The Awful Estate-agent Rule

This extreme touchiness, evidence of the extent to which our identity is bound up with our homes, helps to explain the universal and apparently quite irrational English dislike of estate agents. You will rarely hear a good word spoken about estate agents in this country: even people who have never had any dealings with them invariably speak of them with contempt. There is a clear unwritten rule to the effect that estate agents must be constantly mocked, sneered at, censured and abused. They are on a par with traffic wardens and double-glazing salesmen – but while the offences of traffic wardens and salesmen are obvious, I found that no-one could quite put a finger on exactly what estate agents do to deserve their vilification.

When I asked people to account for their aversion to estate agents, the responses were vague, inconsistent and often contradictory: estate agents were ridiculed as stupid and incompetent ‘twits’, but also reviled as sly, grasping, cunning and deceitful. Finding it hard to see how estate agents could manage to be simultaneously dim-witted and deviously clever, I eventually gave up pressing for a rational explanation of their unpopularity, and tried instead to look for clues in the detailed mechanics of our interactions with them. What exactly do estate agents do? They come to inspect your house, look around it with an objective eye, put a value on it, advertise it, show people round it and try to sell it. What is so terribly offensive about that? Well, everything, if you replace the word ‘house’ with ‘identity’, ‘personality’, ‘social status’ or ‘taste’. Everything that estate agents do involves passing judgement not on some neutral piece of property but on us, on our lifestyle, our social position, our character, our private self. And sticking a price tag on it. No wonder we can’t stand them. By making them the butt of our jokes and scorn, we minimize their power to hurt our feelings: if estate agents are universally agreed to be stupid, ineffectual and insincere, their opinions and judgements become less meaningful, their intrusions into our private sphere less traumatic.

Garden rules

From our helicopter at the beginning of this chapter we saw that the English all want to live in their own private box with their own private green bit. Indeed, it is our insistence on the private green bit that is, ironically, largely responsible for the desecration of the English countryside, with the construction of ‘relentless green suburbs’ and all the environmental damage and pollution that they entail. The English simply will not live in flats or share courtyards like urban dwellers in other countries: we must have our private boxes and green bits.

However small, the green bit is at least as important as the box. Tiny scraps of land, which almost anywhere else in the world would be regarded as too insignificant to bother with, are treated as though they were grand country estates. Our moats and drawbridges may be imaginary, but every Englishman’s castle has its miniature ‘grounds’. Take a typical, undistinguished suburban or ‘residental-area’ street, with the usual two rows of smallish, nondescript semi-detached or terraced houses – the kind of street in which the vast majority of English people live. Each house will usually have a minuscule patch of garden at the front, and a larger green bit at the back. In slightly more affluent areas, the patch at the front will be a little bigger, and the house set a few feet further back from the road. In less well-off areas, the front patch will shrink to a token tiny strip, although there may still be a front gate, a path to take you the one or two steps to the front door, and a plant or smidgen of greenery of some sort on either side of the path to prove that it still qualifies as a ‘front garden’. (The front garden with its path can also be seen as a kind of symbolic moat and drawbridge.)