There’s Been A Murder…?
It began quietly, with whispers that: ‘…something very bad has happened.’ The police, who were often been parked outside, had mentioned something about an assault. Perhaps that’s what they meant.
The following day, I met a tenant who asked if I had heard about ‘…the murder.’ What? Calmly he explained that there had been a killing on the first floor, and that the police were questioning residents living there.
I remained sceptical. Surely it would have been on the telly? Mindless slaughter is still rare enough around here to merit considerable coverage on the local news. After further consideration, I thought - oh come on: there’d be an incident room outside, with police knocking not just on the ‘relevant’ floor but canvassing elsewhere as well, and I’ve heard nothing.
Then signs appeared about a planned community meeting with local police to be held nearby, aimed at addressing tenant’s concerns about crime, which got me thinking. Another tenant later struck up conversation with the sole purpose of discussing the alleged murder. I didn’t contradict her, but she was firmly of the opinion that a man had sadistically killed his partner. Domestic violence is still shamefully under reported, but I believe that even a dismissive media would reveal any death by foul means.
Days later, there was still nothing on the news, when yet another tenant broached the subject in the lift. Details have grown worse with every retelling: here there was no corpse - well not a complete one - just random dismembered body parts hidden in the bin room. The cynic in me theorised that it’s some half-eaten takeaway chicken, but my informant was adamant. He’d heard there was trail of blood, fingers, limbs, and everything.
Still nothing on the news though, and other residents on my floor had heard nothing about it. The lower floors are certainly more dangerous, vulnerable since they present the opportunity of leaping over the balcony and straight into the lounge. The people who live on the ground floor are more convinced than those of us safe on the higher floors that something awful happened. Still nothing on the news, mind you.
Personally, I think it’s symptomatic of the sense of alienation in Dovecot Towers. With so little contact I couldn’t describe the people who live to one side of me, or opposite, nor could I pick them out in an identity parade, and god knows who lives above me, or below. Meanwhile, the story is getting worse: now neighbours are supposed to have ‘disappeared’ (or else they’re on holiday…) and bloodcurdling screams have been heard (unless it was the telly…)
Ultimately, I’m certain that nobody’s died. I’m sure we’d know. Unless there is a monstrous serial killer picking off newbuild residents, and the police are keeping details quiet so as to efficiently catch and prosecute the murderer, just like on the telly. Here in Dovecot Towers, our daily lives are secluded and dislocated. We rarely talk; how bizarre it would be if a murder encouraged tenants to chat.
Showing posts with label buy to let newbuild rental homes people life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label buy to let newbuild rental homes people life. Show all posts
Tuesday, 15 July 2008
Tuesday, 27 May 2008
I Can See You...
Opposite Dovecot Towers, the new flats are almost finished. Soon I’ll be overlooked (still no blinds, BTW.) Being able to gaze in a leisured manner into your neighbour’s home may inspire fantasies of Rear Window (or The Simpson’s masterful pastiche) but the reality is closer to Friends and their Ugly Naked Guy.
I used to live opposite a hotel, and could see into the rooms. I firmly believe that people should remain clothed forever, but in this hotel, air-stewards - half crazed with jet lag - stood in plain sight weighing their bollocks or scratching their arses, uninhibited and proudly naked, a sight both horrible and fascinating. (Interestingly, the women drew the curtains as a matter of course.)
One neighbour was on a lower level, both literally and in terms of his personal evolution. He would stand by his expansive shiny window staring at the various reflections opposite. He said he could see into everyone’s home if they didn’t close the blinds. He stood, grinning, on the stairs. He was weird.
Many blocks now have CCTV. People on lower incomes in social and rented housing are more likely to be victims of crime than richer people who live in more exclusive areas. In some ways, we have more to lose; many of us don’t have insurance, so anything that helps to deter burglars and muggers is fine by me. I worry about CCTV cameras tracking our lives, but one building I lived in even had its own channel. Instead of a video entry phone with a small screen, we tuned in and watched people entering the building and wandering around (the TV channel also showed the goings on outside.)
One Friday night (just the one mind) I’d been enjoying a drink, and on making my way up the stairs, I tripped. Next day, several neighbours asked how I was. The caretaker once showed me the night time security footage of the front door at night. It was like Benny Hill fused with The Wire: hookers marched in with shifty looking clients while junkies rushed into the post-room. The re-emergence was careful and slow.
Of course our post was robbed, vandalism was widespread, and we were greeted every morning with used condoms, needles and pools of effluence (I love the smell of vomit in the morning!) At one point someone hurtled down the stairwell and died; did they fall, jump, or were they pushed? As you can imagine, we were most anxious to know, but with so many strategically placed CCTV cameras, we were certain the villain would be caught.
Imagine our delight when we were told that most of the cameras were fake (why?) and as for the genuine ones, well our security guard wiped the tape clean every night. Couldn’t be arsed, you see.
NB: Just before I sat down to write this, Heroic Caretaker told me that our only CCTV camera system (the one in the basement) was stolen last night. I am not making this up.
I used to live opposite a hotel, and could see into the rooms. I firmly believe that people should remain clothed forever, but in this hotel, air-stewards - half crazed with jet lag - stood in plain sight weighing their bollocks or scratching their arses, uninhibited and proudly naked, a sight both horrible and fascinating. (Interestingly, the women drew the curtains as a matter of course.)
