I. HATE. ESTATE.

An exciting new contributor to Hot Rant this week. A contributor who, being a fair lady, has finally smashed this site's existing sausage stranglehold. Time for council-house hating Claire Geddie to talk estate agents...

Estate agents are muppets. Not the furry, well-meaning, yellow and blue friends of our childhood. Rather, they are bumbling buffoons, idiot guardians of the hallowed halls of London real estate. Gatekeepers of the garrett, keymasters of the corrupt. Their levels of ineptitude are positively Dickensian, and all is made worse by a degree of avarice that would make Scrooge blush with the sheer cheek of it.

I prefer to have little to no association with this breed. For nearly 5 years I have lived in a building which is part of a family run network of properties, with an office next door. While far from perfect, it's more Fawlty Towers than Amityville Horror. And because I know there are alternatives to your classic agency/highway-robbery-by-bank-transfer, I fear my tolerance for their antics has declined.



Fast forward to 2009. Faced with an onslaught of family moving to London, I am awarded the task of screening flats in advance of their arrival, and not just flats, but the holy grail of the London property search - the immaculate and reasonably priced 2 bedroom in Central London.

With 8 years of London living under my belt and the weight of 5 previous property searches under my belt I am embarking again on this Titanic Ship of Fools. And true to form I am met with pain and suffering at every turn.

Your honour, if it please the court:

Exhibit A.
A two bedroom property on King's Cross Road. I am on my lunch break, it's a scorcher. And garbage day. There is nowhere for me to stand but beside a festering can of refuse. At the 15 minute estate-agent wait mark I ring, I am told "5 minutes off". 10 minutes later I am on the verge of leaving, when she arrives, apology-free. Fine, fine. After a tour, I am discussing the finer points of the related transactions with her (The finders fee, the Holding Fee, the Inventory fee, the 6 pints of blood, 4 phoenix feathers, and 6 weeks deposit).

Before long however, she takes a call, seemingly from a love interest, and starts discussing her date plans for that evening. 5 long minutes go by while I stand beside her like a lemon. Finally I hand her a notebook and WHILST ON THE PHONE she scribbles down the final financial points. I depart silently as she sets the scene for whatever naff estate agents do on dates.

FAIL.

Exhibit B.
At 9:15 I am outside the flat in question when I get a call asking if I am still on for my 9:15 appointment. Why yes, yes I am. In fact I'm here, which you would know if YOU were here. 5 minutes later he arrives, only to find that he can't open the door. I leave.

FAIL.

Exhibit C.
A two bedroom, moderately (yet still extortionately) priced flat is on the agenda. I have specified not ex-council please because traditionally (my prejudice) I don't like the cut of their jib. So we arrive - red brick building, lovely - enter the front hall - and it's 100% clear that we have a council situation. I ask for some explanation - "Council? You didn't want ex council? I thought you meant ex-counSEL. Like counsellors. Yeah. 'And you cheat, you lie, you make me wanna cry..... (Thanks Godley and Creme).

FAIL.

I wish there was a happy ending to this tale of one city. I fear it will all end with compromise and paying through the nose into a jackasses pocket. But I live in hope. Claire Geddie