Luxury Lifestyle?

Parts of the media have finally acknowledged the existence of urban living, even if they have some strange ideas about the type of people who live in the city. Most commentators are ignorant of the fact that urbanites are just average citizens, frequently surviving in lowly paid occupations and bog standard entry level work, making do on short term contracts, or even struggling on minimum wage or benefits. We are not millionaires.

Television stories about city centre apartments (never say flats) use words like swanky, swish and flash, which is far from true. Outsiders drive past these developments and imagine that we are all yuppies living in luxurious marble edifices, and that we are rich.

If you are currently house-hunting, then the most available and accessible option - especially in the current climate - is to live in a building like Dovecot Towers. You might be in a hurry, or perhaps you have a genuine need to live in the city – to save fare money or work anti-social hours, for example. But still everybody assumes we are posh. In a former flat I was serenaded by drunken revellers at closing time singing ‘…wake up yuppies!’ Except, this was a Housing Association scheme and residents were anything but wealthy; in fact most were downright poor. Even so, passers by firmly believed we earned a fortune and lived in blissful conditions, which they were determined to ruin.

City newbuilds have featured elsewhere, highlighting another problem I rant about here: the lack of amenities like schools, GP’s, and shops where you can find basics like fuse wire. Misleadingly, the only flats shown were luxury penthouses and I’d like to point out one last time that we do not live in lofty palaces festooned with sumptuous silk hangings, with all three bedrooms en suite, next to techno kitchens groaning with gadgets, every room bedecked with plush designer fittings and a champagne fountain in that enviably spacious lounge. For the record, I don’t have a butler.

Annoyances about preconceptions apart, life is increasingly unsettling for those landlords who bought their property speculatively off plan. They own and rent out a property they may never have seen and often live some distance away: not just in another town but in another country.

Owners are occasionally spotted wandering about, visibly disheartened - even utterly appalled - as they test the flimsy structure, kick away the rubbish and take in the enormity of just how skilfully they’ve been fleeced. They were charmed into believing they had bought a bijou, high-ends lifestyle accessory. They are keen to join our party, and may even have considered moving in themselves for a carefree retirement after years of coining it in and spending money on diamonds, or their children’s private education.

In reality, they’ll be lucky to pay the mortgage, having bought into a stack of frail garden sheds, where the phrase ‘urban living’ is being replaced by the more negative ‘inner city life’. When it comes to newbuilds, both landlords and tenants can forget as fanciful any idea of a luxury lifestyle. Our home is too rickety for that.

How Clean Is Your Hoover?

Most new leases feature a clause insisting that tenants have the flat professionally cleaned before they vacate, on pain of losing that precious deposit, which used to be the landlord’s responsibility. By nature I am a slob. Even so, the thought of losing money concentrates the mind, and I am turning into one of those weird compulsive Stepford scourers.

Recent news reports suggest that some women gain a subtle sexual satisfaction from cleaning. Not me. I would love to have a cleaner for that scrubbing (actually I want staff.) I contacted my landlord from Glasgow, the sainted Adrian, who had written a reference glowing with praise about my upkeep of his property. I cleaned that flat from top to bottom, and stood back to admire my work. Then Adrian arrived and put me to shame. He cleaned efficiently until the cooker sparkled and you could perform aseptic surgery on the carpet.

That’s why he was the man to ask about the black concrete glued to my rarely used oven. The only plausible explanation is that medieval kitchen goblins are roasting sucking pig basted in treacle whenever my back is turned. Even Adrian was at a loss, so I cleaned it with a terrifying substance so toxic and acrid it dissolved my eyebrows and made me ‘happy’.

Initially, Dovecot Towers seemed okay, until I realised that the windows had been brushed over with a dirty cloth; I have trouble with my sight, and thought I was going blind again. I’ve been driving H mad with queries about the efficacy of vinegar for banishing those weird soap stains from the glass shower screen. Eventually I used science: acetic acid dissolves calcium carbonate. Will somebody please alert the Nobel committee?

My habit of slathering myself in thick hand cream means I leave a trail: there’s a Turin Rentergirl made with from cake crumbs and Shea Butter to be scraped up on a weekly basis. I’m especially pernickety about toilets. One flat I rented had a previous occupier with problems in every aspect of that area. I do so hope he’s better now.

The building site opposite blasts mortar dust towards the building, and so cleaning is a never ending journey. Our new caretaker spotted that the professional window cleaners who visit once a year delicately wiped the outside with a splash of cold dirty water; and yet I am expected to keep my flat as clean as a Victorian hospital ward.