One neighbour was on a lower level, both literally and in terms of his personal evolution. He would stand by his expansive shiny window staring at the various reflections opposite. He said he could see into everyone’s home if they didn’t close the blinds. He stood, grinning, on the stairs. He was weird.
Many blocks now have CCTV. People on lower incomes in social and rented housing are more likely to be victims of crime than richer people who live in more exclusive areas. In some ways, we have more to lose; many of us don’t have insurance, so anything that helps to deter burglars and muggers is fine by me. I worry about CCTV cameras tracking our lives, but one building I lived in even had its own channel. Instead of a video entry phone with a small screen, we tuned in and watched people entering the building and wandering around (the TV channel also showed the goings on outside.)
One Friday night (just the one mind) I’d been enjoying a drink, and on making my way up the stairs, I tripped. Next day, several neighbours asked how I was. The caretaker once showed me the night time security footage of the front door at night. It was like Benny Hill fused with The Wire: hookers marched in with shifty looking clients while junkies rushed into the post-room. The re-emergence was careful and slow.
Of course our post was robbed, vandalism was widespread, and we were greeted every morning with used condoms, needles and pools of effluence (I love the smell of vomit in the morning!) At one point someone hurtled down the stairwell and died; did they fall, jump, or were they pushed? As you can imagine, we were most anxious to know, but with so many strategically placed CCTV cameras, we were certain the villain would be caught.
Imagine our delight when we were told that most of the cameras were fake (why?) and as for the genuine ones, well our security guard wiped the tape clean every night. Couldn’t be arsed, you see.
NB: Just before I sat down to write this, Heroic Caretaker told me that our only CCTV camera system (the one in the basement) was stolen last night. I am not making this up.
Tuesday, 13 May 2008
Help Me Wayne Hemmingway; You're My Only Hope
Wayne Hemmingway was recently appointed Newbuild Design Maestro/Czar/Head Honcho. His brief is sorting the problems that frequently arise when architectural blueprints are lost in translation between desk and building site.
I have written much here about those same faults. Newbuilds are: shoddily built, poorly maintained and badly designed. I don’t know what else I can do. Should I retrain as an architect, spend seven to eight years as a student before qualifying then find a job and while persuading a wealthy patron to commission the home of my dreams? Or somehow contrive to obtain the huge sums of money it would require to become a property developer, and subsequently hire a sympathetic architect? No. All I can do is write about the situation, so I will outline my suggestions, and hope Mr Hemmingway sees them.
My first request would be to end the tyranny of open-plan living. It’s fine when you’re luxuriating in a marvel of construction carved into a hillside or a barn like on ‘Grand Designs.’ But it’s only ever satisfactory and comfortable when your expensive dream home sports a large, airy living space with top end appliances so quiet and still you forget where they are (same with the children; wherever did we put them?) or enough room for different ‘zones,’ with a lovely garden view and plentiful storage. Open-plan does not work when you have up to four people crushed into a shoebox, with cheap noisy washing machines, toddlers, extractor fans and phones roaring like scary monsters. Kitchen/diners are logical, but could we have a separate lounge?
Or could utility rooms be decreed compulsory? Explain to me why two bedroom newbuilds feature two bathrooms (one en suite) when residents must share a tiny lounge/diner/everything room, with a cooker, and a swing-bin with mops and brooms standing to attention? We share our space with the roaring washing machine, with nowhere to stash recyclables, or anything.
A few inbuilt cupboards would change my life and rock my world. We’d be able to store things, and do a weeks shop in advance, and have belongings, like normal people, instead of keeping everything boxed up in the hall. I’m dewy eyed and wistful at the mere idea.
Shelving, or alcoves for shelving, would be so helpful, as I am currently looking at all my books packed up in banana boxes, which is such a waste: I can’t nail in sturdy shelves, as walls are so flimsy I might crash though into next door like Jack Nicholson in The Shining: ‘…heeerrres Rentergirl!’
Balconies are fantastic: the view, the fresh air, the space for plants, laundry and even barbecues is one of the few positive things about living here. But could they not be set above each in one vertical line, so as to allow for some semblance of privacy (it’s like sharing a tiny yard).
Improved soundproofing, an end to communal post-rooms and secure main doors would be splendid, as would a little more space.
Please.
An extra ten feet on my lounge and bedroom really would make all the difference; I could even fit in some chairs. I’d love some chairs.
I can do no more. I hope Wayne Hemmingway gets to read all this, and maybe even meet and discuss these issues with those poor people doomed to live in a newbuild. But I doubt anything will change.
I have written much here about those same faults. Newbuilds are: shoddily built, poorly maintained and badly designed. I don’t know what else I can do. Should I retrain as an architect, spend seven to eight years as a student before qualifying then find a job and while persuading a wealthy patron to commission the home of my dreams? Or somehow contrive to obtain the huge sums of money it would require to become a property developer, and subsequently hire a sympathetic architect? No. All I can do is write about the situation, so I will outline my suggestions, and hope Mr Hemmingway sees them.
My first request would be to end the tyranny of open-plan living. It’s fine when you’re luxuriating in a marvel of construction carved into a hillside or a barn like on ‘Grand Designs.’ But it’s only ever satisfactory and comfortable when your expensive dream home sports a large, airy living space with top end appliances so quiet and still you forget where they are (same with the children; wherever did we put them?) or enough room for different ‘zones,’ with a lovely garden view and plentiful storage. Open-plan does not work when you have up to four people crushed into a shoebox, with cheap noisy washing machines, toddlers, extractor fans and phones roaring like scary monsters. Kitchen/diners are logical, but could we have a separate lounge?
