The property market is like Groundhog Day without the gags. It’s an eternal, infernal cycle where people buy piles of bricks and mortar, either to live in or to charge others for the privilege. The value of these bricks subsequently soars off into the troposphere, or plummets to the very centre of earth’s molten core. Bystanders must then either celebrate or commiserate, as the news reports bang sonorously and portentously on about this situation being either really, really bad or very, very good.
Meanwhile, tenants watch helplessly from the sidelines, wondering how this will affect their lives, hearing talk of something mythical called Capital Gains Tax which may (or may not) compel their landlord, aka the de facto owner of their immortal soul to sell up or hang onto their investment. This means they are either homeless or housed – either really. It’s all so tenuous and fanciful.
Astonishingly, the Housing Minster no longer sits on the cabinet, and something which sent the economy spiralling into disaster like a vast tornado devouring public funds, forcing thousands out onto the street as novice landlords went bankrupt, forcing the state to take steps to stem the first run on a bank in hundreds of years, is regarded as an distraction, not a vital economic, or a basic human need, namely: a safe home and security of tenure.
Sometimes I wonder if I am engaged in my own life: or am I at the mercy of a huge game of piggy-in-the-middle crossed with monopoly, with giants flipping coins and throwing rubber balls over our heads to decide where ordinary people will get to live, and for how long they can stay. I want a home, a permanent home. I do not want to live in a piggy bank, but once again, I am.
What’s bought this on? Well, commercial property is cranking up for a new boom, with mothballed sites being reactivated. Buy-let-mortgages are back on offer and soon, building will begin again.
Again. And again. Which means: speculative short term investment in shabby, toy-town new build dovecot, with the private rental sector entrusted with housing us all, and no improved regulation of letting agents, building standards and no end to the dire renting culture here in the UK, with renters hanging on the end of fraying rope, with landlords and letting agents tugging furiously at the other end.
I suppose the saturation of one or two bed flats might help us still, as landlords are desperate to rent, and anyone who bought in the recent ‘fire sales’ might not expect to crank up the rent to cover an extortionate mortgage with a gifted deposit.
Except – except… that’s all staring to happen again – soon we’ll see re-animated Inside Track staffers staggering around like zombies, promising vast inflated profits before eating neophyte investors and saving the best part (their beating heart) for last.
Have we learned from the recent past? No. We didn’t. And so it goes - around and around we spin, back on the speeding hazardous carousel again…and again.
Showing posts with label buy-to-let. Show all posts
Showing posts with label buy-to-let. Show all posts
Monday, 24 May 2010
Saturday, 17 April 2010
Rusty Dovecot
Despite having moved out of Dovecot Towers ages ago, I remain fascinated by this phenomenon. Dovecots (twat-flats, euroboxes, yuppiedromes, call them what you will) are everywhere, and with the recovery in sight (supposedly) soon it will be construction time again. I am about to study some of the worst aspects of these balsa wood and tin foil monstrosities, and have located a suitable case for treatment just up the road from me.
I can see that bits are actually falling off – random parts, like the tops of drain pipes, spouts, and the wooden cladding so beloved of those who wish to make a bog-standard dovecot resemble a beloved construction that’s been wonderfully designed and styled with devotion, rather than a cardboard box, sandblasted with plaster and dumped somewhere, or some concrete spewed out and chipped at.
And it’s rusting. There are long red streaks of iron oxide running down the sides. Now it looks as if the building itself is weeping tears of blood.
Like most Dovecots, the developers shaved off any extras, but kept some little ‘niceties’ outside, just enough to stop it looking quite so run down (or bleak) and were even aiming for a block of flats bordering on the fancy side. These marvellous embellishments take the form of some random splashes of paint,
and a sort of weird metal cladding on the balconies.
Everything else looks cheap and sad. The external paint is peeling (and considering the rainfall around here, you’d hope that the external weather protection was thick and of the best quality.) I wonder what else is decaying inside, because that bock is dying from the bottom up.
The real give way that things are not well in this sickest of buildings is the amount for ‘For Rent’ signs outside. I bet the landlords bought off-plan, and never thought to enquire about the specifications for the ‘finish.’ It sounds so boring – all that talk of paint, and plaster, and things a landlord will never see. Unfortunately, such things are vital: they dictate how long a building endures, and inexperienced newbie landlords are beguiled by the show flats, and talk of profit. They don’t care about water-proofing, and are beguiled by shallow flourishes aimed at indicating finesse.
The building in question is also dotted with that other tell-tale sign: wooden panels nailed on shoddily at random, which in places is hanging off. If they couldn’t bothered to make the place look completed from the outside, it makes me wonder what else they omitted: how many layers of water proofing? Or how many layers of plaster? Or screws, or solid foundations….coats of paint, solid metal screws, and necessities like that. Yes, I know that the building inspectors call, but something’s going wrong somewhere.
In 1967 Ronan Point, a new council block in London collapsed after a gas explosion, killing four people. I hope I am wrong, but I wonder how long it will be before a newbuild dovecot crashes to the ground, or slips slowly into the oblivion bequeathed by it’s quicksand foundations, taking the residents with it, to their doom.
I can see that bits are actually falling off – random parts, like the tops of drain pipes, spouts, and the wooden cladding so beloved of those who wish to make a bog-standard dovecot resemble a beloved construction that’s been wonderfully designed and styled with devotion, rather than a cardboard box, sandblasted with plaster and dumped somewhere, or some concrete spewed out and chipped at.
And it’s rusting. There are long red streaks of iron oxide running down the sides. Now it looks as if the building itself is weeping tears of blood.
Like most Dovecots, the developers shaved off any extras, but kept some little ‘niceties’ outside, just enough to stop it looking quite so run down (or bleak) and were even aiming for a block of flats bordering on the fancy side. These marvellous embellishments take the form of some random splashes of paint,
and a sort of weird metal cladding on the balconies.
Everything else looks cheap and sad. The external paint is peeling (and considering the rainfall around here, you’d hope that the external weather protection was thick and of the best quality.) I wonder what else is decaying inside, because that bock is dying from the bottom up.
The real give way that things are not well in this sickest of buildings is the amount for ‘For Rent’ signs outside. I bet the landlords bought off-plan, and never thought to enquire about the specifications for the ‘finish.’ It sounds so boring – all that talk of paint, and plaster, and things a landlord will never see. Unfortunately, such things are vital: they dictate how long a building endures, and inexperienced newbie landlords are beguiled by the show flats, and talk of profit. They don’t care about water-proofing, and are beguiled by shallow flourishes aimed at indicating finesse.
The building in question is also dotted with that other tell-tale sign: wooden panels nailed on shoddily at random, which in places is hanging off. If they couldn’t bothered to make the place look completed from the outside, it makes me wonder what else they omitted: how many layers of water proofing? Or how many layers of plaster? Or screws, or solid foundations….coats of paint, solid metal screws, and necessities like that. Yes, I know that the building inspectors call, but something’s going wrong somewhere.
In 1967 Ronan Point, a new council block in London collapsed after a gas explosion, killing four people. I hope I am wrong, but I wonder how long it will be before a newbuild dovecot crashes to the ground, or slips slowly into the oblivion bequeathed by it’s quicksand foundations, taking the residents with it, to their doom.
Tuesday, 18 August 2009
Hug A Landlord
According to some readers, I have a bad attitude. People see me as an unreasonable, no holds-barred landlord loather, spoiling for a fight. Nothing could be further from the truth: all I want is a quiet life.
When I moved in, ‘Dave,’ my current landlord, didn’t demand exhaustive references, but then, I get no guarantees from him. Thankfully, he’s been helpful, understanding, realistic, reliable and tolerant. I do my utmost to be the same. Unfortunately, I have been enduring a complex and protracted nightmare with my bank much like a scene from the film ‘Brazil’, which involved them apparently losing or deleting my account. I was late paying my rent, which is dreadful.
Delaying payment requires delicately negotiations, balancing the need to collect money with the problems the tenant faces. This latest batch of new landlords who bought in the boom-time are learning that when renters run up arrears, being heavy can be counterproductive. If someone has lost their job, and is claiming benefits, why not be reasonable and wait. They might have been your dream tenant until then, so why lose them? In return, tenants might accept that landlords can’t always come racing over at the drip of a tap.
Of course, some tenants are wilfully dishonest, or presume that all landlords are rich, when usually they are barely covering their costs, especially at the moment. A property owning friend had tenants who ran away to Australia owing three months money. He only just managed to survive.
I’ve written previously about the evil that bad landlords do, but ‘Dave’ has been a star. I paid the backlog as soon as possible, and wouldn’t dream of doing a runner. He’s new to this, and to those in a similar situation, I offer this advice: there will, at some point, be a gap between tenants, a late payment, or even renters who can’t or will not pay. You need an amount put by to cover unexpected situations. Tenants pay in advance, and landlords have the deposit, so in those rare cases when rent is late/goes awol, you should never be owed more than a month. But to avert disaster, you need something in reserve.
Landlords can be excellent – as in actively pleasant and helpful, or simply okay – as in quiet and absent. ‘Emily’ has commented here about her landlord who, when her toddler scribbled on the wall, shrugged and said: “It’s okay – I can paint over it when you leave.” He didn’t rub his hands with glee at the chance to claim on insurance for redecoration while simultaneously docking money from her deposit.
‘Dave,’ the owner of my Nice Heights flat has been reasonable beyond the call of human tolerance, and A in Glasgow was lovely too. It’s not always necessary, or even wise to seek possession at the first hint of late rent. Tenants, if you can wait for a non-essential repair, then try and be reasonable. Remember: we’re both human and we need each other, so if you can, be nice.
When I moved in, ‘Dave,’ my current landlord, didn’t demand exhaustive references, but then, I get no guarantees from him. Thankfully, he’s been helpful, understanding, realistic, reliable and tolerant. I do my utmost to be the same. Unfortunately, I have been enduring a complex and protracted nightmare with my bank much like a scene from the film ‘Brazil’, which involved them apparently losing or deleting my account. I was late paying my rent, which is dreadful.
Delaying payment requires delicately negotiations, balancing the need to collect money with the problems the tenant faces. This latest batch of new landlords who bought in the boom-time are learning that when renters run up arrears, being heavy can be counterproductive. If someone has lost their job, and is claiming benefits, why not be reasonable and wait. They might have been your dream tenant until then, so why lose them? In return, tenants might accept that landlords can’t always come racing over at the drip of a tap.
Of course, some tenants are wilfully dishonest, or presume that all landlords are rich, when usually they are barely covering their costs, especially at the moment. A property owning friend had tenants who ran away to Australia owing three months money. He only just managed to survive.
I’ve written previously about the evil that bad landlords do, but ‘Dave’ has been a star. I paid the backlog as soon as possible, and wouldn’t dream of doing a runner. He’s new to this, and to those in a similar situation, I offer this advice: there will, at some point, be a gap between tenants, a late payment, or even renters who can’t or will not pay. You need an amount put by to cover unexpected situations. Tenants pay in advance, and landlords have the deposit, so in those rare cases when rent is late/goes awol, you should never be owed more than a month. But to avert disaster, you need something in reserve.
Landlords can be excellent – as in actively pleasant and helpful, or simply okay – as in quiet and absent. ‘Emily’ has commented here about her landlord who, when her toddler scribbled on the wall, shrugged and said: “It’s okay – I can paint over it when you leave.” He didn’t rub his hands with glee at the chance to claim on insurance for redecoration while simultaneously docking money from her deposit.
‘Dave,’ the owner of my Nice Heights flat has been reasonable beyond the call of human tolerance, and A in Glasgow was lovely too. It’s not always necessary, or even wise to seek possession at the first hint of late rent. Tenants, if you can wait for a non-essential repair, then try and be reasonable. Remember: we’re both human and we need each other, so if you can, be nice.
