Diary of an estate agent

A mixed week for the latest of our willing, diary-writing estate agents. The meeting with the three blonde Swedish flatmates was good. Being covered in a foul hail of pigeon poo was not. Nor was seeing the car get towed away. Ah well.

Monday

Reported on offers that came in after Saturday's viewings, then arranged two tours for later in the week. One prospective buyer had seen some properties on our website and was flying in from Russia to view them.

Remembered to ring my wife and tell her not to move the ladder in the attic bedroom. It was too late: the newly painted cupboard doors that the ladder was propping up had fallen on to the dust sheets.

Tuesday

Went to value a block of six flats, off Westbourne Grove, which needed to be renovated. The basement flat was uninhabitable because of rising damp, but the first-floor flat is apparently occupied by three Swedish students. Discovered later that they were all 6ft, blonde and female. I will have to go back - purely on a professional basis, of course.

We were trying to sell a beautiful flat in a busy road, so I hit on the idea of inviting some specially selected people to see it and offer them Marks & Spencer sandwiches and glasses of chardonnay by way of encouragement. They stood on the roof terrace admiring the view over South Kensington and made enthusiastic noises. I must say, I wouldn't mind living there, either.

Wednesday

At 8.15am, I was in north London. A client wanted to talk tactics after having received a bid of £100,000 below the £1.5 million asking price of his property. Anguished, he insisted that accepting this offer would feel like having a body part removed without anaesthetic.

I pointed out this was a record price in terms of the road and how much the property value had increased.

Prices had leapt 47 per cent since he bought the house two years ago but he was looking for a 60 per cent return. Left him chewing this over.

By lunchtime, my speedometer showed I had driven 18 miles. My journeys took so long it felt as though I'd driven to Leeds and back.

At 8.15pm, after attending a lecture on the new legislation about the right to buy your freehold, I was on my way home when my mobile warbled. It was Mrs Wong phoning from Canada. Her son had locked himself out of her flat, could I help? Luckily I had the porter's phone number on my palmtop. Problem sorted.