Or could utility rooms be decreed compulsory? Explain to me why two bedroom newbuilds feature two bathrooms (one en suite) when residents must share a tiny lounge/diner/everything room, with a cooker, and a swing-bin with mops and brooms standing to attention? We share our space with the roaring washing machine, with nowhere to stash recyclables, or anything.
A few inbuilt cupboards would change my life and rock my world. We’d be able to store things, and do a weeks shop in advance, and have belongings, like normal people, instead of keeping everything boxed up in the hall. I’m dewy eyed and wistful at the mere idea.
Shelving, or alcoves for shelving, would be so helpful, as I am currently looking at all my books packed up in banana boxes, which is such a waste: I can’t nail in sturdy shelves, as walls are so flimsy I might crash though into next door like Jack Nicholson in The Shining: ‘…heeerrres Rentergirl!’
Balconies are fantastic: the view, the fresh air, the space for plants, laundry and even barbecues is one of the few positive things about living here. But could they not be set above each in one vertical line, so as to allow for some semblance of privacy (it’s like sharing a tiny yard).
Improved soundproofing, an end to communal post-rooms and secure main doors would be splendid, as would a little more space.
Please.
An extra ten feet on my lounge and bedroom really would make all the difference; I could even fit in some chairs. I’d love some chairs.
I can do no more. I hope Wayne Hemmingway gets to read all this, and maybe even meet and discuss these issues with those poor people doomed to live in a newbuild. But I doubt anything will change.
Tuesday, 6 May 2008
RENTS ARE RISING!!! (or are they...)
In this emerging housing crisis, one sector of the property world remains upbeat, even cocky. Surprise, surprise, it’s the letting agents, who claim that – yes, purchase prices are falling, but rents are up, up and away, soaring off into the stratosphere.
Liars.
Before moving to Dovecot Towers, I noticed how agents would delicately, coyly, mention a price, but on catching quizzically raised eyebrows indicating:
‘HOW MUCH!!?? Oh, do behave; how much is it really?’ they would backtrack.
Estate agents are chancers, seeing how much they can prise out of naïve, desperate, daft-as-a-brush tenants. It didn’t work. We’re not that gullible, and it’s a renters market now.
Here’s what’s really going on. In affluent, desirable areas like Edinburgh, Brighton, and Notting Hill, where large, well-constructed, traditional homes are rare and space is at a premium, demand is permanently high and rents are constantly edging upwards. But elsewhere across the country, prices are homogenising. Locally, rents on previously less expensive un-improved flats and slighter downmarket ex-council houses are also rising, albeit slowly. They are converging with newbuild rents, which have lifted, but subsequently capped levels wherever they are built.
But where inner city brownfield sites have been carpeted with those newbuild shoeboxes, bought as buy to let investments, demand is dead. Prices there were initially higher than the rest of the locale, but are now static or falling slightly. There are too many little boxes, and they all look just the same.
Rents are still too high though. Newbuilds raised local levels: interest rates were escalating, and inexperienced owners had unreasonable expectations of profit, but agents persist in setting rents at stupidly high amounts. I’ve been checking, however: visiting agents, asking about bargains, wondering if anyone has a newbuild with a buy to let owner who can’t sell, and might therefore be willing to accept a more reasonable rent. All of them said yes.
Agents have rightly surmised that selling property will not maintain their profits. Publicly, they talk up rental rates, hoping theirs is a self-fulfilling falsehood. They are scrambling to let flats they cannot sell, when major developers have stopped construction, so flooded is the market with poky little hutches. As things stand, developers can’t offload what they’ve already built.
Apart from anything else, owners have realised that letting agents are parasites (so many landlords say this) raking in an undeserved percentage for little action. Many owners now let privately online, so asking agents about prices is misleading as they don’t necessarily have the relevant numbers to hand, and anyway have a vested interest in telling porkies.
One landlord advertised his flat with an ad on the main door of Dovecot Towers. The rent was risibly inflated, and rude words were quickly added to his sign. By noon, the money requested had fallen. By night time, the price had sunk to a reasonable level, and included parking. He’d got real. There was no alternative.
So, if you meet a letting agent crowing about rising rents, take a small step back and sniff the air. What’s that nasty smell? Why, that’ll be the whiff of soiled pants on fire.
Liars.
Before moving to Dovecot Towers, I noticed how agents would delicately, coyly, mention a price, but on catching quizzically raised eyebrows indicating:
‘HOW MUCH!!?? Oh, do behave; how much is it really?’ they would backtrack.
Estate agents are chancers, seeing how much they can prise out of naïve, desperate, daft-as-a-brush tenants. It didn’t work. We’re not that gullible, and it’s a renters market now.
Here’s what’s really going on. In affluent, desirable areas like Edinburgh, Brighton, and Notting Hill, where large, well-constructed, traditional homes are rare and space is at a premium, demand is permanently high and rents are constantly edging upwards. But elsewhere across the country, prices are homogenising. Locally, rents on previously less expensive un-improved flats and slighter downmarket ex-council houses are also rising, albeit slowly. They are converging with newbuild rents, which have lifted, but subsequently capped levels wherever they are built.