Monday, 3 August 2009
Love In The Time Of The Cubicle
Relocating to another city is a precarious time for tenants. When I was last in that tricky situation, I alternated between sofa-surfing and staying in a friend’s vacant flat, which gave me time to view homes at my leisure, no pressure to accept a place, any place. Occasionally though, my tenuous chain of accommodation broke and I moved to a hostel.
I’d rather have been snug in my temporary flat, but the hostel was cheap and less awkward than sofa surfing. In the common-room, an American tourist, who pronounced Cardiff as “Carr-deef,” announced: “You must hate us, but I’m a Democrat.”
“What is this, please?” wondered a Slovakian guest, bemused by The Chuckle Brothers, as are we all.
Other residents were self-employed business travellers. They paid their own expenses - aloof but not too proud to book what was a step down from a budget hotel.
Eventually I found a flat. My references were great and I was ready to move with a deposit and rent in advance. I called, arranging to collect the keys.
The landlord said: “…um, yeah. Sorry. A different girl moved in this morning. I think my other flat’s more you.”
I asked why.
“It’s by the river – it’s quite…plush.”
But it’s too dear, I said.
“Oh come on - you can afford it. I can tell.”
I was supposed to be moving in next morning, so I was homeless. Frantically I phoned around, but everywhere was full or else people were away. In desperation, I found a rundown back-packers’ hostel, which was better than the pavement.
The owner said: “Towel hire is 50p.”
The other guests were four uncharacteristically snotty Aussie backpackers, and a group from Bangladesh, attending a student conference. In the morning, the queue for the shower was ridiculous. I waited my turn tutting grumpily because two people were hogging the bathroom.
I went for a brew. When I returned they were still showering. Their fellow delegate said: “I am so very sorry; please to take my place in the line.”
His companions continued their seemingly endless shower. Every now and again they both turned off the water, standing in silence before restarting the weak spray. Judging by some clothes left on the floor, one was male, while the owner of the electric blue salwar kameez was female. It was cold outside, and both owned several layers of shrunken grey wool.
We were all going to be late. An irate Aussie rattled the thin partition. I asked their friend: “Can you make them hurry up?”
He smiled awkwardly, explaining. “They are in love, you see.”
The couple showered on, whispering softly, and affectionately.
I realised what was happening. The showering lovers were devout Muslims, and had never been alone together. Back home, even sitting next to each other was forbidden.
So in a frosty, foreign bathroom, an adoring couple lingered beneath a gentle cascade of warm water, naked but separated by opaque plastic shower cubicles, passing scented soap through a narrow gap below the screens, fingers brushing, close for the first time, oblivious to the strangers hammering on the door.
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2007/12/please-dont-send-me-out-there.html
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2007/08/theyre-all-mad.html
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2007/05/really-actually-properly-homeless.html
I’d rather have been snug in my temporary flat, but the hostel was cheap and less awkward than sofa surfing. In the common-room, an American tourist, who pronounced Cardiff as “Carr-deef,” announced: “You must hate us, but I’m a Democrat.”
“What is this, please?” wondered a Slovakian guest, bemused by The Chuckle Brothers, as are we all.
Other residents were self-employed business travellers. They paid their own expenses - aloof but not too proud to book what was a step down from a budget hotel.
Eventually I found a flat. My references were great and I was ready to move with a deposit and rent in advance. I called, arranging to collect the keys.
The landlord said: “…um, yeah. Sorry. A different girl moved in this morning. I think my other flat’s more you.”
I asked why.
“It’s by the river – it’s quite…plush.”
But it’s too dear, I said.
“Oh come on - you can afford it. I can tell.”
I was supposed to be moving in next morning, so I was homeless. Frantically I phoned around, but everywhere was full or else people were away. In desperation, I found a rundown back-packers’ hostel, which was better than the pavement.
The owner said: “Towel hire is 50p.”
The other guests were four uncharacteristically snotty Aussie backpackers, and a group from Bangladesh, attending a student conference. In the morning, the queue for the shower was ridiculous. I waited my turn tutting grumpily because two people were hogging the bathroom.
I went for a brew. When I returned they were still showering. Their fellow delegate said: “I am so very sorry; please to take my place in the line.”
His companions continued their seemingly endless shower. Every now and again they both turned off the water, standing in silence before restarting the weak spray. Judging by some clothes left on the floor, one was male, while the owner of the electric blue salwar kameez was female. It was cold outside, and both owned several layers of shrunken grey wool.
We were all going to be late. An irate Aussie rattled the thin partition. I asked their friend: “Can you make them hurry up?”
He smiled awkwardly, explaining. “They are in love, you see.”
The couple showered on, whispering softly, and affectionately.
I realised what was happening. The showering lovers were devout Muslims, and had never been alone together. Back home, even sitting next to each other was forbidden.
So in a frosty, foreign bathroom, an adoring couple lingered beneath a gentle cascade of warm water, naked but separated by opaque plastic shower cubicles, passing scented soap through a narrow gap below the screens, fingers brushing, close for the first time, oblivious to the strangers hammering on the door.
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2007/12/please-dont-send-me-out-there.html
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2007/08/theyre-all-mad.html
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2007/05/really-actually-properly-homeless.html
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
Higher Baby
Right now, I’m settled in a well-constructed, peaceful block which is managed humanely and efficiently rather than for profit alone. I love it here, I really do - this flat has been a refuge. Despite my affection for Nice Heights, it must be said that even here, there is one aspect of its design that is found wanting.
Nice Heights exemplifies the nature of property’s most exclusive luxury: space. Contemporary flats are tiny. It’s hard to obtain accurate figures, but urban newbuilds can be as small as 45 sq metres (I suspect the worst examples are even smaller.) Nice Heights seems fine until a few visitors arrive, and highlight the deficiency. There is no internal corridor. The bathroom door opens out onto the eating area (dining room? Don’t be daft.) When I start flat-hunting again, top of my wish list is separate rooms, and more space.
The obsession with cramming people into low-rise blocks seems to be the result of ill-founded assumptions, fatally combined with a crushing lack of ambition. Low rise? It’s just how things are. There is a solution to this problem: we must build higher.
Unfortunately, the terrible fires in South London recently have stalled a growing campaign for taller buildings. There did seem to be safety problems in those particular blocks, but even a building that touches the clouds - if properly designed - will be as safe as well… houses. Safety is often a management concern though: as I’ve said before, Dovecot Towers had no fire assembly point, and we never had a fire-drill.
Apart from that, why are we so reluctant to build higher? Surely it would eradicate the argument for the little boxes foisted upon buy-to-let tenants? There’d be fire escapes and lifts at either end, and also in the middle of the building. It’s good business to use a low rise footprint for a taller building, allowing greater space for renters, who stay longer, meaning less voids for landlords, who would also benefit.
Increased height would accommodate everything I dream of, like storage space and generously proportioned rooms - even open-plan living is fine with enough space. We’d have bedrooms large enough to double as studies, with a desk and shelves (built into in a niche?) Or perhaps a separate study, and a terrace that’s a proper outdoor room, with space to dry washing, and enjoy the view. Gardens would allow for children’s playgrounds. We’d have rented homes for life in an urban suburb in the sky, with plants creeping up the outside in a vertical garden.
The circle has turned, and vertiginous living is now entirely the domain of rich owner occupiers. The over-lords of the sky-kingdom enjoy vast eyries, peering out between the branches of imported olive groves, glancing down at the poor creatures condemned to remain in orange, low-rise hell-holes. It used to be the other way around: landless, tenant proles housed in stacks of dilapidated council blocks, the very same blocks that in some cases were refurbished to make luxury apartments. How did we get from there to here?
(NB: Regular readers might like to know, I will now be posting on different days, and slightly more often.)
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2007/07/birth-of-buy-to-let-dovecot.html
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2008/08/no-english-newbuild-garden.html
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2008/02/size-matters-in-dovecot-towers.html
Nice Heights exemplifies the nature of property’s most exclusive luxury: space. Contemporary flats are tiny. It’s hard to obtain accurate figures, but urban newbuilds can be as small as 45 sq metres (I suspect the worst examples are even smaller.) Nice Heights seems fine until a few visitors arrive, and highlight the deficiency. There is no internal corridor. The bathroom door opens out onto the eating area (dining room? Don’t be daft.) When I start flat-hunting again, top of my wish list is separate rooms, and more space.
The obsession with cramming people into low-rise blocks seems to be the result of ill-founded assumptions, fatally combined with a crushing lack of ambition. Low rise? It’s just how things are. There is a solution to this problem: we must build higher.
Unfortunately, the terrible fires in South London recently have stalled a growing campaign for taller buildings. There did seem to be safety problems in those particular blocks, but even a building that touches the clouds - if properly designed - will be as safe as well… houses. Safety is often a management concern though: as I’ve said before, Dovecot Towers had no fire assembly point, and we never had a fire-drill.
Apart from that, why are we so reluctant to build higher? Surely it would eradicate the argument for the little boxes foisted upon buy-to-let tenants? There’d be fire escapes and lifts at either end, and also in the middle of the building. It’s good business to use a low rise footprint for a taller building, allowing greater space for renters, who stay longer, meaning less voids for landlords, who would also benefit.
Increased height would accommodate everything I dream of, like storage space and generously proportioned rooms - even open-plan living is fine with enough space. We’d have bedrooms large enough to double as studies, with a desk and shelves (built into in a niche?) Or perhaps a separate study, and a terrace that’s a proper outdoor room, with space to dry washing, and enjoy the view. Gardens would allow for children’s playgrounds. We’d have rented homes for life in an urban suburb in the sky, with plants creeping up the outside in a vertical garden.
The circle has turned, and vertiginous living is now entirely the domain of rich owner occupiers. The over-lords of the sky-kingdom enjoy vast eyries, peering out between the branches of imported olive groves, glancing down at the poor creatures condemned to remain in orange, low-rise hell-holes. It used to be the other way around: landless, tenant proles housed in stacks of dilapidated council blocks, the very same blocks that in some cases were refurbished to make luxury apartments. How did we get from there to here?
(NB: Regular readers might like to know, I will now be posting on different days, and slightly more often.)
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2007/07/birth-of-buy-to-let-dovecot.html
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2008/08/no-english-newbuild-garden.html
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2008/02/size-matters-in-dovecot-towers.html
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
What A Mover
Life for tenants is a madcap relay of constant moving, all speeded up like a Benny Hill sketch to the sound of funny banjo music. We relocate more than homeowners - potentially every six months if we’re unlucky, which judging from your comments and emails, many are.
It’s very bad for the nerves. Most newbuilds are specifically aimed at renters who’s life-cycle is: move in/get out/then more of the same all over again, it’s bizarre that these specialist, modern constructions manage to make moving so difficult. For one thing, newbuilds have nowhere for vans and lorries to park, and we’ve all been faced on a stressful day with tetchy friends and removal companies waving those inevitable and extortionate parking tickets, which we have to pay.
In modern buildings, there is no freight lift. Moving belongings via a small, creaking elevator, hoping that your vast collection of ancient vinyl doesn’t conspire to send everyone plummeting into the basement is a stressful, albeit character-building test.
Conversions present a different challenge. Internal remodelling fits the original, historic shape and layout of the building, so there are often random pillars blocking foyers, compelling irate removal men to perform a sort of country dance, do-si-doing through double-doors and twirling around posts with heavy boxes and fragile plants. Maybe the answer to the question: “How did they get that enormous sofa through that narrow door and into that tiny lounge,” is the same as: “How did they get that ship into that bottle.”
We used to have this under control. Whenever I pass older structures, like converted canal or roadside warehouses, I notice the original rooftop hoists, ingenious and ideal for lifting goods up the outside of the building if too large or heavy to risk the elevator. I want them back. Bring back external hoists. We want rooftop hoists, and we want them now.
The best example of a humane design which acknowledges the trials of life can be found in a council block in Salford. Residents always wondered about the cubby-hole/niche at the bottom of the back wall of their lift. What was it for? Enquiries revealed that the space was created to allow coffins to lie flat when the occupant made their last relocation to that sitting tenancy in the sky. It makes me wonder how undertakers arrange that same journey from an urban newbuild.
