'My business is worth £1.5m' – Flavin

This conversation finds me at least once per month. The owner’s been in the industry 15, 20 years – in reality, they’ve repeated year one 15 times. Tired. Ready to go. They’ve Googled EBITDA, spoken to a mate who sold his painting business for a fortune – though he won’t elaborate on what a fortune actually is – done the numbers on a napkin and decided they’re rich.

Right. Few questions. Won’t take long.

Who’s the top case writer in your firm? – You are. And you’re proud of it.

Who looks after the marketing? – You do. You’ve tried delegating it. Didn’t work out.

Who handles recruitment when you need someone new? – You. Always ends up back with you somehow.

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Who manages the client relationships? – You. If anything goes wrong, it comes to you anyway, so you may as well just do it.

Who runs the numbers in the business? – You. It’s all up here. Tap the side of your head when you say it.

What’s your average client lifetime value? – Nothing.

What’s your average cost to acquire a new client? Long pause. Then a slightly defensive: “We pay someone £1,000 a month to look after our social media. Is that what you’re asking?”

And your client contact process – how does that work? “This is where we’re strong.” A flicker of relief. “We email clients when their rate’s coming up. No formal process as such, but we definitely stay in touch.”

Here’s the question that ends the conversation every time.

When you walk away from this business – when you actually, physically leave – what’s left?

What’s there is a list of names and a clawback liability. The revenue exists because you turn up. The introducers refer because they know you. The clients stay because of you. Take you out of the equation and what’s left isn’t a business. It’s an empty chair.

You’re not selling a business. You’re selling a job. Nobody pays £1.5m for a job.

Valuation is simpler than people think. Buyers pay for businesses that work without their owner. That’s it. If yours does – great. If it doesn’t – and most don’t – you’re not at the top of the range. You might not be at the bottom either. You might just be off the page entirely.

Here’s what a buyer actually asks. Not: what’s the turnover? Not: what’s the growth prospects? Does this business work without you in it? No handover period. No phone calls. No six-month consultancy arrangement that’s really just you still running it. Without you. If yes – you’ve got something. If no – the napkin number is just a number on a napkin.

The queue doesn’t come. It won’t. Two things happen next. Some drop the price. Keep dropping. A consolidator eventually shows up – they’re always watching – kicks the tyres, makes an offer that reflects what the business actually is rather than what the owner hoped it was, and they take it. You’re out – bruised, but out. The others just quietly stop trying. That’s the bit nobody talks about.

They ditch the difficult clients. Keep the easy ones, the profitable ones, the ones that don’t give them a headache. Cut costs and shrink quietly. Tell themselves they chose this. Who needs that many holidays anyway. The mortgage is nearly paid. It’ll be fine.

That’s not a retirement plan. That’s just stopping.

The work starts now. Not when you feel ready. You won’t ever feel ready. Now. The things that make a business sellable are the same things that make it worth having. Clients who stay when you leave. Processes that don’t live in your head. Numbers you know cold. A team that doesn’t need you in the room to function.

15 years building yourself into the centre of everything. That’s not a business. That’s a trap.

You can get out of it. But the number won’t be real until you do. And no amount of napkin maths changes that.