By Tom Clifford
Sometimes the utterances, and I have to be careful here, of not exactly lies but untruths can be tolerated, even encouraged for the good of humanity. Congratulating a friend on a new hairstyle even though in your heart of hearts you think it resembles a plowed field is perfectly acceptable. There is one area of human activity where untruths are a frequent, indeed necessary, part of work. I refer of course to real estate agents. They can look a potential customer in the eye and tell them that the place of their dreams is within their grasp upon the completion of certain financial transactions.
After viewing the “place of dreams’’ the real estate agent will tell them that this is a highly regarded location in a desirable residential neighborhood. Of course it is no such thing. The real estate agent will then say something along the lines of …“I will get in touch with the landlord to sort out the lack of bulbs, fittings, furniture, doors, etc.’’
I don’t know if there is an oath of office for real estate agents. But if there was, it could follow along these lines. “I swear that I shall at all times tell a close version of the truth. I shall always sell whatever property is invested in my charge with the utmost confidence, no sense of embarrassment, a winning smile and never fail to remind my clients that all opinions that I express can be subject to immediate change without any fear of legal action. So help me.’’
Real estate agents are a crucial indicator of the economy’s health. The smaller the property rented out the better the economy is doing. Stands to reason. If real estate agents were renting large properties cheaply then that would signify not many people are coming to the area. Hence the economy was not performing well. The smaller the property being offered the better, generally, the economy is doing. I experienced this myself in Hong Kong. I lived in a shoebox on the 28th floor paying an eye-watering monthly rent during the pre-handover boom years.
And then the strangest thing happened to me the other day. I was the victim of a flash of déjà vu as they say in select cafes in Marigot where drinks are sipped through lips that never get wet, a process described in the Peter Sarstedt classic, ‘Where do you go to my lovely’, the unofficial anthem of estate agents.
As I was discussing a rent that clearly represented the landlord’s sense of optimism rather than my economic reality, I felt as if I was back in Hong Kong.
Flowery language was used to describe what to me seemed a very modest dwelling.
I tried to hide my disappointment as best I could. But to no avail. The real estate agent was French. It could have been my imagination but I swear he was humming ‘Where do you go to my lovely.’
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