But where inner city brownfield sites have been carpeted with those newbuild shoeboxes, bought as buy to let investments, demand is dead. Prices there were initially higher than the rest of the locale, but are now static or falling slightly. There are too many little boxes, and they all look just the same.
Rents are still too high though. Newbuilds raised local levels: interest rates were escalating, and inexperienced owners had unreasonable expectations of profit, but agents persist in setting rents at stupidly high amounts. I’ve been checking, however: visiting agents, asking about bargains, wondering if anyone has a newbuild with a buy to let owner who can’t sell, and might therefore be willing to accept a more reasonable rent. All of them said yes.
Agents have rightly surmised that selling property will not maintain their profits. Publicly, they talk up rental rates, hoping theirs is a self-fulfilling falsehood. They are scrambling to let flats they cannot sell, when major developers have stopped construction, so flooded is the market with poky little hutches. As things stand, developers can’t offload what they’ve already built.
Apart from anything else, owners have realised that letting agents are parasites (so many landlords say this) raking in an undeserved percentage for little action. Many owners now let privately online, so asking agents about prices is misleading as they don’t necessarily have the relevant numbers to hand, and anyway have a vested interest in telling porkies.
One landlord advertised his flat with an ad on the main door of Dovecot Towers. The rent was risibly inflated, and rude words were quickly added to his sign. By noon, the money requested had fallen. By night time, the price had sunk to a reasonable level, and included parking. He’d got real. There was no alternative.
So, if you meet a letting agent crowing about rising rents, take a small step back and sniff the air. What’s that nasty smell? Why, that’ll be the whiff of soiled pants on fire.
Tuesday, 29 April 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, 22 April 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, 15 April 2008
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.
‘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.
Tuesday, 8 April 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, 25 March 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, 11 March 2008
Furnishing My Dovecot
I moved into my flat because it’s unfurnished. This might not seem important, but the absence of that omnipresent grubby chintz or those businesslike, wipe-clean, leather sofas is even now a source of some considerable happiness.
I don’t own much furniture. Thanks to less than diligent removal firms, my worldly goods diminish with every move. My previous relocation relieved me of my bed frame (well, as I belatedly discovered, all fittings and screws, which extensive research proved to be irreplaceable, rendering the frame useless) and ruined my beloved posture chair. The removal man said: ‘Don’t worry it’s fine…’
(Except it wasn’t.)
But I can’t go on like this. I wonder if there’s a specialist firm making fold-up, easy-store shelves, which (here’s the tricky part) don’t require being attached to the walls for stability. Holes in walls lead to deductions from my deposit, after a long sentence in America’s toughest prison. Next, my head is shaved, and I will be paraded around bearing a placard proclaiming: ‘Evil Vandal Who Dared To Own Possessions Above Her Station And Then (And Then!) Left Holes In The Plaster!’
After which they will shoot me.
Unfurnished private rented flats are rare, so much so that when I asked the letting agent if such a thing existed, he looked at me funny and backed away, as if I’d asked for a log cabin under the canal, with space outside for a few chickens. Then he consulted my landlord, who realised that letting the flat unfurnished was cheaper, less hassle and avoided wear and tear on his goods.
Furniture in most new builds is awful: mean spirited, second rate and Spartan. My neighbours were provided with blinds reaching partway down the window, which their landlord refuses to replace. Other flats are kitted out like rooms in a Travelodge; I bet the owners even provide tea making facilities, with those cute little kettles.
I avoid collecting too much stuff, because I move so often, but it’s pretty Zen around here, and now I need a coffee table, a desk, light shades, and a bigger settee. Most of all, I am desperate for shelves. I need smart techno floating shelves which hover next to the wall, and do not leave dents or holes.
I am currently battling with my landlord for blinds. It was agreed before I moved in that he’d provide blinds and a shower screen, being as I won’t be able to take them with me when I go. He’s ignoring my requests, so this issue could be the one that will force me over the edge. I’ve offered to organise the process and installation with his approval after providing estimates, but still he’s ignores me. I can’t stay here without blinds, and can’t install my temporary solution, as this would leave…holes in the walls! My only bargaining chip is that he wants to avoid the hassle and expense of finding another tenant.
I am currently overlooked by boorish, nosy builders from the site opposite. I suspect one of them is filming ‘Rentergirl The Documentary.’ Look out for me on You Tube.
I don’t own much furniture. Thanks to less than diligent removal firms, my worldly goods diminish with every move. My previous relocation relieved me of my bed frame (well, as I belatedly discovered, all fittings and screws, which extensive research proved to be irreplaceable, rendering the frame useless) and ruined my beloved posture chair. The removal man said: ‘Don’t worry it’s fine…’
(Except it wasn’t.)
But I can’t go on like this. I wonder if there’s a specialist firm making fold-up, easy-store shelves, which (here’s the tricky part) don’t require being attached to the walls for stability. Holes in walls lead to deductions from my deposit, after a long sentence in America’s toughest prison. Next, my head is shaved, and I will be paraded around bearing a placard proclaiming: ‘Evil Vandal Who Dared To Own Possessions Above Her Station And Then (And Then!) Left Holes In The Plaster!’
After which they will shoot me.
Unfurnished private rented flats are rare, so much so that when I asked the letting agent if such a thing existed, he looked at me funny and backed away, as if I’d asked for a log cabin under the canal, with space outside for a few chickens. Then he consulted my landlord, who realised that letting the flat unfurnished was cheaper, less hassle and avoided wear and tear on his goods.
