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I miss the old-school estate agents who seem to have been largely replaced by spotty-faced teenagers
History is a thing of the past for the new professionals
To people of my age the late great John Peel will always be an icon. In the 1970s the legendary disc jockey introduced me and many others to exotic delights on his radio show The Perfumed Garden, including Marc Bolan and Tyrannosaurus Rex. In later years I laughed and cried with him every Saturday morning as he presented Home Truths on Radio 4 and I can still remember where I was when I heard of his passing.
Peel, along with Rick Wakeman and James Whale, was also one of the original grumpy old men who had a radio show on which they used to complain about everything from the size of Curly Wurlys to why Piccadilly line tube trains don’t stop at Stamford Brook.
I consider myself a fully paid-up grumpy old man, particularly in this industry which seems to employ more than its fair share of spotty teenagers.
Last week was a classic. I set off with my Tupperware sandwich box and my travel card to do a valuation in south London.
Not unusually I had to first pick up the house keys from an estate agent who was young enough to be my great granddaughter. She told me there was an alarm code and that it was 1066.
Now I can tell you that history is my long suit and I’ve always prided myself that I can remember which king succeeded which, and which Eleanor of Spain slept with which Austrian prince and why.
Nowadays you are more likely to find your local estate agent wearing a nappy than a suit and tie
So noting the significance of the date 1066 as the year the Normans made the dramatic trip to these shores (pictured) wasn’t the greatest intellectual challenge I have ever faced and I proudly told my new acquaintance that I didn’t need to write it down. Mightily impressed, she told me how clever I was and I think she meant it. When I started surveying every estate agent and solicitor I knew was in their 70s and wore a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches.
Nowadays you are more likely to find your local estate agent wearing a nappy than a suit and tie.
My dad was a traditional estate agent and I can still remember his office. To my youthful eyes it seemed like a medieval torture chamber full of whirring machines with foreign sounding names such as Gestetner.
My dad’s Gestetner paper copying machine was a fearsome piece of kit not unlike the cockpit of a Boeing 747.
In fact, it now brings to mind my other half in that it didn’t work properly until it had been warmed up and frequently shut up shop for no apparent reason.
My dad’s office was also a crumpet-free zone - no female with less than 65 years on the clock was granted any form of employment and the other criterion was that they had to look like Susan Boyle’s granny.
Decrepit and covered in Tippex these ladies might have been but at least they knew about 1066.
SIMON WHITE
DIRECTOR
LONDON’S CHARTERED SURVEYORS
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