Why does this matter? Well, soon I’m going to be moving again. This time its career related (please don’t ask why - I have a life outside of this blog.) But I’m off elsewhere, so once again I must pack, find another home, move everything, and then unpack again (using my hoard of banana boxes.) My friends say, put it in the blog - put it in the book, but it’s another unavoidable move and I’m dreading it already, really, absolutely and completely dreading it.
More than anything else, I just wish I could put Nice Heights on wheels and take it with me on a monster truck.
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2009/03/our-lady-of-banana-boxes.html
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2009/06/vanman-and-supervanman.html
It’s very bad for the nerves. Most newbuilds are specifically aimed at renters who’s life-cycle is: move in/get out/then more of the same all over again, it’s bizarre that these specialist, modern constructions manage to make moving so difficult. For one thing, newbuilds have nowhere for vans and lorries to park, and we’ve all been faced on a stressful day with tetchy friends and removal companies waving those inevitable and extortionate parking tickets, which we have to pay.
In modern buildings, there is no freight lift. Moving belongings via a small, creaking elevator, hoping that your vast collection of ancient vinyl doesn’t conspire to send everyone plummeting into the basement is a stressful, albeit character-building test.
Conversions present a different challenge. Internal remodelling fits the original, historic shape and layout of the building, so there are often random pillars blocking foyers, compelling irate removal men to perform a sort of country dance, do-si-doing through double-doors and twirling around posts with heavy boxes and fragile plants. Maybe the answer to the question: “How did they get that enormous sofa through that narrow door and into that tiny lounge,” is the same as: “How did they get that ship into that bottle.”
We used to have this under control. Whenever I pass older structures, like converted canal or roadside warehouses, I notice the original rooftop hoists, ingenious and ideal for lifting goods up the outside of the building if too large or heavy to risk the elevator. I want them back. Bring back external hoists. We want rooftop hoists, and we want them now.
The best example of a humane design which acknowledges the trials of life can be found in a council block in Salford. Residents always wondered about the cubby-hole/niche at the bottom of the back wall of their lift. What was it for? Enquiries revealed that the space was created to allow coffins to lie flat when the occupant made their last relocation to that sitting tenancy in the sky. It makes me wonder how undertakers arrange that same journey from an urban newbuild.
Why does this matter? Well, soon I’m going to be moving again. This time its career related (please don’t ask why - I have a life outside of this blog.) But I’m off elsewhere, so once again I must pack, find another home, move everything, and then unpack again (using my hoard of banana boxes.) My friends say, put it in the blog - put it in the book, but it’s another unavoidable move and I’m dreading it already, really, absolutely and completely dreading it.
More than anything else, I just wish I could put Nice Heights on wheels and take it with me on a monster truck.
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2009/03/our-lady-of-banana-boxes.html
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2009/06/vanman-and-supervanman.html
Tuesday, 14 July 2009
I Can Get A Witness
Dovecot Towers is on my mind. I’m making preparations for the book I plan to write, going through old posts etc, and a few weeks ago, I went back there.
To my surprise I found the return visit quite daunting. With the building looming up ahead, I imagined the soundtrack, with stag-parties, Sarah screaming, and the people who gossiped, played and argued on their balconies, never realising I could hear. I wonder how the other residents remember life there - after all, some people enjoyed happy days in Dovecot Towers. Occasionally, even I managed to raise a smile…
I was accompanied by Owen Hatherley, author of Militant Modernism, and responsible for the excellent Nasty Brutalist And Short blog – see links. Owen is a fan of brutalist architecture, which, in a column for Building Design, he defends with eloquence and passion. Personally, I’m not so keen, but Owen’s spirited advocacy could almost change my mind.
Owen is aware of Rentergirl, so I wondered what he’d make of Dovecot Towers. With the trained eye of a practiced architectural critic, Owen appraised the exterior. Here’s what he had to say:
“Dovecot Towers is tucked away in the back end of beyond - seemingly in an alleyway, without much hope of any light ever getting into the rooms. Then there were the grilles on the ground floor, which just made it seem like an industrial structure rather than housing - which, given the popularity of ageing satanic mills as yuppie flats, was probably the intention (also the reason for the cheap red brick, I suspect, although that looked like a bit of shallow dressing on a concrete frame), but combined with the dead flowers left for the suicide it all looked decidedly inhospitable. More than that, though, I remember that bit in the middle. Not really a square or a plaza, not a garden, just this odd bit of greenery that thought it was a feature of some sort. I can only wonder what it all looked like in the drawings...”
I agree with everything Owen says, except for one point. I don’t believe that Dovecot Towers was intended to reflect any style at all. It was - in more ways than one - thrown up. Architects speak of buildings having a dialogue with the surrounding area. In which case, what was Dovecot Towers trying to say? Then I saw the wilted bouquet. No green shots, just some half-dead lilies propped up and dwarfed by a shoddy, bleak and shabby buy-to-let disaster.
I’ve since learned that Davey might not have intended to die that night: he was threatening to jump, possibly to scare Sarah in the heat of the moment, and may have fallen, which for me makes his death all the more tragic. Coroners only record a verdict of suicide if there is conclusive evidence, like a note, so there was an open verdict. I heard from Sarah a while back. She’s determined not to be bitter and miserable (her words.) I also understand she’s doing voluntary work abroad.
As for William, my former landlord - well, I never did find out what happened to him.
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2008/09/death-in-dovecot.html
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2008/09/flowers-in-dovecot.html
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2008/11/i-dreamed-i-dwelt-in-dovecot-towers.html
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2007/07/knowing-too-much.html
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2008/10/battered-by-butterflies.html
To my surprise I found the return visit quite daunting. With the building looming up ahead, I imagined the soundtrack, with stag-parties, Sarah screaming, and the people who gossiped, played and argued on their balconies, never realising I could hear. I wonder how the other residents remember life there - after all, some people enjoyed happy days in Dovecot Towers. Occasionally, even I managed to raise a smile…
I was accompanied by Owen Hatherley, author of Militant Modernism, and responsible for the excellent Nasty Brutalist And Short blog – see links. Owen is a fan of brutalist architecture, which, in a column for Building Design, he defends with eloquence and passion. Personally, I’m not so keen, but Owen’s spirited advocacy could almost change my mind.
Owen is aware of Rentergirl, so I wondered what he’d make of Dovecot Towers. With the trained eye of a practiced architectural critic, Owen appraised the exterior. Here’s what he had to say:
“Dovecot Towers is tucked away in the back end of beyond - seemingly in an alleyway, without much hope of any light ever getting into the rooms. Then there were the grilles on the ground floor, which just made it seem like an industrial structure rather than housing - which, given the popularity of ageing satanic mills as yuppie flats, was probably the intention (also the reason for the cheap red brick, I suspect, although that looked like a bit of shallow dressing on a concrete frame), but combined with the dead flowers left for the suicide it all looked decidedly inhospitable. More than that, though, I remember that bit in the middle. Not really a square or a plaza, not a garden, just this odd bit of greenery that thought it was a feature of some sort. I can only wonder what it all looked like in the drawings...”
I agree with everything Owen says, except for one point. I don’t believe that Dovecot Towers was intended to reflect any style at all. It was - in more ways than one - thrown up. Architects speak of buildings having a dialogue with the surrounding area. In which case, what was Dovecot Towers trying to say? Then I saw the wilted bouquet. No green shots, just some half-dead lilies propped up and dwarfed by a shoddy, bleak and shabby buy-to-let disaster.
I’ve since learned that Davey might not have intended to die that night: he was threatening to jump, possibly to scare Sarah in the heat of the moment, and may have fallen, which for me makes his death all the more tragic. Coroners only record a verdict of suicide if there is conclusive evidence, like a note, so there was an open verdict. I heard from Sarah a while back. She’s determined not to be bitter and miserable (her words.) I also understand she’s doing voluntary work abroad.
As for William, my former landlord - well, I never did find out what happened to him.
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2008/09/death-in-dovecot.html
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2008/09/flowers-in-dovecot.html
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2008/11/i-dreamed-i-dwelt-in-dovecot-towers.html
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2007/07/knowing-too-much.html
http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2008/10/battered-by-butterflies.html
Tuesday, 7 July 2009
Down Came The Rain
The other night I saw a storm like no other. Javelins of rain pierced the sky, while an astonishing display of lightening flashed between shower curtains of water.
Newbuilds (and Nice Heights is one) all have flat roofs. From what I’ve seen all flat roofs leak, and this one was no exception. It was as if the world was ending; the lights went out, the water was shut off and the lifts stopped working (presumably war, famine, pestilence and disease headed straight for Dovecot Towers.) The penthouses above me were deluged, as apart from being huge and expensive, they are directly under any leak (more of a Niagara, actually.)
The management company and concierge do their jobs properly, so cleaning and repairs began immediately - carpets were sorted with massive hair-driers. In Dovecot Towers, there was also a leak (the only disaster in that doom-laden block which didn’t affect me) but the management company’s impassioned response, was basically: “…tough.”
A friend lived in another jerry-built newbuild so bad he’s earned time off from purgatory. It had a sieve for a roof, but repairs were botched and piecemeal. There were constant leaks - well, more of a water feature, actually, but an evil one. He came home to find water bubbling through light-fittings, rotting the carpet and drenching his belongings. The people in the flat below had some much loved possessions destroyed.
Tired of spending his days wearing one of those zany umbrella hats, he consulted the letting agency (how sweet; I wonder if he also believes in fairies?) and asked for help. They did nothing. Exasperated and damp, he was forced to evacuate (in one of those inflatable emergency boats, I believe) ending up homeless and - ironically it must be said - sofa-surfing. The agency sternly insisted he was obliged to pay full rent, and unbelievably tried to keep his deposit.
Now, if I was building a structure with an eye its long-term future, I’d make sure the roof had an incline. Architecture follows fashion, and oddly enough, the current vogue is for a wedge-shaped outline, which looks odd (as if a giant has lopped off the top, like a boiled egg) but at least the torrents can flow safely away.
Could any architects reading (and I know you do) explain this affection for flatness? No matter how grand or humble the development, sooner or later, flat roofs leak - that’s just how it is, so why do we have them? Or perhaps we should ask builders about the porous roof thing. (Now there’s a lively can of worms – would you please be so kind as to pass the tin-opener?)
One fine clear night, from a vantage point high above the city, I could see the moon reflected in countless muddy puddles shimmering on a multitude of rooftops. It was beautiful, unexpected and eerie, but does it count as a plus side?
(NB: Another thing I like about Nice Heights. The response to the recent burglaries was to start a Neighbourhood Watch scheme. It just feels so grown-up.)
Newbuilds (and Nice Heights is one) all have flat roofs. From what I’ve seen all flat roofs leak, and this one was no exception. It was as if the world was ending; the lights went out, the water was shut off and the lifts stopped working (presumably war, famine, pestilence and disease headed straight for Dovecot Towers.) The penthouses above me were deluged, as apart from being huge and expensive, they are directly under any leak (more of a Niagara, actually.)
The management company and concierge do their jobs properly, so cleaning and repairs began immediately - carpets were sorted with massive hair-driers. In Dovecot Towers, there was also a leak (the only disaster in that doom-laden block which didn’t affect me) but the management company’s impassioned response, was basically: “…tough.”
A friend lived in another jerry-built newbuild so bad he’s earned time off from purgatory. It had a sieve for a roof, but repairs were botched and piecemeal. There were constant leaks - well, more of a water feature, actually, but an evil one. He came home to find water bubbling through light-fittings, rotting the carpet and drenching his belongings. The people in the flat below had some much loved possessions destroyed.