Furniture in most new builds is awful: mean spirited, second rate and Spartan. My neighbours were provided with blinds reaching partway down the window, which their landlord refuses to replace. Other flats are kitted out like rooms in a Travelodge; I bet the owners even provide tea making facilities, with those cute little kettles.
I avoid collecting too much stuff, because I move so often, but it’s pretty Zen around here, and now I need a coffee table, a desk, light shades, and a bigger settee. Most of all, I am desperate for shelves. I need smart techno floating shelves which hover next to the wall, and do not leave dents or holes.
I am currently battling with my landlord for blinds. It was agreed before I moved in that he’d provide blinds and a shower screen, being as I won’t be able to take them with me when I go. He’s ignoring my requests, so this issue could be the one that will force me over the edge. I’ve offered to organise the process and installation with his approval after providing estimates, but still he’s ignores me. I can’t stay here without blinds, and can’t install my temporary solution, as this would leave…holes in the walls! My only bargaining chip is that he wants to avoid the hassle and expense of finding another tenant.
I am currently overlooked by boorish, nosy builders from the site opposite. I suspect one of them is filming ‘Rentergirl The Documentary.’ Look out for me on You Tube.
Tuesday, 4 March 2008
What About Us?
Fame at last. Dovecot Towers and other similar developments are all over the media, illustrating some depressingly common tales of negative equity and bankrupted amateur property speculators.
Rentergirl is occasionally asked to contribute to TV and radio programmes about the property downturn, but when I mention that I have no chance of buying a home, the interest fades, and if I suggest that alternatively, reporters could highlight problems encountered by renters (aka landless peasant scum) the line goes quiet. The trauma endured by desperate owners is presented as a national scandal, but I wonder when anybody is going to remember this stark fact: for every buy to let repossession, a tenant is evicted.
I was chatting to my neighbour who explained that he had moved urgently from one flat to another the previous week. There had been a frantic banging on his door one evening: it was the letting agent, who explained he’d have to vacate his home, right NOW! The flat was due for repossession the very next morning!
So move he did; that night, all alone, rushing to shift everything he owned down the corridor to an identical flat allocated by the agent. He admitted to resenting the fact that he’d been struggling to pay rent to a landlord who blew the money, not on the mortgage, but booze, pies, or hats, never condescending to inform his benighted tenant about his precarious pecuniary circumstances. Fortunately, neighbour was dealing with that rarity – a sympathetic estate agent. He’s settled now, but still shaken.
The post-room, and often my post-box is often crammed with someone else’s letters, all opened, including mortgage forfeitures discarded by someone long gone from here. Gary didn’t know he was being evicted until he opened one of many angry red court orders ignored by his landlord. The flat - his home - was repossessed, after which the letting agent still pursued him for the final month’s rent, despite the building being flooded out, and when the landlord had clearly been pocketing Gary’s money. Mortgage brokers often don’t even know that flats are rented out.
Mortgages featured recently on an excellent edition of C4’s Dispatches. The games played with our money are so bafflingly complex, ‘blue sky’ and out there (if not downright stupid) that it took a wise old banker roughly twenty minutes to explain the fundamentals. Basically, banks lent money to customers so poor that even fiscal morons could predict they would struggle with repayments. Panicky lenders then tried unsuccessfully to claw their money back when borrowers defaulted. You don’t need to be a mathematical genius of the kind who can zip through equations which cover a wall to realise something fishy is going on, and it’s tainting my world by association.
Life for tenants is already uncertain. Landlords are an elusive bunch, and communicate with gnomic missives, ignoring emails, and rarely answer the phone. Tenants may suspect something is awry, but have no solid way of predicting whether their lord and master is prospering or dancing with bankruptcy. If the latter is true, they could end up homeless, and nobody will even notice; they’ll move silently and unnoticed to another buy to let property with a six months lease, hoping that too isn’t suddenly repossessed underneath them. Moving is a costly, miserable and unsettling nightmare with one beneficiary: removal companies.
Property speculation is a gamble. Investments might go down as well as up. I sympathise with owners who lose their life savings and pension plan, but the plight of tenants, booted out through no fault of their own is being ignored. As usual.
Rentergirl is occasionally asked to contribute to TV and radio programmes about the property downturn, but when I mention that I have no chance of buying a home, the interest fades, and if I suggest that alternatively, reporters could highlight problems encountered by renters (aka landless peasant scum) the line goes quiet. The trauma endured by desperate owners is presented as a national scandal, but I wonder when anybody is going to remember this stark fact: for every buy to let repossession, a tenant is evicted.
I was chatting to my neighbour who explained that he had moved urgently from one flat to another the previous week. There had been a frantic banging on his door one evening: it was the letting agent, who explained he’d have to vacate his home, right NOW! The flat was due for repossession the very next morning!
So move he did; that night, all alone, rushing to shift everything he owned down the corridor to an identical flat allocated by the agent. He admitted to resenting the fact that he’d been struggling to pay rent to a landlord who blew the money, not on the mortgage, but booze, pies, or hats, never condescending to inform his benighted tenant about his precarious pecuniary circumstances. Fortunately, neighbour was dealing with that rarity – a sympathetic estate agent. He’s settled now, but still shaken.
The post-room, and often my post-box is often crammed with someone else’s letters, all opened, including mortgage forfeitures discarded by someone long gone from here. Gary didn’t know he was being evicted until he opened one of many angry red court orders ignored by his landlord. The flat - his home - was repossessed, after which the letting agent still pursued him for the final month’s rent, despite the building being flooded out, and when the landlord had clearly been pocketing Gary’s money. Mortgage brokers often don’t even know that flats are rented out.
