I am thrilled to bits today.
This morning, I visited a lovely chap who wishes to sell his house in order to move to a retirement place some miles from Bristol.
We had a cup of tea together, we chatted about his family and his late wife, and we talked about his house and its likely value.
We talked about the market, briefly, but we didn’t really get into the nitty-gritty of how we would sell his property, other than than to confirm a few details about who would accompany viewings (me), who would negotiate on his behalf (me, again) and who would oversee the sale through to completion (um, that would be me).
I have to be honest, I really think he’d already made his mind up about who would be selling his house.
He’s had other agents around of course, other valuations, he’s been subjected to the whole spiel. But, no, he wants us to sell his home … and why?
Because his friends told him that we would look after him.
And who are his friends?
Oh, they’re a couple whose house we sold when they moved out of the area.
And when was that?
Oh, that was seventeen years ago, in 1999.
SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO?