Renewal Time (Again...)

I am being quieter than Little Miss Q Quiet of the Quietland Quiets (who has a GCSE in Being Really Quiet.) I do not make a sound. I am in hiding. I remain deathly pale so as to blend in with the brilliant paint on my walls. The fact is, I am playing a game of cat and mouse with my letting agents, and do not wish to draw attention to myself. Yes, it’s tenancy agreement renewal time, and I’m sort of hoping that my letting agents have forgotten that I live there.

I would like to stay where I am, but only if the rent remains the same. Given the low interest rates, a rent rise would be cheeky, but remember that my letting agents are cheeky bunch of …monkeys and I’m not sure where I stand. By the time you read this, I doubt I will have been given any notice to quit, or informed of any intended rent rise, for the simple reason that I suspect they’ve forgotten me. While sitting in the office under many baleful glances, I asked for a six month agreement – not their standard nine months, which was greeted with bafflement. I was feeling insecure when I met them, and having the endured the experiences I’ve written about previously hereabouts, I wanted any escape route to be within easy reach.

Mercifully, they usually leave me alone, but the downside means that this ‘solitude’ leaves me communing with all the things they’ve failed to do, like putting shelves in the bathroom, resealing the lounge window, apologising for allowing repair men to walk whenever they fancy a look etc, but on the whole, it’s the best I can expect (I suppose.)

It’s always the way with rental agreements – you never know what’s coming next, and tenants have very little control over their lives, but here’s a new twist: as pointed out by a commentator on this blog recently, Scotland enjoys a rule which means that if neither party contacts each other before the legal agreement ends, then the original agreement is repeated, and identical terms are applied. I hope this happens. I really do, and I’m worried that it won’t.

I still think that the best of all worlds would be an assumption that tenancies last for as long the tenant chooses, with a minimum of two years. There should be no eviction process started unless the landlord gives a genuine reason. ‘I felt like turfing that loser out because their mum dresses them funny’ is not a good reason. Neither is the strange urge landlords sometimes have to nurture and house their dear old mum, which sadly means they must give notice to their blameless tenants.

I shouldn’t have to worry every six months whether or not I can stay safely in my home. I want some security. If things remain as they are, I could genuinely be forced to move every six months - for various reasons it’s been that way for the past seven years (only once has the move been my own choice.) I resent feeling utterly and obviously powerless. It’s just that I’ve been here so many times before, and I’ve had enough – I really have.

The Property Pixies Are Here To Save Us!

I believe in the property pixies, and so should you. If we ever stop believing in the property pixies, then they will die, and we renters mustn’t let that happen.

The property pixies operate secretly at night, repairing roofs, negotiating with malevolent landlords intent on evicting blameless tenants on a whim. The property pixies are marvellous: they visit letting agencies to read them the riot act albeit in a kindly way – in their little hats with bells on (the pixies – not the agents.)

Housing Minister John Healey also believes in the property pixies. I know this to be true because that’s the only possible explanation for his latest plans. Admittedly, regulating the private rented sector is daunting but here’s his big idea. It’s a list:

• A hotline (anyone remember the cones hotline…?)
• Word of mouth advisory website (which will be closed down immediately due to libellous comments.)
• A requirement for written tenancies.
• Boosting the number of tenants protected under the established tenancy agreements (but not ending the farcical six month long agreements in common use now.)
• A national landlord register (but no fine/penalty for not registering.)
• ‘Better regulation’ of letting and management agents. I love the word ‘better’ - better than what? Better than now, when it’s like the wild west?

It’s all as hazy as the Rugg Report which seemed to say that most tenants are happy, and surmised that because the majority are happy, there’s no urgent need for strong laws to protect the minority who are turfed out of a damp, shabby hovel without notice on a whim by thugs. Admittedly this doesn’t happen very often, but when it does, it’s horrible.

Landlords enjoy a range effective and efficient ways (some legal – others not so) to evict erring renters, but tenants have little power. We move on silently, even if the owner has gone bankrupt and we’ve been notified by bailiffs hammering on the door, even if they have left the flat in a dangerous state. We pack up again, and hope, often in vain, that we’ll get our deposit back (yep there’s the Tenancy Deposit Scheme but some tenants are scared to use it – tribunals seem daunting, and landlords know this.)

John Healey must surely believe in the property pixies - he trusts them to enforce his proposals, and those pixies can be fierce. Which is a good thing, because unless sanctions punishing errant landlords are included and enforced (forfeiting the property or punitive fines) then those naughty landlords will carry on disregarding rights, thumbing their noses at the law, and taunting the pixies. Bad landlords must be forced to behave; they won’t do so voluntarily - it just won’t happen.

Right now I’m sitting at home, waiting for those adorable little fellas to reseal my windows and persuade my letting agents to refund the fees they charged unlawfully. The property pixies take care of everything, I am completely sure of it. You don’t believe me? Well then, take a good look at the sterling work done by the financial services elves.

Prizewinning...

Hello everyone!

I am honoured to have won the Users Best Blog Prize in The Prime Location Property blog awards. It won't change me, or go to my head. I will remain the same old grounded, ordinary, angry, pissed-off-at letting-agents-blogger that I've always been...

http://www.primelocation.com/news/2009-primelocation-blog-awards/

Thanks!

How Do You Find Me?

Hello! I’ve been away for a while, but now I’m back. My first post in ages is related to something you may not be aware of: I can see you! Well, not literally, but I have a facility on my blog which tells me how many of you are reading (a heart gladdening amount, I’m always pleased to find.)

I also know the words you key into google, and how surprised you must be to find a site about rented property. And so, here are a few key phrases along with my accompanying thoughts.

I’m a student in halls and I can smell gas.
I could often smell gas when I lived in halls. An accumulated build-up of methane could actually be quite dangerous, so please alert the appropriate authorities.

Does my landlord have a legal right to open my underwear draw.
No he doesn’t. Run away!

Leaving UK because of letting agencies.
Whilst I agree that Letting Agents are actually evil, I still think that’s a little bit extreme. Couldn’t we just get together and enact legislation that will curb their evil excesses. Or we could relocate and live somewhere sunny with a beach. Tricky…

Letting Agents are scum
Obviously. NB see above.

Architects think everyone wants to live in small homes.
No – that’s the developers.

Ah dunn seen ma naybor sunbatin nood.
You seem shocked, but it depends: if this was through a hole in your fence and you were using a telescope – shame on you! Otherwise – enjoy… (NB this gentlemen was in Alabama…)

Living in the UK sucks massively.
Hmm…sometimes, it’s true. But the NHS, the warm friendly people, the culture, the food… Oh come on, is it really worse than Belgium, where you are from?

Readers we now enter a whole new world of ‘gentlemen’s special interest,’ where men (oh come on, they are obviously blokes…) google a phrase, and consequently land on me, in a manner of speaking And here are the phrases:
Girls in rubber gloves, naked ladies in rubber gloves, and (this is special…) ‘Classy naked girls pissing and wanking in rubber gloves..’ (I especially love that ‘classy.’) Best thing about this? Several found me using those words and have since become loyal readers. So imagine then…getting ready for a night of strenuous and devoted self-love, until: “…mmmm…hang on a minute… You know what: the private rental sector in the UK is an absolute scandal!’ Thanks for reading lads - join our struggle (and find a real girlfriend.)

Glasgow mistress custard pies.
I am reliably informed that the ladies concerned earn extra points (…or money) for every ‘bullseye.’

As for my newest loyal reader, the charming ‘human’ who found me by googling ‘Top ten ways to beat up my gay flatmate?’ Know this: I can’t force you repent, or even stop you reading. However I can’t help but feel you are polluting my blog just by looking at it. Go away – you do not belong here!

NB: Thanks for those of you who nominated me for this:

http://www.primelocationblog.com/uk/primelocation-com-blog-awards-and-the-nominees-are

The blog with the most votes wins Habitat vouchers and I need a new duvet. Only saying…

Dovecots In Dubai

The other day, I spent some time chatting with an architect from Dubai, who spoke about his home.

I was picturing otherworldly fake islands in the sun, luxurious super-tower residential blocks, and open spaces decorated with beautiful public art all with a sea view. Then he told me some shocking news: they have dovecots there as well.

I have always imagined that the race for rabbit hutches was a British obsession. I remember all those meagre niches where people lived like gulls on a cliff face, to be counted in hundreds of thousands, every bird, every nest looking just the same. Urban dovecots are increasingly discredited, as they do not sell, people hate them, and at the bottom end of the market, are such a bad investment that you might just as well stand on the balcony and shower money down on the people below as expect to make a profit.

And guess what: everybody hates them in Dubai. Nobody bought them, nobody wanted to rent them, and again, the builders had a strange idea of their target market (tiny stupid people as they are the only creatures who don’t need space to live, and were silly enough to pay up?) Then, after a financial trauma so terrible it was like staring death in the face, the developers realised: if people don’t like them – let’s ask them what they actually want. Let’s build flats people actually enjoy living in!

And here’s what residents were found to favour: what are called furniture walls – i.e. walls or partitions where you rest a sofa or put up a picture or two. Separate kitchens, all achieved by wooden partitions, so safety if allowed. The toilet does not open out onto the dining area, but out into a hallway. There should be storage (any of this sound familiar?)

This is just so obvious they might as have said: where does the sun rise? People buy large homes if they can afford it, but the kind of people renting in Dubai, according to my source, are single (or couples with no children) who still like a separate kitchen.

My informant also told me about some earlier mistakes: like the development with a row of three blocks allowing for space, and views and a sense of freedom (until the greedy developers filled in the gaps with yet more apartment blocks, and removed any sense of openness and liberation.)

Developers everywhere should read their red bank statements, count their empty properties, and pacify those angry buy-to-let landlords, furious at being promised a gold-standard money maker (but lumbered instead with a catastrophic ruin waiting to happen.) They should look and listen to all these things and then they ask people, i.e. mostly tenants how they actually want to live, not just put their fingers in their ears and whistle so as to drown out disgruntled investors and miserable tenants. They need to build some nice flats. Honestly, is it really that hard?