Mortgages featured recently on an excellent edition of C4’s Dispatches. The games played with our money are so bafflingly complex, ‘blue sky’ and out there (if not downright stupid) that it took a wise old banker roughly twenty minutes to explain the fundamentals. Basically, banks lent money to customers so poor that even fiscal morons could predict they would struggle with repayments. Panicky lenders then tried unsuccessfully to claw their money back when borrowers defaulted. You don’t need to be a mathematical genius of the kind who can zip through equations which cover a wall to realise something fishy is going on, and it’s tainting my world by association.
Life for tenants is already uncertain. Landlords are an elusive bunch, and communicate with gnomic missives, ignoring emails, and rarely answer the phone. Tenants may suspect something is awry, but have no solid way of predicting whether their lord and master is prospering or dancing with bankruptcy. If the latter is true, they could end up homeless, and nobody will even notice; they’ll move silently and unnoticed to another buy to let property with a six months lease, hoping that too isn’t suddenly repossessed underneath them. Moving is a costly, miserable and unsettling nightmare with one beneficiary: removal companies.
Property speculation is a gamble. Investments might go down as well as up. I sympathise with owners who lose their life savings and pension plan, but the plight of tenants, booted out through no fault of their own is being ignored. As usual.
Tuesday, 26 February 2008
Dovecot Towers Is Fawlty
Eavesdroppers and googlers only ever hear ill of themselves. The other day I was casually investigating the web presence of Dovecot Towers, when I had a big surprise; apparently, I live in a hotel. Who’d have thought it?
There’s always been something strangely transient about this place. Only three per cent of the flats were owner occupied, and many (Stop press – make that all) owners have rented out their beloved, hard won, but now unsellable investment, and made good their escape.
Amazingly, an increasing proportion of flats are being rented for weekend city breaks. Less surprisingly, the ‘guests’ do not have happy holidays. One commentator described their flat as grimy, grim and unpleasant (I told you so…) while another complained that the landlord didn’t leave enough toiletries in the bathroom (neither does mine!) One welcome pack was lacking in real coffee (this is uncanny) and the towels were dirty. I resent that. Mine are squeaky clean. It’s bit of an obsession.
So that’s why I am frequently accosted by strangers with wheelie suitcases asked for directions. This would also account for the sullen, bedraggled families waiting outside with a load of baggage. Units are offered as ‘luxurious urban apartment easily sleeping six.’ Luxurious? Are you sure? And why are these places never referred to as flats? Six is a bit of a push though; you’d need to fold up the people, not just the bed, and it’s not cheap. Mind you, yesterday I ordered some tea and biscuits on room service. Delivery was prompt - albeit extremely surly- and the tip was lousy.
You know those dismal Spanish holiday flats, where you check in at 3am, knackered and disorientated, thinking ‘…this isn’t like the brochure,’ and fight over the double room? Space is cleared by arranging the plastic chairs on the balcony, before heading to the bar, consoled by the fact that it might be tiny and horrible, but at least there’s the beach to spend the day, and you’ll only be there for a fortnight. Welcome to my world. Except: there’s no beach, no park, no sun, and we must stay… forever.
A disgruntled permanent resident left a nasty note because their expensive and highly prized parking space was sequestered by a tourist in town to see Dancing On Ice. However, a visiting stag party was extremely satisfied; they had a grand time, partying untroubled by the feds. Indeed they did. I could hear them.
What an enterprising and creative way of making money when in negative equity during a property slump. Facilities are lacking though: that brothel seems to have vanished, so there’s a business opportunity, and I understand there’s a vacancy for a drug supplier/booze fetcher.
Judging by the highly unscientific method of looking from my window, the recently completed flats are still mostly empty. Ideally, property will be snapped up for social housing as a means of quelling this buy to let newbuild madness…or flats could play host to riotous stag parties. I suspect which option is more profitable, and subsequently more likely.
There’s always been something strangely transient about this place. Only three per cent of the flats were owner occupied, and many (Stop press – make that all) owners have rented out their beloved, hard won, but now unsellable investment, and made good their escape.
Amazingly, an increasing proportion of flats are being rented for weekend city breaks. Less surprisingly, the ‘guests’ do not have happy holidays. One commentator described their flat as grimy, grim and unpleasant (I told you so…) while another complained that the landlord didn’t leave enough toiletries in the bathroom (neither does mine!) One welcome pack was lacking in real coffee (this is uncanny) and the towels were dirty. I resent that. Mine are squeaky clean. It’s bit of an obsession.
So that’s why I am frequently accosted by strangers with wheelie suitcases asked for directions. This would also account for the sullen, bedraggled families waiting outside with a load of baggage. Units are offered as ‘luxurious urban apartment easily sleeping six.’ Luxurious? Are you sure? And why are these places never referred to as flats? Six is a bit of a push though; you’d need to fold up the people, not just the bed, and it’s not cheap. Mind you, yesterday I ordered some tea and biscuits on room service. Delivery was prompt - albeit extremely surly- and the tip was lousy.