Tired of spending his days wearing one of those zany umbrella hats, he consulted the letting agency (how sweet; I wonder if he also believes in fairies?) and asked for help. They did nothing. Exasperated and damp, he was forced to evacuate (in one of those inflatable emergency boats, I believe) ending up homeless and - ironically it must be said - sofa-surfing. The agency sternly insisted he was obliged to pay full rent, and unbelievably tried to keep his deposit.
Now, if I was building a structure with an eye its long-term future, I’d make sure the roof had an incline. Architecture follows fashion, and oddly enough, the current vogue is for a wedge-shaped outline, which looks odd (as if a giant has lopped off the top, like a boiled egg) but at least the torrents can flow safely away.
Could any architects reading (and I know you do) explain this affection for flatness? No matter how grand or humble the development, sooner or later, flat roofs leak - that’s just how it is, so why do we have them? Or perhaps we should ask builders about the porous roof thing. (Now there’s a lively can of worms – would you please be so kind as to pass the tin-opener?)
One fine clear night, from a vantage point high above the city, I could see the moon reflected in countless muddy puddles shimmering on a multitude of rooftops. It was beautiful, unexpected and eerie, but does it count as a plus side?
(NB: Another thing I like about Nice Heights. The response to the recent burglaries was to start a Neighbourhood Watch scheme. It just feels so grown-up.)
Monday, 29 June 2009
Tipping Point
It was an intensely hot, super sunny day three years ago and flat-hunting had driven me to the brink of madness. After several fruitless weeks of openly disdainful letting-agents asking ridiculous rents for nasty little boxes, one agent actually seemed pleased to hear from me. He could show me a flat immediately (adding, when he remembered himself: “…I’ve had a cancellation, so I can squeeze you in for a quick viewing…let’s see… right now, actually.”)
How odd - he didn’t sneer. Stranger still, he listened to me and didn’t claim that the price had risen over night. Either he was being nice (don’t be silly) or could it be that he was desperate, too?
The agent arrived in the cliché branded Smart car, and ignored me to grandly shuffle some papers. His old-fashioned spiel was complimented by a rapidly dating wide-boy hair-style, erect with gel. He was in a hurry to show me the building which would cast a shadow over my life, a nondescript oblong block of orange brick, set back from the main road.
“They’re going fast, better make up your mind!” he insisted, gamely sticking to his script. My reticence clearly unnerved him.
“I suppose I could show you another one… ooh, you’ll get me in trouble…” he joked in a feeble attempt to get me onside.
The building was mostly empty, so I could take my pick. He seemed to be reading aloud from his own advert:
“You will enjoy a magnificent vista…” Then correcting himself, he continued, “I mean, there’s a view. If you like that sort of thing.”
I smiled vaguely. I was homeless and trying not to appear needy. I mentioned the other flats I’d inspected, all identical, bleak and eerily devoid of tenants, but he pretended not to hear. Louder this time, I said:
“No really; I’ve seen a lot of flats. Too many. Must be making your life quite hard.”
He looked unsettled. I don’t enjoy messing with people’s heads, but I had to make my point. I wonder if at that morning’s team meeting, somebody had suddenly noticed a pile of unlet newbuilds, and he’d been ordered to reach a target.
My phone rang, and I took a call from a landlady who - to my surprise - couldn’t conceal her eagerness to have me move in. I’d left a message answering her ad for a below-par flat well outside my chosen area. Politely, I asked for a discount. She admitted the price was steep and agreed to go lower.
Gel-boy was rattled. The flat I was standing in was already fifty quid cheaper than the original ad, for no clear reason. I decided to look again at the foyer, and then ask for a further reduction. Bartering in tourist markets makes me feel uncomfortable, but rents had been ramped-up by landlords, developers and letting-agents – the usual suspect ingredients in a layer cake of greed.
“Look,” I said, studying that ‘vista.’ “You don’t really need a quick decision, do you? There are plenty more flats just like this one…”
I moved in and spent summer nights on my balcony gazing across at cranes and the twinkling half-lit checkerboard of empty newbuilds in the distance, listening as Dovecot Towers came alive, only for it to die a lingering death.
And now, on another sultry summers evening, I can’t help but wonder if the moment a letting-agent condescended to haggle coincided with the precise time, perhaps the exact second that everything changed, when the rollercoaster property market ride began its perilous descent, careering downwards, out of control.
How odd - he didn’t sneer. Stranger still, he listened to me and didn’t claim that the price had risen over night. Either he was being nice (don’t be silly) or could it be that he was desperate, too?
The agent arrived in the cliché branded Smart car, and ignored me to grandly shuffle some papers. His old-fashioned spiel was complimented by a rapidly dating wide-boy hair-style, erect with gel. He was in a hurry to show me the building which would cast a shadow over my life, a nondescript oblong block of orange brick, set back from the main road.
“They’re going fast, better make up your mind!” he insisted, gamely sticking to his script. My reticence clearly unnerved him.
“I suppose I could show you another one… ooh, you’ll get me in trouble…” he joked in a feeble attempt to get me onside.
The building was mostly empty, so I could take my pick. He seemed to be reading aloud from his own advert:
“You will enjoy a magnificent vista…” Then correcting himself, he continued, “I mean, there’s a view. If you like that sort of thing.”
I smiled vaguely. I was homeless and trying not to appear needy. I mentioned the other flats I’d inspected, all identical, bleak and eerily devoid of tenants, but he pretended not to hear. Louder this time, I said:
“No really; I’ve seen a lot of flats. Too many. Must be making your life quite hard.”
He looked unsettled. I don’t enjoy messing with people’s heads, but I had to make my point. I wonder if at that morning’s team meeting, somebody had suddenly noticed a pile of unlet newbuilds, and he’d been ordered to reach a target.
My phone rang, and I took a call from a landlady who - to my surprise - couldn’t conceal her eagerness to have me move in. I’d left a message answering her ad for a below-par flat well outside my chosen area. Politely, I asked for a discount. She admitted the price was steep and agreed to go lower.
Gel-boy was rattled. The flat I was standing in was already fifty quid cheaper than the original ad, for no clear reason. I decided to look again at the foyer, and then ask for a further reduction. Bartering in tourist markets makes me feel uncomfortable, but rents had been ramped-up by landlords, developers and letting-agents – the usual suspect ingredients in a layer cake of greed.
“Look,” I said, studying that ‘vista.’ “You don’t really need a quick decision, do you? There are plenty more flats just like this one…”
I moved in and spent summer nights on my balcony gazing across at cranes and the twinkling half-lit checkerboard of empty newbuilds in the distance, listening as Dovecot Towers came alive, only for it to die a lingering death.
And now, on another sultry summers evening, I can’t help but wonder if the moment a letting-agent condescended to haggle coincided with the precise time, perhaps the exact second that everything changed, when the rollercoaster property market ride began its perilous descent, careering downwards, out of control.
Tuesday, 9 June 2009
Taken For A Park And Ride
When I still lived in Dovecot Towers, a well-dressed, nervy gentleman lurking by the main door startled me by saying:
“You have something I want!”
I told him to go away with extreme prejudice.
“But I’m desperate!” he pleaded. “I’ll pay you!”
I escaped.
“Wait! Come back – I’ll give you money!” he shouted. “I need to sublet your parking space!”
Lowly tenants haven’t a hope in hell of obtaining residential parking spaces, so speculative notes pushed under the door, offering to organise parking applications so we can rent them out, are pointless. I don’t own a car. I hate driving, try to be environmentally sensitive, and as for parking nearby, I might just as well drill into my own stomach and dig out an abscess, as city centre parking will give me an ulcer regardless.
Parking wars cause night-terrors and punch-ups. In converted flats, when a building initially designed for one, solitary, Victorian carriage (horseless or otherwise) is transformed with space defying magic into five flats (an attic, a basement, and three storeys) then as many as ten car owners compete to shoehorn their runabout outside, leading to all-in, freestyle, automotive tag-team sardines between the yellow lines.
Buy-to-let newbuilds have unimaginably complex land ownership rights and deciding who is responsible for what is torture. In Dovecot Towers, the car park was owned by a different company to the building’s freeholder. Individual owners rented parking spaces, while non-resident outsiders have bought the freehold on a spot (boy, were they ever smug.)
Drivers flaunted their cars, proudly hoovering and washing windows (which they’d never do at home) while playing loud music, which is their way of saying ‘I am a real man. I own a car. And, yes, it’s a Smart Car, but laydeez love it. You don’t have one. And I do!’
We needed crowd control to marshal the armies of traffic wardens. If you ever thought, even while abroad, of parking briefly on the street, they swooped, bagging doctors on emergency call-out (although I hope they get extra points for catching fake disabled parking badges.) Contractors tried to include the ticket in the bill they gave me, despite having been warned to arrange access before starting work. There was little temporary space for them or guests to park.
Inside Nice Heights, there are two floors of car space in the basement, leased to outside businesses (as usual, tenants are last in the queue.) Outside Nice Heights, side-streets are a tangle of meters and time restrictions. City dwellers live in a transition zone, where the attainable dream of a car-free society is at odds with the primal urge to own even a modest, non gas-guzzling personal transporter.
The real luxury of living and working in the city is that I don’t need a car. There are innovative schemes for shared ownership and vehicle leasing. Public transport, supermarket delivery and taxis tide you over for the difference. I’ve even seen rickshaws for hire. Cars are a problem I avoid by walking. Others, by roller-blading.
“You have something I want!”
I told him to go away with extreme prejudice.
“But I’m desperate!” he pleaded. “I’ll pay you!”
I escaped.
“Wait! Come back – I’ll give you money!” he shouted. “I need to sublet your parking space!”
Lowly tenants haven’t a hope in hell of obtaining residential parking spaces, so speculative notes pushed under the door, offering to organise parking applications so we can rent them out, are pointless. I don’t own a car. I hate driving, try to be environmentally sensitive, and as for parking nearby, I might just as well drill into my own stomach and dig out an abscess, as city centre parking will give me an ulcer regardless.
Parking wars cause night-terrors and punch-ups. In converted flats, when a building initially designed for one, solitary, Victorian carriage (horseless or otherwise) is transformed with space defying magic into five flats (an attic, a basement, and three storeys) then as many as ten car owners compete to shoehorn their runabout outside, leading to all-in, freestyle, automotive tag-team sardines between the yellow lines.
Buy-to-let newbuilds have unimaginably complex land ownership rights and deciding who is responsible for what is torture. In Dovecot Towers, the car park was owned by a different company to the building’s freeholder. Individual owners rented parking spaces, while non-resident outsiders have bought the freehold on a spot (boy, were they ever smug.)
Drivers flaunted their cars, proudly hoovering and washing windows (which they’d never do at home) while playing loud music, which is their way of saying ‘I am a real man. I own a car. And, yes, it’s a Smart Car, but laydeez love it. You don’t have one. And I do!’
We needed crowd control to marshal the armies of traffic wardens. If you ever thought, even while abroad, of parking briefly on the street, they swooped, bagging doctors on emergency call-out (although I hope they get extra points for catching fake disabled parking badges.) Contractors tried to include the ticket in the bill they gave me, despite having been warned to arrange access before starting work. There was little temporary space for them or guests to park.
Inside Nice Heights, there are two floors of car space in the basement, leased to outside businesses (as usual, tenants are last in the queue.) Outside Nice Heights, side-streets are a tangle of meters and time restrictions. City dwellers live in a transition zone, where the attainable dream of a car-free society is at odds with the primal urge to own even a modest, non gas-guzzling personal transporter.
The real luxury of living and working in the city is that I don’t need a car. There are innovative schemes for shared ownership and vehicle leasing. Public transport, supermarket delivery and taxis tide you over for the difference. I’ve even seen rickshaws for hire. Cars are a problem I avoid by walking. Others, by roller-blading.
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
Bit Of A Domestic
Modern flats have something missing. In apartments across the land, from luxury to Dovecot, there’s nowhere to dry washing. Some very strange assumptions were made when designing and managing buy-to-let newbuilds. Many prohibit drying laundry on the tiny balcony. Tenants are different; they never sweat – but fragrantly, they glow.
It’s worse in developments completed more than five years ago, way before the energy price hike made everyone so keen to economise (oh and also save the environment.) It’s still assumed that we are cash-rich and time-poor, so desiccate our clothes in money-guzzling washer-driers, when actually we roast our socks over the heater, which is dangerous. Rooms are small, with airers crammed between the sofas; bad enough for solo renters - a nightmare where two or more people share.
When I worked in welfare rights, it was widely, and rightly accepted that drying laundry in the living area causes respiratory problems. In poorer rented homes, central-heating is often either absent or unaffordable. I’ve been offered badly insulated flats with just a temperamental Calor gas heater in every city I’ve visited. It’s a fire hazard, and leads to soggy clothes mouldering when the meter runs out.
In olden days, houses were sensibly fitted with drying-racks suspended from the ceiling. Nowadays, I am rendered senseless with nostalgia as I recall ‘gardens’ complete with what were known as ‘clothes-lines.’ In shared housing, laundry left to rot in the washer is a flashpoint for many a senseless killing spree.
Forward then to the recent past, when planners understood the basic human need for clean underwear. In social housing, communal drying areas were placed at the top of tower blocks, for maximum exposure to the elements, which sounds like a good idea.
But there was a major and appalling problem, worse than the obvious snag of having your lingerie snaffled and suspecting the neighbours. It was this: significant numbers of people jumped to their deaths, so the drying rooms were closed.
In case you think Nice Heights (should I call it Naice Heights?) was made in paradise by nymphs, there is one snag, which I only noticed after moving in. We have loads of cupboard space for gadgets, crockery and food, but unbelievably there is no draining board. Perhaps this is evidence of what I hoped was an urban legend. Those blokeish architects assumed that we hip urbanites wouldn’t do anything as basic as cook and eat at home, so there’d be no disgusting dirty crockery (in fact I’m amazed they supplied us with toilets, since we are too marvellous and grand for that sort of thing.) It takes days for one person to fill the dishwasher until it’s economical to use.
In upmarket flats, tenants perch on their Eames recliners counting their Alessi, and (having returned from some chi-chi new restaurant) they gaze around with satisfaction, appreciating all they have amassed. Then, as they negotiate their way delicately around the washing, which is drying, slowly and precariously, on an array of rickety clothes-horses, a thought occurs: those Mr Men knickers are starting to look a bit shabby.
It’s worse in developments completed more than five years ago, way before the energy price hike made everyone so keen to economise (oh and also save the environment.) It’s still assumed that we are cash-rich and time-poor, so desiccate our clothes in money-guzzling washer-driers, when actually we roast our socks over the heater, which is dangerous. Rooms are small, with airers crammed between the sofas; bad enough for solo renters - a nightmare where two or more people share.
When I worked in welfare rights, it was widely, and rightly accepted that drying laundry in the living area causes respiratory problems. In poorer rented homes, central-heating is often either absent or unaffordable. I’ve been offered badly insulated flats with just a temperamental Calor gas heater in every city I’ve visited. It’s a fire hazard, and leads to soggy clothes mouldering when the meter runs out.
In olden days, houses were sensibly fitted with drying-racks suspended from the ceiling. Nowadays, I am rendered senseless with nostalgia as I recall ‘gardens’ complete with what were known as ‘clothes-lines.’ In shared housing, laundry left to rot in the washer is a flashpoint for many a senseless killing spree.
Forward then to the recent past, when planners understood the basic human need for clean underwear. In social housing, communal drying areas were placed at the top of tower blocks, for maximum exposure to the elements, which sounds like a good idea.
But there was a major and appalling problem, worse than the obvious snag of having your lingerie snaffled and suspecting the neighbours. It was this: significant numbers of people jumped to their deaths, so the drying rooms were closed.
In case you think Nice Heights (should I call it Naice Heights?) was made in paradise by nymphs, there is one snag, which I only noticed after moving in. We have loads of cupboard space for gadgets, crockery and food, but unbelievably there is no draining board. Perhaps this is evidence of what I hoped was an urban legend. Those blokeish architects assumed that we hip urbanites wouldn’t do anything as basic as cook and eat at home, so there’d be no disgusting dirty crockery (in fact I’m amazed they supplied us with toilets, since we are too marvellous and grand for that sort of thing.) It takes days for one person to fill the dishwasher until it’s economical to use.
In upmarket flats, tenants perch on their Eames recliners counting their Alessi, and (having returned from some chi-chi new restaurant) they gaze around with satisfaction, appreciating all they have amassed. Then, as they negotiate their way delicately around the washing, which is drying, slowly and precariously, on an array of rickety clothes-horses, a thought occurs: those Mr Men knickers are starting to look a bit shabby.
Tuesday, 5 May 2009
A Mole For Newbuild Holes
I had a depressing conversation with a builder recently. He was funding his post-grad by working on one of the many developments currently on a bizarre game of build-as-slow-as-you-can. I mentioned that I had more than a passing interest in newbuilds; sort of a hobby, you might say. I wondered what he thought of my suspicions that they are built to a very poor standard (see; I can be tactful when need dictates.)
He offered his technical appraisal of urban newbuild flats, which I’ll try and convey. I’m not an expert, and he was using jargon and complex terminology. He described them as being (what was it now?) ah, that’s it: “crap.” Or did he say “shite?” Oh dear, I could kick myself. You must think me so unprofessional.
I suggested, and he confirmed, that many flats are constructed under the laws of Blue Peter craft-sheets and the wonderful game of Jenga, using balsa-wood, paper-clips and cling-film, and that developers meet planners and building inspectors with fingers crossed behind their backs while kissing a crucifix (inverted of course.) When applications are successful, shame-faced architects slope off to wail, while developers sacrifice a goat (letting-agents drink the blood.)
Bob The Builder (not his real name…) used insider knowledge when he noticed a widening crack in the walls in his former rented home. He assembled housemates in the filigree lounge/kitchen/study/laundry-room/diner to reason with them, in a calm and understated manner: “Run away!!!” he said, adding: “Save yourselves!!!”
I thought it might be plaster shrinkage. He said: don’t be silly. When I told him about Dovecot Towers, he was blank, until he realised that I was expecting him to be shocked.
Whenever I mention the appalling state of modern domestic architecture, its inherent design inadequacies and common structural defects, people think I am making it up, or joking. I’m not. But if anyone reading this is working, or has worked on a building site, could you just confirm that I’m telling the truth. It’s like being the little boy in The Emperor’s New Clothes: I can see the Emperor’s hairy arse, and newbuild flats are terrible.
What’s needed is a friendly, informed mole to help us out of this hole. We need a public-spirited builder who has worked on these monstrosities to become a whistle-blower, and reveal the regime of institutionalised cost-cutting and standard skimming that is the true monstrous carbuncle defacing contemporary architecture, and blighting daily life for tenants.
Incidentally, when I heard that one of the worst culprits for building these miserable hutches is in financial trouble, I laughed so hard that tea came out of my nose (apparently, a similar trick is performed in Bangkok.)
If justice is to be served, that particular firm will go bankrupt, its directors forced to rent a flat where the washing-machine is effectively next to the sofa, where you can hear neighbours whisper and piss, where you worry about falling through ceilings if you tread too hard, and where your post is stolen. Nice Heights (my final decision on the official nickname btw) is proof that great buildings are possible, so let it be done more often.
He offered his technical appraisal of urban newbuild flats, which I’ll try and convey. I’m not an expert, and he was using jargon and complex terminology. He described them as being (what was it now?) ah, that’s it: “crap.” Or did he say “shite?” Oh dear, I could kick myself. You must think me so unprofessional.
I suggested, and he confirmed, that many flats are constructed under the laws of Blue Peter craft-sheets and the wonderful game of Jenga, using balsa-wood, paper-clips and cling-film, and that developers meet planners and building inspectors with fingers crossed behind their backs while kissing a crucifix (inverted of course.) When applications are successful, shame-faced architects slope off to wail, while developers sacrifice a goat (letting-agents drink the blood.)
Bob The Builder (not his real name…) used insider knowledge when he noticed a widening crack in the walls in his former rented home. He assembled housemates in the filigree lounge/kitchen/study/laundry-room/diner to reason with them, in a calm and understated manner: “Run away!!!” he said, adding: “Save yourselves!!!”
I thought it might be plaster shrinkage. He said: don’t be silly. When I told him about Dovecot Towers, he was blank, until he realised that I was expecting him to be shocked.
Whenever I mention the appalling state of modern domestic architecture, its inherent design inadequacies and common structural defects, people think I am making it up, or joking. I’m not. But if anyone reading this is working, or has worked on a building site, could you just confirm that I’m telling the truth. It’s like being the little boy in The Emperor’s New Clothes: I can see the Emperor’s hairy arse, and newbuild flats are terrible.
What’s needed is a friendly, informed mole to help us out of this hole. We need a public-spirited builder who has worked on these monstrosities to become a whistle-blower, and reveal the regime of institutionalised cost-cutting and standard skimming that is the true monstrous carbuncle defacing contemporary architecture, and blighting daily life for tenants.
Incidentally, when I heard that one of the worst culprits for building these miserable hutches is in financial trouble, I laughed so hard that tea came out of my nose (apparently, a similar trick is performed in Bangkok.)
If justice is to be served, that particular firm will go bankrupt, its directors forced to rent a flat where the washing-machine is effectively next to the sofa, where you can hear neighbours whisper and piss, where you worry about falling through ceilings if you tread too hard, and where your post is stolen. Nice Heights (my final decision on the official nickname btw) is proof that great buildings are possible, so let it be done more often.
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
Flatmate (un)Wanted Ads
Over the years, my experience of flat-share ads has shown them to need extensive interpretation. Either deliberately deceptive, or in code, they disguise the neurotic, slap-inducing tendencies of your prospective co-tenants, so pay attention.
Beware the word ‘executive’ in all its guises. Only a complete arse would describe their home (or themselves) this way, and consider it a positive. ‘Executive’ means they have done the Alpha course, and will try and winch you in. They own the flat, and regard you, their lowly sub-tenant, as a loser for not racing up the property ladder from the age of fifteen. While their room is ensuite, they will continue to vindictively use your bathroom. They return home late, bitter, tense, coke- up and spiteful. They will go home to Wigan for long breaks, claiming to have been in Chicago. On ‘executive’ business.
‘Gay friendly’ can be a minefield. It might simply mean that gay people live there, and are preferred. A frightening alternative is that residents will assume the same frantic, and altogether terrifying mental state of the characters in ‘Gimme Gimme Gimme,’ compulsively re-enacting key scenes, screeching with mirth. For a friend of mine, it meant a lovelorn lesbian housemate who looked like Wee Jimmie Krankie.
‘Friendly, lively house’? The devil in disguise; it’s all back to mine, gone mad: baked beans everywhere, lager cans in the sink, no cleaning at all, ever, and friends on the sofa, in the hall, and in your bed if you get home a minute after midnight. After weeks spent ankle deep in take away cartons, and the same track will boom and thump courtesy of the bedroom DJ in the next room, until your eyes swivel in time to the music, and the pores on your forearms bleed spontaneously.
‘Communal House’ Hmm… with the rest of house populated by skunk loving anarcho vegan hippy eco warriors who don’t believe in mousetraps, and threaten regular weekly and accusatory house meetings/denunciation sessions, you will emit a whining sound. Then you’ll go mad, but find redemptive sanctuary in a pond.
‘Creative’. That means cacophonous, gurning, experimental musicians rehearsing in your kitchen. Arty types, such as fashion students will cast a critical eye over the design values of your knickers on the line, and decode the aesthetics of your shoes. In a flashback from my student days, I still view sculptors as violent thugs, because they were, leaving a trail of giblets, blood, ears etc after nutting and gouging each other on the dance floor. I don’t know why; they just did.