In Dubai, they were planning to do exactly that, but they left it too late, and look what’s happening there.

The Strange Case Of The Missing Architect

I am rarely lost for words; you might even describe me as chatty (well, that’s the polite way of putting it) but the other day, I discovered something that left me absolutely speechless.

I’ve always wondered just who designs those nasty little orange euroboxes like my former home of Dovecot Towers which are disfiguring cities everywhere. Whoever they are, they express their hatred of humanity by designing homes that are less about domestic bliss and more about smiting people with vengeance. I imagine their wizened yellow faces contorted with malice, manically intoning their evil plans and cackling until dawn as they draw up the blueprints, satisfied at the huge amount of misery they inflict upon their enemies.

Who else could be held responsible? I know that developers pay this evil piper to call their tune, but seriously – what were the architects thinking when they designed those meagre little box flats? Does nobody ever reject their demonic plans and drag them out by the scruff of the neck, slapping them as they shout: “You’ve been a very naughty architect!”

In fact truth is worse than that. The architect is invisible and powerless. The architect is absent. You see, there is no architect. Buildings urban twat-flats are designed by anybody who fancies a try.

The excellent blog Bad British Architecture (see links) has coined an excellent phrase, which always makes me laugh: ‘developer vernacular,’ that is, buildings styled and envisaged by developers, who favour cost-saving uniform grey metal fittings and orange brick infill stuck onto a concrete box.

Exactly who is responsible, then? Anybody who fancies giving it a go, basically: the work experience girl, some bloke who was wandering by, the cleaner, the man who delivers the organic veg box, Jeffrey from Rainbow, and (on more than one occasion) a troupe of semi-trained gibbons.

Here’s what happens: they draw a childlike box, with no fripperies, no extras, no fancy accoutrements like strong doors, insulated walls, space, or cupboards. They squeeze everything into their tiny little closet and afterwards put a window-box outside and call it a balcony.

Seriously though – can you imagine the same happening anywhere else, where rank amateurs intent on torturing humanity are given free rein to meddle in what should be a skilled profession and thereby ruin innocent lives? (oh right – apart from letting agents.)

Please tell me I’ve been misinformed: please tell me there’s a law stating that houses must be planned with great skill by people specially trained to this, allowing for safety, comfort and even beauty (shouldn’t our homes be beautiful – if only for the sake of the poor blighters standing outside dumbstruck with horror or pointing and laughing.)

But apparently, that’s the way it is. The plans are drawn up with a stubby crayon, and if we’re lucky, they’re in a straight line and everything! Please tell me that’s not true.

Although thinking about it – why be so churlish? Why not embrace this notion of can-do. Since you’re asking, I’ve always fancied trying a spot of brain surgery, and I’ve also got this great fantastic idea for a nuclear power station. Somebody hire me please – after all, what harm could I possibly do?

Your Name's Not Down - You're Not Coming In

Last week, I emailed my Letting Agents stating firmly but politely that they mustn’t come round if I was out. They had (if you recall) left a hand delivered letter on the floor in the communal hallway giving 24 hours notice of a summary inspection.

So there I was bubbling with righteous anger, having cancelled appointments and set aside waiting time (the LA’s allowed themselves a whole day, not even specifying morning or afternoon).

I did some work, typing very fast (I do that when I’m angry) and was speaking to myself in a high-pitched angry voice when, at about ten am, I received an email: they weren’t coming round after all.

How thoughtful of them to them let me know. Were they aware I had complained about my house-keys being passed around like free newspapers? “The office manager is aware of it,” apparently, but not so aware as to apologise.

I reminded them that despite being furnished, there is no shelving or cabinets in the bathroom, so everything is piled up on the floor: not nice, not really hygienic, and so easy to remedy.

But here’s the trap: if I plough ahead, I could be hammered for repair fees. I pointed this out when the LA visited last time (I just the leave the door on the latch for them now) when their response was: “You could buy something yourself.”

I am reasonable. I bought my own towel rack, and I have a clothes rail, since for many landlords, ‘furnished’ is a vague and whimsical term. But drilling into a wall was not the way forward, as I’d lose my deposit (yes, I think I think I’d get it back after a court case, but even so…)

I have as yet received no reply to any of my queries.

So here then, is a thought. Let’s say, hypothetically, that a friend owns several large houses. And let’s say that my hypothetical friend, knowing that I was flat-hunting, had asked me to report on Letting Agents, in a mystery shopper capacity: you know, tell him how they treated me so could select a firm to manage his property portfolio. Let’s say that he wanted them to be fair to tenants, having (hypothetically of course) been a private tenant for years himself. Not wanting to work with a company who abused, disdained and trampled on the rights of residents, he wanted nice people, fair people, to oversee his houses.

And let’s just imagine that I’ve done just that, ensuring that the Office Where The Nasty People Are didn’t get the gig.

It’s sort of a motto of mine: never shaft people unless you’re willing to accept the consequences. Not for one minute do the spiny sharks ruling my world imagine that I have any standing in the world, or that I am willing to stand up for my rights (they believe that renters, like slugs may be eradicated with impunity.)

Be careful who you pick on - very careful. You never know who can bite hardest.