You know those dismal Spanish holiday flats, where you check in at 3am, knackered and disorientated, thinking ‘…this isn’t like the brochure,’ and fight over the double room? Space is cleared by arranging the plastic chairs on the balcony, before heading to the bar, consoled by the fact that it might be tiny and horrible, but at least there’s the beach to spend the day, and you’ll only be there for a fortnight. Welcome to my world. Except: there’s no beach, no park, no sun, and we must stay… forever.
A disgruntled permanent resident left a nasty note because their expensive and highly prized parking space was sequestered by a tourist in town to see Dancing On Ice. However, a visiting stag party was extremely satisfied; they had a grand time, partying untroubled by the feds. Indeed they did. I could hear them.
What an enterprising and creative way of making money when in negative equity during a property slump. Facilities are lacking though: that brothel seems to have vanished, so there’s a business opportunity, and I understand there’s a vacancy for a drug supplier/booze fetcher.
Judging by the highly unscientific method of looking from my window, the recently completed flats are still mostly empty. Ideally, property will be snapped up for social housing as a means of quelling this buy to let newbuild madness…or flats could play host to riotous stag parties. I suspect which option is more profitable, and subsequently more likely.
Tuesday, 19 February 2008
Just One Songbird
Last week, in a leafless tree close to Dovecot Towers, I heard birdsong for the first time since moving in. A tiny plain brown bird was calling, plaintively and prettily, for a mate. Someone from the appreciative audience suggested it was a nightingale, or a song thrush, while mechanics from the local garage and passers-by listened to a little bird warbling his hopeless love-song.
New developments are built on sterile land, devoid of wildlife. The only furry creature roaming Dovecot Towers is a year old burger in the bin room. I’m not being dewy eyed and foolish. I hardly expect to stand on my balcony captivated by bunnies, shy deer protecting their fawns, or the bewitching vision of wild and flighty mustang ponies, but I’ve not seen not so much as a bumble bee around here.
When I lived in central Glasgow, there were wild beasts everywhere, providing a vivid demonstration of the food chain. In the nearby park, I saw pigeons, and mice scurrying around, which - as roadkill - were prey for the seagulls, themselves subsequently dinner for the foxes. I found myself trying to have a serious phone conversation, while a seagull landed on my window ledge, brandishing the bloody half a pigeon it was enjoying for lunch, and me screeching like a squeamish banshee. I watched a fox proudly trotting along, carrying a seagull (hopefully the same one) back for her cubs. Inevitably the raptors, like kites and sparrow hawks, will be next to occupy this urban des-res, exploiting a fantastic opportunity for fine dining. Once, I even heard an owl.
Glaswegian seagulls are huge, evil monsters. They dive-bomb pedestrians, and crap on your clean clothes when you’re off out somewhere fancy (and me with no shotgun.) The foxes of Glasgow are brilliant; proud vixens shepherd their cubs, trotting in the snow across busy streets, and at night they cry like babies. Wendy opened her front door and found a fox staring back expectantly: apparently it wanted some dinner.
Back in Dovecot Towers, the surroundings are barren: no birds, small animals, or predators, and I’ve never spotted a pigeon on my ledge, let alone hedgehogs in our pathetic lifeless ‘garden’ area. There’s nowhere for creatures to wander: no parks, or green spaces. Urban developments are unsuitable for humans or animal, and humans pay to live here. Wildlife boycotts the neighbourhood, so they must be cleverer than us.
I’ve noticed a quivering, inbred lap dog, stashed in a designer handbag carried by a posh girl from the penthouses, but larger pets aren’t really feasible. It would be cruel to confine them, which says so much about these flats; it’s too small for a cat. Rats never did condescend to move here, let alone desert us.
In the sixties, pioneer environmentalist Rachel Carson predicted that pesticides would silence Spring. DDT was banned, but newbuilds have almost fulfilled her prophecy. Already there’s no dawn chorus, and no avian choir at twilight: just a brave and solitary songbird to serenade the grateful residents.
New developments are built on sterile land, devoid of wildlife. The only furry creature roaming Dovecot Towers is a year old burger in the bin room. I’m not being dewy eyed and foolish. I hardly expect to stand on my balcony captivated by bunnies, shy deer protecting their fawns, or the bewitching vision of wild and flighty mustang ponies, but I’ve not seen not so much as a bumble bee around here.
When I lived in central Glasgow, there were wild beasts everywhere, providing a vivid demonstration of the food chain. In the nearby park, I saw pigeons, and mice scurrying around, which - as roadkill - were prey for the seagulls, themselves subsequently dinner for the foxes. I found myself trying to have a serious phone conversation, while a seagull landed on my window ledge, brandishing the bloody half a pigeon it was enjoying for lunch, and me screeching like a squeamish banshee. I watched a fox proudly trotting along, carrying a seagull (hopefully the same one) back for her cubs. Inevitably the raptors, like kites and sparrow hawks, will be next to occupy this urban des-res, exploiting a fantastic opportunity for fine dining. Once, I even heard an owl.
Glaswegian seagulls are huge, evil monsters. They dive-bomb pedestrians, and crap on your clean clothes when you’re off out somewhere fancy (and me with no shotgun.) The foxes of Glasgow are brilliant; proud vixens shepherd their cubs, trotting in the snow across busy streets, and at night they cry like babies. Wendy opened her front door and found a fox staring back expectantly: apparently it wanted some dinner.