My friend faced down a picky letting agent, who inspected his flat by marching languorously around all snotty like, dead set on retaining the deposit. Imperiously and pointedly she ran a finger across the dusty shelves and a table, but my friend calmly pointed out that since he owned both items, frankly - they could be as filthy as he wished. In obvious desperation, she spluttered: ‘…maybe, but that Hoover’s filthy and you’ll have to pay to get it cleaned.’

There was a brief silence as they absorbed the absurdity. Even the landlord laughed out loud.

Meeting My Landlord

I met my landlord in person a while back. Despite heroic efforts, even Mr Indolent couldn’t avoid the journey this time. I didn’t really want to meet him. I prefer to keep landlords at a healthy distance.

‘William’ my landlord is a relaxed character. I showed him some of the problems in that flat: not whining, just saying that the lack of splashback by the sink, and the poor tiling in the bathroom were affecting the value of his investment. Disarmingly, he agreed, admitting that some fittings in newbuilds were just plain crap. He was pleasant enough, but the problems I have with him became clear: he’s really easy going, not through diffidence, or philosophy, but through an ingrained desire to avoid confrontation. Making a fuss, and doing anything about said fuss would use up valuable energy.

He stood on the balcony and surveyed his kingdom. Noticing my belongings in boxes, he wondered how long I intended to stay. I explained that I had to repack as the building site opposite creates so much dust. I mentioned some noisy neighbours – we both know there’s nothing he can do about that. He considered buying one of the new dovecots being built close by, claiming to know the management company (never seems to get anything done though). His motto seems to be ‘C’est la vie/Que sera sera,’ and other real and imaginary songs by Doris Day.

My brand new washing machine had broken. Rather than repair it, he bought a new one, choosing to deliver and install it himself, as he had messed up the online process. This seemed slightly extravagant, but after six weeks of hand washing bath towels, I wasn’t complaining. I suppose he must get some sort of tax incentive.

For some property owners, the only real power (and fun) they have comes from nit picking their tenants behaviour, acting as masters of their subordinate’s destiny as if they own a museum or a show home, and are charging not rent but an entrance fee. Meeting landlords can be extremely awkward and the suspicion is mutual.

Previous examples have tried to be mates, while others were clear cut enemies from the onset: visiting unannounced (illegal by the way) and striding around their kingdom, barking instructions while evading their own obligations. Others have arrived hopefully with a bottle of booze, and been slightly put out when shunned by what they thought was ready supply of willing and adventurous ladies, denied their imaginary droit de seigneur.

‘William’ is genial, calm, and brandishes his authority gently. I imagine that he is as aware as I am that - due to the growth of buy to let - the balance of power between lessee/lessor is shifting. He keeps quiet about his life outside being my landlord, didn’t ask personal questions (or any questions) and was entirely reasonable throughout his visit. He ignores all my emails, and is happy that I usually sort out repairs. He isn’t evil, just idle.

However we seem to agree on this one thing alone: landlord and tenants should never be buddies. It will only cause problems later on.

Rubber Gloves In Dovecot Towers

Dovecot Towers has a new cleaner. Presumably his predecessor ran screaming from the building when faced with accumulating filth and growing disrespect.

I’d imagine the caretaker did much the same; he was a lovely man who did his job with kindness, diligence and good humour, but who was always in the pub whenever I called (inevitable really.) We now have a permanent caretaker blessed with the traditional, dry, resigned, seen-it-all-and-then-some attitude of those who clean up after the general public. His first task was smartening up a flat where fleeing residents had stolen several large dustbins from the bin room and left them piled high with festering matter. Around here if it’s not nailed down…

I asked him why so many discarded reusable rubber gloves are scattered around. He says the cameras in the car park (efficient security is confined to the basement) show a balaclava clad man wearing said gloves to rummage through the rubbish, seeking unshredded documentation for the purposes of ID fraud. Next he’s spotted heading upstairs, and can’t be tracked; apparently he lives here, or rents a parking space. I hope he contracts a new disease which brands his forehead with an angry purple ‘T.’

He’s probably the same man who steals from post-boxes. Victims are selected at random; I can’t even have birthday or Xmas cards sent to my own address, while others are unaffected. Apart from that, Dovecot Towers is relatively crime free.

I once lived in a city block where scary gangsters set up an informal HQ in the basement, attempting to control the door security much as they did the clubs. The car park became a no go area, with stories of beatings, and male rape. Previous homes have sported thinly disguised cracks dens and informal shooting galleries. There were also brothels aplenty; I once opened a glossy Sunday supplement feature on inner city crime, where the under age prostitutes featured were my next door neighbours.

The management company though are tough on a new crime: ‘No Smoking’ signs have appeared. Don’t misunderstand me – I loathe smoking, and support the ban, but it seems fussy and absurd when the gaping main door as good as says: ‘Dovecot Towers Welcomes Careful Thieves.’

