When surveying a house I do make a point of being pleasant to the occupiers, be they the owners, tenants or just someone seconded from amongst a stock of reliable relatives, friends and trustworthy neighbours to let me in to do my job.
This is, apparently, quite unusual for my profession who have established a reputation for being dour, unfriendly and tight lipped when in work mode.
I can see that there are some merits in this approach as many property sellers hang on your every expression, body language nuance and scribble on site notes for an indication of a good or adverse survey result. The final word is always that of the home owner with the question asked either tentatively or confidently "everything alright then?".
I find that it is best to be honest and whilst not betraying the confidences of my own client, the buyer, to give an indication of the outcome albeit in broad terms but at least making it clear that there may be a few more hurdles to overcome before the removal van arrives.
Chatting with occupiers puts them at ease and they are more likely to come clean about problems with the house in a way that if disclosed to a prospective purchaser would undoubtedly be a deal breaker. Liability to or actual flooding, roof leaks, dodgy workmanship, disputes over boundaries and neighbours from Hell can all make their way into a general conversation if all parties are at ease. Such disclosures are the bread and butter for a Surveyor. It makes us look good at our job to reveal information unknown or unsuspected by our clients.
By far the greatest source of essential information are the children in a house.
On arrival my initial outside inspection routine seems to be fascinating to them.
I lug about my ladders, sometimes clambering up them to look into a gutter. I stare up at the roof and chimney stacks with concentrated effort. Binoculars are dredged out from deep pockets for use or my old faithful 100 metre long tape is deployed to measure the length of a garden or the perimeter of the property. or my performance I have an audience and there are invariably small tousled heads and cheeky expressions to be seen, on and off, at the windows or doors. I cannot but smile and be amused by this activity.
On ringing the front bell it is the children who get to the door first and welcome me in as they would a long lost relative.
They have been on alert for perhaps a couple of days about someone coming around to look at the house. "It's the Mister, its's the Mister" is heard as a parent is summoned to allow me across the threshold.
I often wonder what a child thinks that I am there for.
They may or may not have been told that their home is being sold. This alone could be a quite traumatic and uncertain time for them. No doubt they have been told again and again to keep their room tidy in readiness for Sir Veyor or whoever of grand sounding and mysterious name.
Children do invest a lot of time and effort in the places that they live and their concerns about what is going to happen are wholly understandable.This is often overlooked or marginalised.
Just today I was shown around a house by a six year old boy as though he was the actual title deed holder.
We had built up a mutual respect through his mimicking my use of binoculars with his fluorescent green plastic ones and an uncannily similar pacing action to mine- up and down- him indoors, me outside. I have a set system for an inspection to make sure that I do not overlook anything but the little lad had his own agenda involving my checking out the toys in his bedroom before anything else.
I quietly but firmly said that he could show me around every room in the house as long as it was in the order I needed. He seemed happy with having been consulted on this.
It was hard for me to concentrate with his constant chatter which covered every subject of crucial importance to a six year old from superheroes to spiders, dinosaurs to guns and a lot about his dad who it appears was away in the army. I had been a child once and I could identify with his unconditional enthusiasm for life.
Consequently I was soon engaged in deep conversation and not a little bit of argument about the hierarchy of comic book and cartoon characters, who were the fiercest carnivores and how potato or spud guns of my era were infinitely superior to his impressive collection of pump action sticky dart weapons.
The boy's mother, hovering in the doorway of each room in succession, (after all I was a stranger), seemed to be enjoying a bit of a respite from the hundred mile an hour whirlwind that was her son. There were more children to be attended to in other parts of the house and it was a chance for them to wrestle back some quality time with their Mum.
Me and the lad were inseparable for the following 40 minutes.
I liked to think that in some way I was promoting Surveying as a possible career path for him in, say 14 to 18 years time or at least putting in a first strike to poison ground for the law, accountancy or journalism as a vocation.
The little boy, however, was far more devious than I could have thought. Perhaps the law was to be his forte inspite of my best efforts.
One upstairs room was all that remained to be inspected. The door was firmly shut. Being a 1930's style property with original panelled timber internal doors the handle, probably Bakelite, was too high for the lad to operate.
I made to open it and sensed a presence uncomfortably close to my right leg. The boy was trying to get in there, for some reason, before me.
His mother shouted up from the hallway that the room was actually out of bounds to small humans because it was being used to store the children's Christmas presents as yet unwrapped and therefore clear to see.
I had to casually block the path of the inquisitive youngster in order to assure the lady that the grotto remained secure. Slipping through between the door and architrave unaccompanied I did what I had to do but in a room crammed full of wonderful boxed toys and games this was as difficult as it was distracting.It was like stumbling into the elve's workshop at the North Pole.
It was going to be a good Christmas Morning for all of the 6 year olds and younger under that roof, that was for sure.
I squeezed out onto the landing again only to be interrogated by the boy as to whether Santa had been and what was there for him. I, for once was grateful to revert to type as a dour, un-talkative Surveyor.
As I left the house I caught a certain expression on the face and in the eyes of the boy's mother.
We understood each other perfectly in that we had performed our respective responsibilities to maintain the excitement and magic that would be making its way down the chimney in four weeks time.
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