drove down to Wollstonecraft (near North Sydney) for another inspection, where the agent was late by 10 minutes and lacked the manners to acknowledge that fact to the stairwell of people lining outside the apartment door. The apartment was mouldy, anyway so the three of us did an "ix-nay on the ould-may", left the car at Wolly and took the train to Chatswood.
Now Jonathan started off well. He actually arranged a private inspection for me, fitting around my lunch break on Wednesday. I took pics of the house and the girls liked it, so I arranged a second inspection for today. He turned up in his vintage BMW, rolled out in his dusty, rumpled pinstripe suit and I introduced him to Sir and Ass. He regarded them with disdain, all the while pumping that fake agent charm. Then the following exchange took place:
Ass: "Is that a mood ring?"
Jon: "Yes."
Ass: "What mood are you in?"
Jon: "Well blue means horny and it's usually blue."
Like, ew. Not what we needed to know. Also indicates someone isn't getting enough lovin'. Anyway, he proceeded to talk to the two ladies who had also turned up for the inspection and I showed the girls around. We decided we'd take it so took some application forms and said we'd meet him at his office at 2:30pm, which is when he said he'd go back there.
Submitting an application and giving a $470 deposit is not a guarantee that we'll get the place. Apparently it just means he won't show the place to anyone for a week while the landlord (who happens to live overseas) decides whether we will be able to pay the rent for 12 months (the former tenant was evicted for not). If the application is approved, the deposit goes towards our bond. If the application is not approved, we get the money back. So nothing is confirmed. Have you ever seen those application forms? They're like interrogation documents - passport numbers, salary, everything! I don't think I'll go down too well as a freelance journalist who has only just started a new job but I have my fingers crossed.
We had to go back to Wollstonecraft anyway, because I'd left my car there, so we ended up viewing another apartment that I'd set up an inspection for - just in case but also just for the hell of it. I've forgotten this guy's name but he also wore a pinstripe suit (not as rumpled or dirty as Jonnie's) and carried a clipboard. It's like a real estate agent's uniform. Anyway, in a comical sequence, his security door key didn't work so he buzzed a resident, who let him in, then we hiked up about six short flights of stairs looking for #14 (behind two other potential tenants) before we realised it was on the first floor. He'd followed us up too, which showed that he had no idea about the place. THEN he fumbled with the lock for three excruciating minutes before we were let into an apartment stuffed to the gills with junk and beer bottles. "Obviously they're in the middle of packing up," was the excuse.
The place was nice enough and at $390, a little easier on the budget. We decided we wouldn't mind living there (after it'd been cleaned, of course) so kept it in mind as a backup in case the Chatswood house fell through. However, it was obvious that the Chatswood place had twice the space and was in a better location, so we're all sitting tight for Jonnie to come through for us.
Went to yum cha at Kam Fook and then traipsed down to the office (mistakenly stampeding an LJ Hooker office instead of the intended Laing & Simmons office next door) with our $470. By then I think Jonnie had come to the end of his day because he started answering our questions rather patronisingly such that as soon as he left the room, Ass mouthed a big "wanker!".
Right, I'm going to be nice to him until we have the place. That part is necessary. After that, I might decided that I'm going to be a bit patronising myself if his behaviour continues. After all, my parents are landlords - they know what's going down in the real estate biz and some (dirty but necessary) arsewipe agent isn't going to start pushing us around just because it's our first time living out of home.
Driving back, Jonathan became 'pinstripe Jonnie' > 'loose lips Jonnie' > 'loose Jonnie' > 'LJ' > 'LJ Hooker' > 'dirty LJ Hooker'.
Anyway, the real point of this entry is: why are real estate agents such arsewipes? Why are they patronising? If they're not patronising, they're completely fake, which itself is a form of patronisation. If they're not fake, they're disorganised and generally unprofessional, which shows a complete lack of respect and courtesy towards the people who might eventually be paying their far too large salaries (most agents seem to have brand new luxury brand cars - Jonnie happened to have an older luxury brand car). Can anyone answer this question?
1 comment:
Damn, that's pretty bad. I have had some issues with real-estate agents, but nothing as bad as that.
When me and Mrs. were looking for an apartment, we went to see one apartment. The moment we stepped inside, we both got "the itch in the nose". Meaning: Allergic reaction. It was quite obvious that the tenant had been keeping animals there. And sure enough, in the bedroom there was a basket the dog used for sleeping, and there were loads of pictures of a german shepherd on the nightstand. Now, that can be bad, sicne it's VERY difficult to get rid of all the "dog-stuff" in the apartment, which could have meant allergic reaction for the next 12 months.
As we were looking at the pictures of the dog, the real-estate agent walks in. We ask him "Does the current owned keep pets in here?". He looks at us and says "No". After two seconds we ask "Really?". And he confirms: "No, no pets here". Um, OK. I think we'll just take our money elsewhere. To someone who actually doesn't try to kill us with allergy.
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