‘Quiet.’ Another loaded phrase. ‘Quiet’ means a passive-aggressive, forlorn shadow who will hiss “shush!!!” you if you watch anything other than the Antique’s Roadshow, and judge you as a harlot for having overnight guests. You will live your life under a solemn ticking clock (a prize possession) every beat of which marks the passing seconds of your life.
Until you run screaming from the house.
And the whole, hideous cycle starts again.
Beware the word ‘executive’ in all its guises. Only a complete arse would describe their home (or themselves) this way, and consider it a positive. ‘Executive’ means they have done the Alpha course, and will try and winch you in. They own the flat, and regard you, their lowly sub-tenant, as a loser for not racing up the property ladder from the age of fifteen. While their room is ensuite, they will continue to vindictively use your bathroom. They return home late, bitter, tense, coke- up and spiteful. They will go home to Wigan for long breaks, claiming to have been in Chicago. On ‘executive’ business.
‘Gay friendly’ can be a minefield. It might simply mean that gay people live there, and are preferred. A frightening alternative is that residents will assume the same frantic, and altogether terrifying mental state of the characters in ‘Gimme Gimme Gimme,’ compulsively re-enacting key scenes, screeching with mirth. For a friend of mine, it meant a lovelorn lesbian housemate who looked like Wee Jimmie Krankie.
‘Friendly, lively house’? The devil in disguise; it’s all back to mine, gone mad: baked beans everywhere, lager cans in the sink, no cleaning at all, ever, and friends on the sofa, in the hall, and in your bed if you get home a minute after midnight. After weeks spent ankle deep in take away cartons, and the same track will boom and thump courtesy of the bedroom DJ in the next room, until your eyes swivel in time to the music, and the pores on your forearms bleed spontaneously.
‘Communal House’ Hmm… with the rest of house populated by skunk loving anarcho vegan hippy eco warriors who don’t believe in mousetraps, and threaten regular weekly and accusatory house meetings/denunciation sessions, you will emit a whining sound. Then you’ll go mad, but find redemptive sanctuary in a pond.
‘Creative’. That means cacophonous, gurning, experimental musicians rehearsing in your kitchen. Arty types, such as fashion students will cast a critical eye over the design values of your knickers on the line, and decode the aesthetics of your shoes. In a flashback from my student days, I still view sculptors as violent thugs, because they were, leaving a trail of giblets, blood, ears etc after nutting and gouging each other on the dance floor. I don’t know why; they just did.
‘Quiet.’ Another loaded phrase. ‘Quiet’ means a passive-aggressive, forlorn shadow who will hiss “shush!!!” you if you watch anything other than the Antique’s Roadshow, and judge you as a harlot for having overnight guests. You will live your life under a solemn ticking clock (a prize possession) every beat of which marks the passing seconds of your life.
Until you run screaming from the house.
And the whole, hideous cycle starts again.
Tuesday, 31 March 2009
Rents Are Falling!
Any day now, the 6pm bulletin will announce: “…news just in. We’re all completely screwed. Try not to panic!”
But there is one positive story: rents are falling. Well, at least, that’s what they say, but here, on the ground, I’m afraid it’s not quite so straightforward. Letting agents would rather die (no; really - they’d choose death) than admit that rents are shrinking, which is why they are still clinging to astronomical asking prices.
There are legions of flats, and increasingly, renters are opting to be a little more choosy, especially where there are masses of empty newbuilds. Even where it's nicer - close to town, away from the nastier developments - prices are still dropping. You can find a medium spec flat (solid but nothing fancy) and some of them are approaching fair to realistic levels, because wise, more experienced landlords are requesting down to earth prices.
Elsewhere, there’s no denying the overwhelming evidence for a freefall, but everything depends on where the flat is situated. On arterial routes out of town, close to an area of relative deprivation things are harrowing. Many of these flats were built using the extremes of developer greed, with disastrous cost cutting in room size, management standards and build quality. Rents here are plummeting, but you wouldn’t want to live there at any price.
Even in well designed, higher spec flats, prices have fallen. There are stories about landlords with empty newbuilds trying to lure tenants by offering cleaners, Playstations, inclusive internet and payment holidays to those sign up for a long term stay. Beware landlords bearing gifts, however. If they seem desperate, they could turn out to be behind with mortgage payments. You might not be there for long.
My own current landlord initially consulted some Letting Agents (collective noun: a plague?) who insisted he could demand £150 over what I am paying. Fortunately, he is a decent, straightforward man (so far…) astute enough to realise that the market is contracting. He’d rather deal with tenants himself, as agencies will elevate rents and he’ll still do all the work. Clever landlords have grasped that if they ask for too high a rent, tenants in a shrinking market will quickly find somewhere cheaper and leave, causing those dreaded voids.
Remember the old days, when buy-to-let was new and exciting, when investing in property promised riches or at least financial security for landlords (and renters paid the price?) Those heady dreams of giddy profits sent prices for a rabbit hutches racing skywards. Easy mortgages have vanished and house building is in stasis. Meanwhile, rents are either moribund, falling, or actually so low that eventually, landlords will find themselves subsidising tenants to live in their property.
This is a welcome, and necessary adjustment. Rents are hitting the actual level ground on planet earth, where real human beings (i.e. actual people) live, as opposed to fantastical, imaginary ciphers created for an Inside Track seminar. But what if letting agents, landlords and developers had asked for fair prices to begin with? Would there have been so many evictions, repossessions and bank crashes?
Ah, what if.
If only…
But there is one positive story: rents are falling. Well, at least, that’s what they say, but here, on the ground, I’m afraid it’s not quite so straightforward. Letting agents would rather die (no; really - they’d choose death) than admit that rents are shrinking, which is why they are still clinging to astronomical asking prices.
There are legions of flats, and increasingly, renters are opting to be a little more choosy, especially where there are masses of empty newbuilds. Even where it's nicer - close to town, away from the nastier developments - prices are still dropping. You can find a medium spec flat (solid but nothing fancy) and some of them are approaching fair to realistic levels, because wise, more experienced landlords are requesting down to earth prices.
Elsewhere, there’s no denying the overwhelming evidence for a freefall, but everything depends on where the flat is situated. On arterial routes out of town, close to an area of relative deprivation things are harrowing. Many of these flats were built using the extremes of developer greed, with disastrous cost cutting in room size, management standards and build quality. Rents here are plummeting, but you wouldn’t want to live there at any price.
Even in well designed, higher spec flats, prices have fallen. There are stories about landlords with empty newbuilds trying to lure tenants by offering cleaners, Playstations, inclusive internet and payment holidays to those sign up for a long term stay. Beware landlords bearing gifts, however. If they seem desperate, they could turn out to be behind with mortgage payments. You might not be there for long.
My own current landlord initially consulted some Letting Agents (collective noun: a plague?) who insisted he could demand £150 over what I am paying. Fortunately, he is a decent, straightforward man (so far…) astute enough to realise that the market is contracting. He’d rather deal with tenants himself, as agencies will elevate rents and he’ll still do all the work. Clever landlords have grasped that if they ask for too high a rent, tenants in a shrinking market will quickly find somewhere cheaper and leave, causing those dreaded voids.
Remember the old days, when buy-to-let was new and exciting, when investing in property promised riches or at least financial security for landlords (and renters paid the price?) Those heady dreams of giddy profits sent prices for a rabbit hutches racing skywards. Easy mortgages have vanished and house building is in stasis. Meanwhile, rents are either moribund, falling, or actually so low that eventually, landlords will find themselves subsidising tenants to live in their property.
This is a welcome, and necessary adjustment. Rents are hitting the actual level ground on planet earth, where real human beings (i.e. actual people) live, as opposed to fantastical, imaginary ciphers created for an Inside Track seminar. But what if letting agents, landlords and developers had asked for fair prices to begin with? Would there have been so many evictions, repossessions and bank crashes?
Ah, what if.
If only…
Tuesday, 24 March 2009
Our Lady Of The Banana Boxes
In Glasgow they called me The Banana Box Lady of Gallowgate. Children stared at me and pointed, watching awestruck from a safe distance as I collected cartons from the kerb. Once I found myself idly gathering up strong boxes discarded outside a wedding goods shop, as the owner looked on, in wonder and fear. Collecting boxes has become an obsession (not as all consuming as my hobby of cupboard spotting, but slightly worrying, nonetheless.) I’m hoarding them for when I move again.
I’m settled and happy here in my new home. Even so, I haven’t been unpacking properly and I still have some boxes in my lounge. I don’t bother filing my vinyl meticulously in alphabetical order anymore. What’s the point? It’s currently hidden in the one cupboard, stacked in carrier bags awaiting digitisation. It’s been that way for years.
That’s how it is with short term lets: a short term mindset develops. Everything I hire, join or subscribe to, like phone, internet, societies, libraries anything really, is always chosen for the ease with which I can extricate myself. Many people live this way, but urban nomads like me are penalised for moving, and obliged to commit to eighteen months when realistically, they might stay at the same address for six moths. Everything is temporary. Even reduced rates for paying electricity monthly are misleading, as when the rental agreement has expired, you’ll end up pursuing utility companies for the amount you’ve overpaid, and they do like to hang on to your cash for as long as possible.
I unpack reluctantly, with half an eye on boxing everything back up again. My possessions re-emerge gradually, as I am wary of needlessly liberating belongings that will inevitably spend few halcyon months free from a swaddling of crunched up newspaper. I also maintain a stack of newspapers, just in case. Whenever I buy anything new, I have learned the hard way to hang on to the box it came in, as even a cheap tinny stereo will smash outside the box it called home. Perhaps that’s why I adore cupboards.
For your information, crisp boxes are no good, unless you reinforce them with parcel tape (look – ask me for advice whenever you want. I am an expert.) I wonder if the day will ever come when I can unpack completely, and throw all my boxes away. Actually, I’ll probably celebrate by burning them, dancing around a huge ritual bonfire with roaring flames visible for miles around.
But I dread packing. Every time I move I dread it even more. Every time I move, something loved or valuable is smashed or missing when I look for it. My best tip though is banana boxes, begged from the supermarket. I hoard banana boxes. In fact, I love them. They are strong and big enough for most things, yet small enough. You can’t overfill them and break your back, and removal men will acknowledge you as an insider, and appreciate your consideration. It’s scary that I know that.
I’m settled and happy here in my new home. Even so, I haven’t been unpacking properly and I still have some boxes in my lounge. I don’t bother filing my vinyl meticulously in alphabetical order anymore. What’s the point? It’s currently hidden in the one cupboard, stacked in carrier bags awaiting digitisation. It’s been that way for years.
That’s how it is with short term lets: a short term mindset develops. Everything I hire, join or subscribe to, like phone, internet, societies, libraries anything really, is always chosen for the ease with which I can extricate myself. Many people live this way, but urban nomads like me are penalised for moving, and obliged to commit to eighteen months when realistically, they might stay at the same address for six moths. Everything is temporary. Even reduced rates for paying electricity monthly are misleading, as when the rental agreement has expired, you’ll end up pursuing utility companies for the amount you’ve overpaid, and they do like to hang on to your cash for as long as possible.
I unpack reluctantly, with half an eye on boxing everything back up again. My possessions re-emerge gradually, as I am wary of needlessly liberating belongings that will inevitably spend few halcyon months free from a swaddling of crunched up newspaper. I also maintain a stack of newspapers, just in case. Whenever I buy anything new, I have learned the hard way to hang on to the box it came in, as even a cheap tinny stereo will smash outside the box it called home. Perhaps that’s why I adore cupboards.
For your information, crisp boxes are no good, unless you reinforce them with parcel tape (look – ask me for advice whenever you want. I am an expert.) I wonder if the day will ever come when I can unpack completely, and throw all my boxes away. Actually, I’ll probably celebrate by burning them, dancing around a huge ritual bonfire with roaring flames visible for miles around.