Whilst clinging to my bread board for the comfort of touching wood, I take consolation in the low rate of burglaries. For some reason, designers grasped that being able to knock down doors with a feather was a bad thing, and subsequently turned all front entrances into barricades. Consequently, burglaries were generally caused by a failure to lock up (even bailiffs evicting erring tenants struggled.)

Contemporary architects were slow to acknowledge emerging threats: rubbish bins are left open in communal areas, and post rooms are unlocked, as is the main door, because it is broken. Here in Dovecot Towers criminals keep their nefarious pastimes quiet (apart that is from the man I saw pissing from his balcony last week - but then it was such a lovely day for it.) Perpetrators learned a valuable lesson in discretion, which means they walk amongst us: they pass us on the stairs, before they rip us off.

It's All Gone Quiet Over There

In Greek myth, Cassandra was blessed by the gods with the gift of true prophecy, but cursed when nobody could believe her predictions. When I first moved into Dovecot Towers, I looked across from my balcony, and forecast:

(a) ‘It’s going to rain.’
And
(b) ‘I am witnessing a genuine social and economic phenomenon: the excessive building of below par new build developments for the buy to let bubble when an economic downturn is approaching. It will end badly (just you mark my words.)’

Certain readers remain sceptical, but official evidence suggests that whatever happens in or around Dovecot Towers is repeated in developments nationwide. It’s just that recently I’ve noticed something new which may prove significant in the future: the building site opposite, which has been the bane of my life, has gone strangely quiet.

Previously I was woken at 7am sharp (even on Saturdays) by sirens, frantic shouting and machines roaring, as the construction company raced to complete this latest addition to an array of identikit developments across the way. Speed was of the essence: workers bellowed and the buildings grew at breakneck speed as cranes hoisted vats of concrete enabling lift shafts to appear first, erect in isolation. Then the skeleton was filled in hastily by walls, windows and balconies as they filled in the gaps.

Now it’s quiet. Not entirely silent, but far less builders scream at cranes or stomp up and down the road. It may seem vainglorious (forgive me) but I suspect this calm is indicative of an end to the building boom. People count the cranes on cityscape to ascertain how much work is being done, and one of the cranes has been dismantled.

The buy to let revolution was not supervised and like Icarus, investors flew too close to the sun. Amateur investors bought off plan, lured in with gifted deposits and 130% mortgages. They were assured at seminars that rental incomes would be massive and grew giddy with greed, relying on inflated, unrealistic rents instead of a steady rise in equity as surety for the future. It was always doomed.

Nobody thought to question the wisdom of covering enormous areas of valuable land not with well designed, and sturdy two, three (or even four) bedroom houses, but with miserly and shoddy hutches. I don’t want to buy one; I know too well what they are like. Owner occupiers are rare as nobody wants to actually own a flat here and live in it themselves.

The space around Dovecot Towers was like The Klondyke: a muddy boom town, but now developers and building companies are scaling back. After all what’s the rush? It’s not as if they’re beating off prospective buyers with a stick (and who in their right mind would approve a mortgage?) Nobody wants to live in a newbuild long term.

This is a genuine human tragedy. Cities (even some suburbs) are blighted by superfluous, virtually uninhabitable boxes. The Cassandra in me says: stop building, or even better demolish them all before we are surrounded by deserted building sites blighted by skeletal abandoned newbuilds. I don’t imagine for one minute that anyone will pay attention.

Random Things That Make Me Ponder

Lately, there’s a been a palpable, creeping sense of transition around Dovecot Towers, with a scattering of random stuff, odd little details, and I’m not sure what any of it means. Maybe nothing, whatsoever; I’ve just noticed it, that’s all.

Today, I saw a smudge of blood, at face level, next to the lift. It’s one of those sights that once you notice it, the possibilities are endless: too much cocaine? A fight? An innocent nosebleed? I wonder if the originator lives here. My imagination has decided they were fleeing a beating, and made it to the building just in time. Some late night mid week screaming may have influenced my theoretical fears. I should have called the police; I usually do. It sounded like hi-jinks, but you can never really tell.

An Abel&Cole van, was delivering delicacies to a local gourmand. That’s a bit posh for round here: even people who use Tesco’s home delivery are considered to have airs and graces. I know we are close to the best shopping the city has to offer, but are tenants growing rich, or was a resident craving an organic veg box with posh cheese.

Someone pushed a flyer under my door, offering bass guitar lessons. I love the idea of an informal skills market: perhaps we should all print notes explaining who we are, and what we can offer. But, someone would offer premium heroin (none of your rubbish) and ruin the goodwill. I could offer professional sarcasm: details on application, reasonable rates.

There’s a pile of crisp packets by the stairs, held down using a small rock as a paper weight. How simultaneously neat, yet untidy.

