Once upon a time, about two years ago actually, estate agents everywhere were parading about in £75 shirts, driving shiny convertible penis extensions, then necking bottles of Moet and burning £50 notes in front of the homeless guy outside the 24-hour corner shop. (Possible exaggeration but you get the idea).
Now you can see them buying their shirts from Tesco, driving Fiat Uno's and searching out the Dr Pepper's closest to its sell by date so they can haggle a few pence off the price.
It is sad sight indeed and then you suddenly remember hang on, they are estate agents and you give a hurrah and begin to think that possibly there is a God after all. Then maybe you throw a tin of ravioli at their head just for good measure.
As the housing market remains frostier than a Siberian winter, estate agents all over the country are being made redundant and having their todger substitutes taken off them, but unless you are married to one or actually are one, nobody cares.
I would humble a guess that only traffic wardens, lawyers and tax collectors generate as much dislike as the estate agent and one of these four are heading towards extinction quicker than you can say delightful bijou residence.
Yes they are lying shysters, driven by greed and are chiefly responsible for pricing most people out of the housing market by driving up house prices in the first place, so its no surprise there's zilch sympathy for them.
They made a fortune out of doing bugger-all when prices were rising and took a percentage of the sale price so arm yourself with rotten tomatoes, put on your pointiest shoes and kick the poor sods while they are down.
Now let's see what we can do about taking down the Inland Revenue next.