John Butleron the hard sell and Mini madness of flat hunting
The phone rang at 8.03am on Monday. I groped around, found something with a wire, hauled it back under the duvet and leaned against it, a Bakelite pillow.
"Good morning, John, this is Lee Hamshawe in Foxleys Property in Notting Hill."
"Foxleys?"
"Foxleys Property. Lee from Foxleys."
"Lee from Foxleys."
"Yes, mate. Have I got you at a bad time?"
"It's hard to say."
"Well, I have your details regarding your search for a flat to rent in our neighbourhood, and I'm calling with some great news. A number of wonderful properties that fill your criteria have come up on our books, John. Can I put you down for viewings at 11?"
Through the fug of sleep, I could dimly recall filling in an online questionnaire at 11pm the previous night, about the type of flat I was seeking. Once finished, I clicked "send" and sloped off to bed, doubting I would receive any kind of response. And yet here was Lee, the very next morning, on the blower.
"Okay. Let's say your office at 11."
"Pukka, mate."
Click. Snore.
Generally speaking, looking for a new home to rent involves classified websites such as www.daft.ie or www.craigslist.org, starting at the top and ending with something you don't despise. For the next year, you pay too much rent and tell yourself that you prefer
somewhere small and windowless. At least
that's how it was for me in the past. This time,
I decided to enlist the help of a professional - a Lee-from-Foxleys.
I was back asleep when the phone rang again, three minutes after Lee, at 8.06am.
"Good morning, John, this is Romulo Dryden, your Foxleys representative in Shepherd's Bush, calling with some exciting news."
"Someone from Foxleys just called me, a guy called Lee."
"That's Notting Hill, mate. I'm Shepherd's Bush. A number of special properties have just come up on our books. Let's view them today, shall we?"
I agreed to meet Romulo in Shepherd's Bush at 2pm. Four minutes after I had hung up from Romulo and fallen asleep, the phone rang again, at 8.10am.
"John Butler? Keith Fox from Foxleys Bayswater. Not the owner or anything, just a similar surname, har har. A number of fantastic properties that fill your criteria have just come up on our books. "
"Four o'clock in your office, Keith. Okay?"
"Sorted."
Click.
It took me slightly longer to fall asleep now that I had created a busy day of viewings, but I managed. Ten minutes later, the phone rang again - at 8.20am.
"John, hi, it's Kerrie Chandling from Foxleys Acton. How are we feeling today?"
"Kerrie, do you speak to your co-workers? This is the fourth call I've had today from an agent at Foxleys. What time is it?"
"They probably represent different areas, mate. I do Acton, Turnham Green, Chiswick."
"Kerrie, I don't want to live in any of those areas."
"But in your questionnaire . . ."
"Kerrie. Promise me something. No more phone calls. Pass it around. Tell everyone in the organisation. No more calls."
"Please yourself." Click, snore.
The sheer number of agents Foxleys had assigned to my case was overwhelming. Wave after wave of cold-calling soldiers were throwing themselves out of the trenches and into a hail of gunfire. The decisive move came 15 minutes after Kerrie had hung up on me. Yet another phone call, at 8.30am.
"Yo, Johnny! What is up, my man?"
I sat bolt upright in bed, enraged. So informal!
"Who the hell is this?"
"It's Lee, mate, from Foxleys. Notting Hill." He sounded hurt.
"Christ on a bike, Lee. Didn't we already talk?"
"Yes, but I meant to say, I could always swing by and pick you up in the car so you don't have to come all the way over here."
"Oh. I'm sorry. That's very kind of you, Lee."
"We've got these Minis like in The Italian Job. It's part of the whole experience. You're gonna love it, mate. See you at 11."
Click.
Lee was right. You haven't lived until you have screeched around west London in a canary-yellow-and-white chequered mini, your driver a fin-haired 22-year-old in a starter suit and winkle-pickers, London A-Z street atlas
open on his lap, steering with the palm of one hand and asking you to change the radio
station because "that Amy Winehouse is a minger, man".
Lee had been on the job for six weeks, and you could tell that he hadn't yet acquired the oily veneer of a seasoned salesman. The first place he showed me had recently been vacated by a lunatic. The walls were stained with unidentified brown patches, and music thudded up from the bar below - at 11.30am. I kicked a skirting board. It fell on my toe. An insect scuttled into a crack that ran from floor to ceiling. Lee pretended to peer through dusty blinds.
"Great area, Johnny. Loads of champion boozers. The Tube's only a 20-minute jog."
"But, Lee, the place is hideous. And 260 quid a week? You've got to be kidding me."
"Yeah. You're right, mate. Let's get out of here."
It took so long to find our second place that other agents were phoning us to look for the keys. I opened a window in the Mini to let out some condensation - Lee was overheating. And when we got there, nowhere on that huge, jangling ring of keys was the key to the mortise lock. The door to my dream apartment remained locked, and Lee achieved the impossible feat of making me feel sorry for a letting agent, holding the letter box open and gamely describing the never-never land as I peered inside.
I tried to call Lee the next day, but he was no longer working at the company. It was fine, though. By this point, Aziz Gupti from the Paddington office had a brand new Mini and some more exciting news for me.
John Butler blogs at http://lozenge.wordpress.com