In the corridor, close to the lift, someone left a full size wall unit, by which I mean a huge expensive looking lump of shelves designed for premises far grander than this. It couldn’t possibly fit into any of the flats, since they are so small. I wonder; did they measure the space first. Cleaning Man was irate: it needed many different Allen keys to disassemble. Did they ever fit it in the flat, or was it an unwanted gift? You’d think the donor would have asked.

On Sunday, the building was devoid of any party mess: no cans, or pizza boxes (and no vomit). Then in the lift I saw one thin rubber medical examination glove on the floor. I don’t know if somebody is being very sensible, or very strange.

A row of residents cars were parked on the street outside. I’d estimate that roughly seventy per cent were for sale: nearly new mini coopers, a jeep and a several standard run-arounds. Parking is a bastard and a bitch round here; town is close, and the wardens hunt fruitfully in packs.

The pub down the road has installed pine tables with candles, a cruet and one little flower; a coffee filter machine is visible. It serves home made soup, an all day breakfast (there’s even a children’s menu) but karaoke is no more. Customers are few in number, except for some defiant original punters who sit alone with a pint of cooking beer. I think they’ll move on soon.

This weekend, the entire building was festooned with balloons. When next day they were strewn around, all burst and forlorn, it seemed so poignant.

Landless Peasants

Poor Caroline Flint. As you read this, our Minister For Housing sits in a darkened room, rocking to and fro, pausing only to bang her head on the table. Occasionally she turns to a colleague, groaning: ‘…whatever was I thinking?’

She’s still floundering in the fallout after suggesting the withdrawal of tenancies from those found shirking employment. She even cited ‘…a culture of nobody works around here,’ allegedly rife in social housing (i.e. council housing, as ‘twas in the olden days.) But don’t worry, Caroline, I won’t be mentioning your funny five minutes here…

…except to run through the following points.
Firstly, ‘…culture of nobody works around here?’
What’s that then?
There indeed exists a culture of ‘…nobody can get a job around here no matter how hard they try,’ but try they do. Meanwhile, the blameless residents of many estates endure ‘…a culture of nobody can get their windows repaired around here,’ as cutbacks mean that councils routinely evade even essential repair obligations for all tenants, employed or not. What about briskly evicting the officials responsible?

And about those estates: most inhabitants work, despite living on ‘schemes’ or ‘developments’ (never say suburbs) frequently placed - because of invidious notions of social hygiene - well outside the city walls. Spiralling transport costs render it prohibitively expensive for job-seekers to ‘network’, attend interviews, or try on spec in person with employers to see if any unadvertised vacancies have arisen. And that says nothing of bus timetables which are downright useless if you work punitive, anti-social shifts for minimum wage and can’t afford a car.

Education is a vital tool in acquiring well-paid, secure and interesting work. Stand outside a school on most of the estates Caroline refers to and you will observe a lack of Chelsea Tractors driven by eager, well informed yummy mummies and daddies, and rarely are parents from miles away moved by the Holy Spirit to come over all Catholic in order to secure a place for their bright eyed brood. Of course, there are local heroes, but most parents are fighting to transfer out, rather than in.

Social Housing is being reduced, and in order to secure access a family will likely have been homeless for ages. They might be bedraggled and demoralised to breaking point and beyond, having lost precious belongings like interview clothes and references (even their confidence, and ultimately the will to live) during the trauma of constant jaunts between hostels and B&B’s, and yet they still work, or at least they try.

If Caroline’s wish is granted, what sort of jobs will be provided? Properly paid, meaningful employment with some hope of advancement? Or just another badly organised, box-ticking training scheme which – somewhere along the line – involves learning by heart the phrase ‘Do you want fries with that?’

Full employment is a myth; there isn’t a job for everyone. Treating housing as a treat for those who behave themselves is not only patronising and offensive, but also another example of people who own no property being treated like teenagers who have outstayed their welcome in the crowded parental home, or landless peasant scum. Even so, Caroline Flint might have earned my respect had she suggested penalising those city wide boys personally responsible for breaking the UK’s economy by spiriting away mortgage money in convoluted, avant-garde but (for them) lucrative trading methods, which have siphoned off billions of pounds to rest a wee while in pixie-lala-land.

C4’s ‘Shameless’ is not a documentary, and the idea that on council estates, those in full employment are ridiculed by masses of scrounging, jeering neighbours is utter bunkum. Her now infamous statement was a cynical attempt to appease Middle England - that bastion of tolerance this government is so peachy keen to mollify, but she failed. When even the head of The National Federation of Housebuilders speaks out against you, then something is badly wrong.

I’m sorry if this response seems a little tardy, but when I first heard what she said, I couldn’t stop laughing. Then I started to cry. I’d imagine that’s exactly how Caroline Flint feels right now.