But I dread packing. Every time I move I dread it even more. Every time I move, something loved or valuable is smashed or missing when I look for it. My best tip though is banana boxes, begged from the supermarket. I hoard banana boxes. In fact, I love them. They are strong and big enough for most things, yet small enough. You can’t overfill them and break your back, and removal men will acknowledge you as an insider, and appreciate your consideration. It’s scary that I know that.
Monday, 16 March 2009
Hell In Happy Valley
A new slum is rising. I knew of its reputation as somewhere even worse than Dovecot Towers, but only recognised the extent of its decline recently, when letting agents never offered me a flat there. Let’s call this place Happy Valley.
Before I moved into Dovecot Towers, the letting agent (who, to be fair, was unaware of the horror that greeted tenants there) mentioned a flat in Happy Valley quizzically, half-heartedly, with one eyebrow raised. When I said no, he seemed relieved.
Now Happy Valley is notorious. It’s the worst of all possible worlds: the last gasp of the property boom at its meanest, with costs cut to the dry white bone. Built near an area you wouldn’t want to live, the surrounding neighbourhood is often mentioned in news reports linked to the phrase gang-related activity. Developers must have known that.
Happy Valley’s investors were often hubristic out-of-towners, bamboozled by talk of proximity to entertainment and the city’s delights. Stupidly they never visited, having bought off-plan. That was a few years ago now, but the unfolding disaster is worse than anyone could have imagined.
One letting agent, who had previously lied through his iridescent capped teeth about a booming rental market, said of Happy Valley: I never offer flats there. Don’t go there. I wouldn’t like my girlfriend living there.
Why? The extremes of the crash hit Happy Valley hard. Entire floors are unoccupied. Landlords are desperate, and have dropped any pretence of vetting tenants. Tellingly, the letting agent abandoned all attempts to say apartment, admitting: when you move in, you don’t know how long the landlord will hold on.
Another day, another repossession. The corridors echo with burglaries on a scale that made Dovecot Towers look like Walton’s Mountain. The approach is notoriously dodgy, and muggings are increasing. Squatters are arriving. This is where neighbours from hell go to practice and refine their evil ways.
What’s to be done? There is no plan. The council have already declared that newbuilds better than Happy Valley fall short of the standards necessary for their adoption or requisition as social housing. They won’t be snapping them up at auction to house the desperate, as there are far too many badly built, unpleasant, tiny, badly planned, poorly finished flats.
Meanwhile, the legions of hell have stormed the gates of Happy Valley. Soon, people who live there will be tainted by association, when they’ve only moved in because they’re poor. Some buildings are still being completed. The owners have tried to change the tarnished name (all these parishes of doom are christened whimsically with foolishly optimistic names redolent of hope, countryside, or arty edginess.) It won’t work. The stench of that rotten reputation precedes it, blighting lives until it is demolished
My question is this: if councils don’t want these budding sink estates, and have ruled the flats as not fit for their purposes (too small, too badly built) then why allow them in the first place?
(N.B. In my new home, residents have doormats outside their flats. Nobody steals them or anything. How posh is that?)
Before I moved into Dovecot Towers, the letting agent (who, to be fair, was unaware of the horror that greeted tenants there) mentioned a flat in Happy Valley quizzically, half-heartedly, with one eyebrow raised. When I said no, he seemed relieved.
Now Happy Valley is notorious. It’s the worst of all possible worlds: the last gasp of the property boom at its meanest, with costs cut to the dry white bone. Built near an area you wouldn’t want to live, the surrounding neighbourhood is often mentioned in news reports linked to the phrase gang-related activity. Developers must have known that.
Happy Valley’s investors were often hubristic out-of-towners, bamboozled by talk of proximity to entertainment and the city’s delights. Stupidly they never visited, having bought off-plan. That was a few years ago now, but the unfolding disaster is worse than anyone could have imagined.
One letting agent, who had previously lied through his iridescent capped teeth about a booming rental market, said of Happy Valley: I never offer flats there. Don’t go there. I wouldn’t like my girlfriend living there.
Why? The extremes of the crash hit Happy Valley hard. Entire floors are unoccupied. Landlords are desperate, and have dropped any pretence of vetting tenants. Tellingly, the letting agent abandoned all attempts to say apartment, admitting: when you move in, you don’t know how long the landlord will hold on.
Another day, another repossession. The corridors echo with burglaries on a scale that made Dovecot Towers look like Walton’s Mountain. The approach is notoriously dodgy, and muggings are increasing. Squatters are arriving. This is where neighbours from hell go to practice and refine their evil ways.
What’s to be done? There is no plan. The council have already declared that newbuilds better than Happy Valley fall short of the standards necessary for their adoption or requisition as social housing. They won’t be snapping them up at auction to house the desperate, as there are far too many badly built, unpleasant, tiny, badly planned, poorly finished flats.
Meanwhile, the legions of hell have stormed the gates of Happy Valley. Soon, people who live there will be tainted by association, when they’ve only moved in because they’re poor. Some buildings are still being completed. The owners have tried to change the tarnished name (all these parishes of doom are christened whimsically with foolishly optimistic names redolent of hope, countryside, or arty edginess.) It won’t work. The stench of that rotten reputation precedes it, blighting lives until it is demolished
My question is this: if councils don’t want these budding sink estates, and have ruled the flats as not fit for their purposes (too small, too badly built) then why allow them in the first place?
(N.B. In my new home, residents have doormats outside their flats. Nobody steals them or anything. How posh is that?)
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
Exceptional Extras
My quest is over. I’ve found a place to live, and it wasn’t easy. After leaving Dovecot Towers, and indeed because of Dovecot Towers, I had a list of cast iron requirements. Sadly, what I now consider essential in a home is in reality up there with diamond encrusted door-handles and platinum floors.
I was only asking for basics, like a strong door. When I lived in Dovecot Towers and discovered that miscreants had stolen the main door, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but my new block has a good door on it. A fine door. A safe door.
The post room is still communal with shallow boxes, but it’s safe. The building has a proper concierge (hooray!) which isn’t as grand as it sounds. They’re caretakers, really; the difference is, they will sign for post. The idea of having someone sitting at reception acts as a deterrent to people forcing their way in, but then the architects and developers have also hit upon a totally sci-fi innovation, usually found only on spaceships. It’s a main door that actually closes properly.
Regular readers aware of my proclivities might be curious for details of the cupboard situation. The news is not all good. I am not overburdened with yawning storage so vast that suitcases look lonely, or acres of shelving (sigh...) but there is a utility cupboard, for my mops, brooms and washer-drier. Let the joy be unconfined!
There’s a separate kitchen. Old-fashioned tenants accustomed to boiling their smalls on the hob appreciate separate kitchens. Personally I am not so inclined, but even so I’m grateful that I can shut the door so the entire flat doesn’t reek of whatever I am cooking.
There’s also a small balcony with a door that opens inwards so you don’t knock visitors over the edge, and a view. Hardly a stirring panorama of snow-capped mountains, but at least I’m not staring into someone else’s flat with a distance of just five feet between us.
And it’s larger than the average flat, but unfortunately, it’s painted white throughout and must stay that way. There were nails ready in the walls begging to be hung with pictures. I can’t hear my neighbours music, or their toilet flushing or any other diverting Dovecotian delights. There’s a recycling bin, and a water meter. There’s a well-posted fire assembly point (but with a decided lack of arsonists hereabouts, I doubt I’ll find myself standing there at dawn in my curlers.) The landlord seems to be a reasonable man who simply wants to let his flat and therefore needs a tenant.
Speaking as a former resident of the gruelling dystopia that was Dovecot Towers, I know from bitter experience that these matters are vital, even in buy-to-let developments. Security, a good, sturdy design and efficient management should never be considered as indulgent extras beyond the reach of renters. Safety is not a luxury.
So that’s a great flat, an apparently secure building, in a quiet area (all it needs now is a pseudonym; any suggestions?) What could possibly go wrong?
I was only asking for basics, like a strong door. When I lived in Dovecot Towers and discovered that miscreants had stolen the main door, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but my new block has a good door on it. A fine door. A safe door.
The post room is still communal with shallow boxes, but it’s safe. The building has a proper concierge (hooray!) which isn’t as grand as it sounds. They’re caretakers, really; the difference is, they will sign for post. The idea of having someone sitting at reception acts as a deterrent to people forcing their way in, but then the architects and developers have also hit upon a totally sci-fi innovation, usually found only on spaceships. It’s a main door that actually closes properly.
Regular readers aware of my proclivities might be curious for details of the cupboard situation. The news is not all good. I am not overburdened with yawning storage so vast that suitcases look lonely, or acres of shelving (sigh...) but there is a utility cupboard, for my mops, brooms and washer-drier. Let the joy be unconfined!
There’s a separate kitchen. Old-fashioned tenants accustomed to boiling their smalls on the hob appreciate separate kitchens. Personally I am not so inclined, but even so I’m grateful that I can shut the door so the entire flat doesn’t reek of whatever I am cooking.
There’s also a small balcony with a door that opens inwards so you don’t knock visitors over the edge, and a view. Hardly a stirring panorama of snow-capped mountains, but at least I’m not staring into someone else’s flat with a distance of just five feet between us.
And it’s larger than the average flat, but unfortunately, it’s painted white throughout and must stay that way. There were nails ready in the walls begging to be hung with pictures. I can’t hear my neighbours music, or their toilet flushing or any other diverting Dovecotian delights. There’s a recycling bin, and a water meter. There’s a well-posted fire assembly point (but with a decided lack of arsonists hereabouts, I doubt I’ll find myself standing there at dawn in my curlers.) The landlord seems to be a reasonable man who simply wants to let his flat and therefore needs a tenant.
Speaking as a former resident of the gruelling dystopia that was Dovecot Towers, I know from bitter experience that these matters are vital, even in buy-to-let developments. Security, a good, sturdy design and efficient management should never be considered as indulgent extras beyond the reach of renters. Safety is not a luxury.
So that’s a great flat, an apparently secure building, in a quiet area (all it needs now is a pseudonym; any suggestions?) What could possibly go wrong?
Tuesday, 3 March 2009
Lower Than A Letting Agent
My flat hunt has convinced me. There is nothing lower than a letting agent. Traffic wardens, bankers, slugs, and tax inspectors all have their detractors, but letting agents are special.
I was trying to avoid them, but they’ve established a virtual stranglehold. And so, I opened the door of one office. Ignoring the whiff of sulphur I waited, hoping to be invited to take a seat (I’m old-fashioned that way.) I waited. And then I waited some more as the agent took personal calls, shuffled papers and glimpsed slyly up at me.
“Yeah-esss…” he said, like a cross between Jeremy Paxman and Basil Fawlty. He didn’t look up, and smirked when I mentioned my requirements and the price I would pay. He asked for my details but didn’t appear to be writing them down.
Another sneered at me and even giggled. Then she regained her composure and reached for a hefty file of vacant flats. As she opened it, bats flew out, and the dust choked us all. It was the collection of one beds and studio flats. She did what they all do: offer me crap to see how high I’d go on the gullible meter. I haggled. She refused, as there are plenty of tenants. I said: how come there are so many vacancies, then.
One fine, arrogant chap looked me in the eye, insisting that, in a booming market, flats are snapped up as soon as they come in. He’s never been so busy. His best customers were (you’ll like this…) Saudi princes. I know; awash with money, they select the luxury of a cheap, nasty newbuild.
He reiterated the buoyancy of the rental sector.
He’s a big fat hairy liar.
He offered me a flat, £100 over my starting price, and £50 more than it was worth for a one-bed newbuild with no trimmings. He knew he could get the landlady to go lower. I knew he could as well. That’s because he had persuaded her to ramp up her rent; she was panicking because the flat had been empty for weeks (I’d checked.) I agreed to view the next day, time to be confirmed later. He never contacted me and never returned my calls. That flat is still empty.
It gets better. Another agent said: “I’ve got just the thing.” It was a bargain: lovely area, great building, well-managed.
He showed me a picture of Dovecot Towers.
