Metamorphosis

In this very special series of exclusive articles for The Property Chronicle, Australian property legend Norman Harker reflects on his extraordinary 50-year life in real estate. He will pull no punches partly because, as he freely admits, Norman has a limited life expectancy of five years from December 2018 due to a diagnosed terminal blood cancer, which he has cheerfully accepted in preference to (in his words) “kicking the bucket without notice”. We are honoured he has chosen us to publish these brilliant, funny and incisive reflections of a lifetime in property.

The series of 24 chapters has resulted in many requests – but few of those are repeatable. However, The Property Chronicle has decided to attempt to break into a new market of perverted masochists and have asked for Further Confessions from my (in)famous career as a valuer.

I have often been asked how I got to how I am today as shown by the lead photo, which was taken on a good day just after I got out of my pit to see if I’d managed to upset anyone with my latest postings on LinkedIn and Facebook.

When I started my official career at Conrad Ritblat and Co, London, in 1970, I was 6ft 1in and weighed in at 140lbs – translated into metric my Excel convert function tells me that I was 1.85 kilometres tall, 63.5 kilograms in weight. But in whatever language, I was as thin as a rake and was in danger of being blown away.

But over the next five years I suffered from a gain of 14lbs a year and, although my girth extended to 44 inches, my height remained obstinately unchanged.

The reason was travelling all around the UK (now the  Dis(UK)) valuing property portfolios. The trouble was that the fee for these valuations were negotiated by illustrious boss John Ritblat (now Surgeon Ritblat), which was always a base fee plus expenses. There was no way that John Ritblat was going to have us travelling around at his expense – proving his innate business acumen.

My metamorphosis was a three-stage process with three causes. The only difference today is that stage three has further morphed by age to the wondrous figure in the lead photo.

We only stayed at the best hotels chosen from the (then) famous Egon Ronay hotels guide. We tended to have the ‘all you can eat’ breakfast at 6am, started our first inspection at 9am and then travelled by car eating whatever we picked up at petrol stations until the shops closed at 5pm. Then in the evening it was an expense account meal. 

However, the tax office would never accept alcohol as an allowable expense, so we were restricted to washing the food down with a few jars of the amber nectar that we bought out of our per day allowance.

We always travelled in pairs, with one senior valuer and one trainee. A measuring tape needed one human bean at each end and you also needed a navigator of the (then) primitive road network around the UK.

We became highly expert in dispute resolution. The biggest problem was always to agree on who was going to have to make the claim on expenses. This was solved by playing the ancient game of Spoof, which involves correctly guessing the aggregate number of coins held concealed in the hands of the two players. 

My then junior was Paul Vockins FRICS, who went on to become one of the most senior and respected valuers in London. He showed his abilities early. Having lost the spoof battle one evening, Paul promptly signed for the meal – with my name and room number. Thereafter we had to play spoof twice – once for who was going to sign the bill and once for which name was going to be used.

For the rest of my life as a valuer I have had a continuous battle to regain my thin and irresistible looks to match my modesty. My weight has tended to go up and down like a yo-yo. But I have resisted my son’s advice that I could lose 15 kilograms of ugly fat by cutting my head off. 

My son’s mother demonstrated her sado-masochistic sense of humour by marrying me. I suppose it must be from her that my son got his tendency for creating unusual solutions to problems.