I took a deep breath. Then I told him (oh, the nostalgia) about the crime, the security, the door, the management etc. The one sliver of his psyche that was human, not lizard, took hold, and he appreciated my explanation of a turnover so high they might as well have removal vans on standby like taxis. The rent has dropped another £50 per month. That’s a full £150 from what the letting bastards had initially tried to squeeze out of me.
By the way, I’ve noticed something else. When Letting Agents stand in front of a mirror, they don’t have a reflection.
I was trying to avoid them, but they’ve established a virtual stranglehold. And so, I opened the door of one office. Ignoring the whiff of sulphur I waited, hoping to be invited to take a seat (I’m old-fashioned that way.) I waited. And then I waited some more as the agent took personal calls, shuffled papers and glimpsed slyly up at me.
“Yeah-esss…” he said, like a cross between Jeremy Paxman and Basil Fawlty. He didn’t look up, and smirked when I mentioned my requirements and the price I would pay. He asked for my details but didn’t appear to be writing them down.
Another sneered at me and even giggled. Then she regained her composure and reached for a hefty file of vacant flats. As she opened it, bats flew out, and the dust choked us all. It was the collection of one beds and studio flats. She did what they all do: offer me crap to see how high I’d go on the gullible meter. I haggled. She refused, as there are plenty of tenants. I said: how come there are so many vacancies, then.
One fine, arrogant chap looked me in the eye, insisting that, in a booming market, flats are snapped up as soon as they come in. He’s never been so busy. His best customers were (you’ll like this…) Saudi princes. I know; awash with money, they select the luxury of a cheap, nasty newbuild.
He reiterated the buoyancy of the rental sector.
He’s a big fat hairy liar.
He offered me a flat, £100 over my starting price, and £50 more than it was worth for a one-bed newbuild with no trimmings. He knew he could get the landlady to go lower. I knew he could as well. That’s because he had persuaded her to ramp up her rent; she was panicking because the flat had been empty for weeks (I’d checked.) I agreed to view the next day, time to be confirmed later. He never contacted me and never returned my calls. That flat is still empty.
It gets better. Another agent said: “I’ve got just the thing.” It was a bargain: lovely area, great building, well-managed.
He showed me a picture of Dovecot Towers.
I took a deep breath. Then I told him (oh, the nostalgia) about the crime, the security, the door, the management etc. The one sliver of his psyche that was human, not lizard, took hold, and he appreciated my explanation of a turnover so high they might as well have removal vans on standby like taxis. The rent has dropped another £50 per month. That’s a full £150 from what the letting bastards had initially tried to squeeze out of me.
By the way, I’ve noticed something else. When Letting Agents stand in front of a mirror, they don’t have a reflection.
Tuesday, 24 February 2009
Stu-Stu-Studio Flats
The future is here. We’re living there now. Just like Tomorrow’s World predicted, we’re living in pods and eat our food in tablet form. Fully clothed, we enter space-age washing stations for a fast drying hose down, and float to work on hover-boots.
Actually, only the pod part is correct. I’ve been researching different cities online. Everywhere has a similar, even stereotypical development: it’s a block of bijou, futuristic shells, or super-space-age, designer pads (studio flats, in reality.)
They are proving very hard to let, anyone who imagined that tenants will choose, freely and willingly to live that way long-term are avaricious wishful-thinkers. You can always find a studio flat. They are everywhere. There’s always a vacancy, but I wonder if developers are asking why they are so unpopular, and why the turnover is so rapid.
In telling and related news, I understand that the Irish government, when not trying to haul itself out of that notorious financial mess, has also heroically banned bedsits. I’ve always thought this was an especially miserable way to live: everything crammed into one tiny room, with a shared bathroom on a landing. I realise that finances dictate how others live, but they’ve always struck me as grim and unhygienic: drying clothes in the same room you cook, eat and sleep, is not a good idea.
Studio flats are at least granted a separate bathroom, although I am scanning the ads for a ‘shower-room/kitchen-diner’ because you just know it’s going to happen one day. Some studios are better designed than others, allowing space for vital fittings, like desks, which are compact rather than absent.
Apart from well-placed, well-managed, well-built, well-designed flats and homes, occupiers want room to manoeuvre. Urban newbuilds are small enough as it is, and so the idea that we might actually choose to live in a studio, and not be compelled to move in through desperation and then get the hell out asap is ridiculous.
Compromise is essential. T’s flat was tiny, but well thought out on his part. He didn’t collect music, or books, but had to decide between a cupboard (mmm…cupboards) and installing a dishwasher. The dishwasher ended up in the cupboard. In newbuild studios, everything folds up into the wall or into itself until the whole thing folds up into the developer’s arsehole. It’s like Inspector Gadget goes to IKEA, and it’s not conducive to modern living, happiness, or long term occupancy.
Actually, I’m being too reasonable, aren’t I? I mean seriously, what are these developers thinking: are they stupid, or are they as small as The Borrowers, and assume that everyone else is the same size? That’s the only possible excuse.
Builders have stopped building, and most developers have stopped developing. So: in the meantime, please can architects keep on…architecting? I mean, ask tenants of buy-to-let flats how they want to live. They may well have a checklist, like I do. Close to the top will be separate rooms, and enough space for energetic star-jumps. Or is that just me?
Actually, only the pod part is correct. I’ve been researching different cities online. Everywhere has a similar, even stereotypical development: it’s a block of bijou, futuristic shells, or super-space-age, designer pads (studio flats, in reality.)
They are proving very hard to let, anyone who imagined that tenants will choose, freely and willingly to live that way long-term are avaricious wishful-thinkers. You can always find a studio flat. They are everywhere. There’s always a vacancy, but I wonder if developers are asking why they are so unpopular, and why the turnover is so rapid.
In telling and related news, I understand that the Irish government, when not trying to haul itself out of that notorious financial mess, has also heroically banned bedsits. I’ve always thought this was an especially miserable way to live: everything crammed into one tiny room, with a shared bathroom on a landing. I realise that finances dictate how others live, but they’ve always struck me as grim and unhygienic: drying clothes in the same room you cook, eat and sleep, is not a good idea.
Studio flats are at least granted a separate bathroom, although I am scanning the ads for a ‘shower-room/kitchen-diner’ because you just know it’s going to happen one day. Some studios are better designed than others, allowing space for vital fittings, like desks, which are compact rather than absent.
Apart from well-placed, well-managed, well-built, well-designed flats and homes, occupiers want room to manoeuvre. Urban newbuilds are small enough as it is, and so the idea that we might actually choose to live in a studio, and not be compelled to move in through desperation and then get the hell out asap is ridiculous.
Compromise is essential. T’s flat was tiny, but well thought out on his part. He didn’t collect music, or books, but had to decide between a cupboard (mmm…cupboards) and installing a dishwasher. The dishwasher ended up in the cupboard. In newbuild studios, everything folds up into the wall or into itself until the whole thing folds up into the developer’s arsehole. It’s like Inspector Gadget goes to IKEA, and it’s not conducive to modern living, happiness, or long term occupancy.
Actually, I’m being too reasonable, aren’t I? I mean seriously, what are these developers thinking: are they stupid, or are they as small as The Borrowers, and assume that everyone else is the same size? That’s the only possible excuse.
Builders have stopped building, and most developers have stopped developing. So: in the meantime, please can architects keep on…architecting? I mean, ask tenants of buy-to-let flats how they want to live. They may well have a checklist, like I do. Close to the top will be separate rooms, and enough space for energetic star-jumps. Or is that just me?
Tuesday, 17 February 2009
Invasion Of The Private Landlord Snatchers
It’s creepy. Private landlords, renting independently have all but vanished. You could be forgiven for thinking they’ve been abducted by aliens, or chased away by angry villagers brandishing pitchforks. Apparently, over the past few months, while we were asleep, nearly every flat in town has been taken over by letting-agents (and you know how I feel about letting agencies.)
Why does it matter? Well, sadly this could indicate that most, if not all private landlords are either too afraid to stay in business alone, or have gone under. Imagine the personal misery: the bankruptcies and evictions. Apart from that, dealing with agencies can be difficult for both renter and owner alike, since they can be lax about collecting rent and pass tenants straight back over to landlords when repairs are needed, while charging fees apparently at random.
But total corporate control of the private rental sector is fused with another emerging complication. It’s this: there are so many newbuilds in urban areas, and so much rented property flooding the market, that some letting agencies are even refusing new instructions. In certain blocks, entire floors are empty.
Smaller owners (silly; I don’t mean short landlords, but people who own just the one flat) are scared. And they have every reason to be: there are too many flats and not enough tenants. I suspect that when they are accepted onto the books, landlords are either grateful or over-confident and wait, as advised, for higher rents even where opportunities are shrinking.
I suspect that landlords are promised high occupancy levels by agents making free with the ‘c’ word i.e. certainty (although I’ve heard agents called a different c word altogether.) Mercifully, they’ve stopped ramping up the rents, but now they’ve added a flourish to their game. They’ve set an artificial ceiling on the cost of a one or two bed flat (as for studios, the prices are totally weird).
If agents have accumulated similar flats, what impetus is there to lower rents when knowledgeable prospective tenants barter? Instead, they hold out, to maximise their potential income. Consequently, rents are falling, but more slowly than might reasonably be expected.
Letting agencies do very little for the money, other than operate the Tenant Find service (even I think it’s a good idea for landlords to use this option to screen incoming tenants.) But with regard to prices, agents sit tight until the bitter end, playing poker for higher rents. They’ve far less to lose than a landlord who might willingly accept £50 less per month (still a reasonable income) in return for a good night’s sleep. It’s the callous and greedy leading the terrified and deluded.
In the future, perhaps landlords could stick together and form a co-op, or a gang, because the options for landlords are twofold: either (a) drop the rent or (b) go bankrupt. It’s that simple. In option (a) the only party losing out will be the letting agency, and my eyes are already damp with tears of laughter.
Why does it matter? Well, sadly this could indicate that most, if not all private landlords are either too afraid to stay in business alone, or have gone under. Imagine the personal misery: the bankruptcies and evictions. Apart from that, dealing with agencies can be difficult for both renter and owner alike, since they can be lax about collecting rent and pass tenants straight back over to landlords when repairs are needed, while charging fees apparently at random.
But total corporate control of the private rental sector is fused with another emerging complication. It’s this: there are so many newbuilds in urban areas, and so much rented property flooding the market, that some letting agencies are even refusing new instructions. In certain blocks, entire floors are empty.
Smaller owners (silly; I don’t mean short landlords, but people who own just the one flat) are scared. And they have every reason to be: there are too many flats and not enough tenants. I suspect that when they are accepted onto the books, landlords are either grateful or over-confident and wait, as advised, for higher rents even where opportunities are shrinking.
I suspect that landlords are promised high occupancy levels by agents making free with the ‘c’ word i.e. certainty (although I’ve heard agents called a different c word altogether.) Mercifully, they’ve stopped ramping up the rents, but now they’ve added a flourish to their game. They’ve set an artificial ceiling on the cost of a one or two bed flat (as for studios, the prices are totally weird).
If agents have accumulated similar flats, what impetus is there to lower rents when knowledgeable prospective tenants barter? Instead, they hold out, to maximise their potential income. Consequently, rents are falling, but more slowly than might reasonably be expected.
Letting agencies do very little for the money, other than operate the Tenant Find service (even I think it’s a good idea for landlords to use this option to screen incoming tenants.) But with regard to prices, agents sit tight until the bitter end, playing poker for higher rents. They’ve far less to lose than a landlord who might willingly accept £50 less per month (still a reasonable income) in return for a good night’s sleep. It’s the callous and greedy leading the terrified and deluded.
In the future, perhaps landlords could stick together and form a co-op, or a gang, because the options for landlords are twofold: either (a) drop the rent or (b) go bankrupt. It’s that simple. In option (a) the only party losing out will be the letting agency, and my eyes are already damp with tears of laughter.
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