Back in Dovecot Towers, the surroundings are barren: no birds, small animals, or predators, and I’ve never spotted a pigeon on my ledge, let alone hedgehogs in our pathetic lifeless ‘garden’ area. There’s nowhere for creatures to wander: no parks, or green spaces. Urban developments are unsuitable for humans or animal, and humans pay to live here. Wildlife boycotts the neighbourhood, so they must be cleverer than us.
I’ve noticed a quivering, inbred lap dog, stashed in a designer handbag carried by a posh girl from the penthouses, but larger pets aren’t really feasible. It would be cruel to confine them, which says so much about these flats; it’s too small for a cat. Rats never did condescend to move here, let alone desert us.
In the sixties, pioneer environmentalist Rachel Carson predicted that pesticides would silence Spring. DDT was banned, but newbuilds have almost fulfilled her prophecy. Already there’s no dawn chorus, and no avian choir at twilight: just a brave and solitary songbird to serenade the grateful residents.
Tuesday, 12 February 2008
Size Matters In Dovecot Towers
Despite what I may have written here, something (well, one thing; just one thing mind) is not too bad in Dovecot Towers. Compared to some, my flat is not that small. But when I say not too small, mind you, please be aware that everything is relative and ‘not too small’ in an urban newbuild is like being slightly taller than the average pygmy.
The size of newbuilds is one dimension where the absolute nadir was reached a few years ago, when ravenous, rampaging, ruinous greed on the part of developers, landlords and estate agents (let’s hear it for the estate agents!) was all powerful, and when, on seeing those minuscule apartments, no one dared to say: ‘Hang on – that’s just too small for a fully sized human, with a life!’ I’ve seen rooms that could have been a film set for Honey I Shrunk The Tenants (those teensy little actors would have been so cute!)
So just how big is big enough? I once stayed in a newbuild student flat, of the type creeping along urban roads nationwide. It was tiny, and contained a very narrow single bed, an en suite bathroom that would have fitted easily into the confines of a space capsule, a desk, a really little wardrobe (no other storage) and a shelf. I suppose the theory is that students are off inventing things, cramming facts in the library or getting pissed, and so space is a useless superfluity, albeit an expensive one.
Another flat I saw even made the landlord blush. Tenants could sway to one side to make a cuppa in the kitchen, whilst simultaneously opening the lounge window using their free hand to direct obscene hand gestures at people on the street below, without bothering to stand up. The ‘balcony’ was a narrow ledge with a railing; even a paper person would have trouble squeezing outside. ‘I know,’ admitted the landlord as he showed me round. ‘That’s why it’s ten pounds cheaper.’
As with all these flats, the bathroom was massive in comparison. I had visions of dinner parties held in the tub.
Around two years ago, developers apparently saw sense, possibly at the behest of buy to let landlords, who were having trouble filling investment flats. Since then, some flats have been getting slightly larger, with a more generous space. Keep in mind, however that by generous, I mean an extra metre, which isn’t that much when cramming in all your worldly goods. Honestly, is the cost of an extra ten feet worth of bricks and concrete really prohibitively expensive?
City flats will never be the size of country houses, and nobody expects a cavernous, yawning barn with our precious furniture placed awkwardly in the middle, forcing tenants to conduct shouty conversations with megaphones, due to the vast distance between us. We’d like: enough room for: two x three seater sofas (one to expand into a sofa bed), a dining table with chairs, and space for collectibles. Is that too much to ask? Or is a mad scientist going to come and shrink us all with special magic ray-gun, so we can fit inside?
The size of newbuilds is one dimension where the absolute nadir was reached a few years ago, when ravenous, rampaging, ruinous greed on the part of developers, landlords and estate agents (let’s hear it for the estate agents!) was all powerful, and when, on seeing those minuscule apartments, no one dared to say: ‘Hang on – that’s just too small for a fully sized human, with a life!’ I’ve seen rooms that could have been a film set for Honey I Shrunk The Tenants (those teensy little actors would have been so cute!)
So just how big is big enough? I once stayed in a newbuild student flat, of the type creeping along urban roads nationwide. It was tiny, and contained a very narrow single bed, an en suite bathroom that would have fitted easily into the confines of a space capsule, a desk, a really little wardrobe (no other storage) and a shelf. I suppose the theory is that students are off inventing things, cramming facts in the library or getting pissed, and so space is a useless superfluity, albeit an expensive one.
Another flat I saw even made the landlord blush. Tenants could sway to one side to make a cuppa in the kitchen, whilst simultaneously opening the lounge window using their free hand to direct obscene hand gestures at people on the street below, without bothering to stand up. The ‘balcony’ was a narrow ledge with a railing; even a paper person would have trouble squeezing outside. ‘I know,’ admitted the landlord as he showed me round. ‘That’s why it’s ten pounds cheaper.’
As with all these flats, the bathroom was massive in comparison. I had visions of dinner parties held in the tub.
Around two years ago, developers apparently saw sense, possibly at the behest of buy to let landlords, who were having trouble filling investment flats. Since then, some flats have been getting slightly larger, with a more generous space. Keep in mind, however that by generous, I mean an extra metre, which isn’t that much when cramming in all your worldly goods. Honestly, is the cost of an extra ten feet worth of bricks and concrete really prohibitively expensive?
City flats will never be the size of country houses, and nobody expects a cavernous, yawning barn with our precious furniture placed awkwardly in the middle, forcing tenants to conduct shouty conversations with megaphones, due to the vast distance between us. We’d like: enough room for: two x three seater sofas (one to expand into a sofa bed), a dining table with chairs, and space for collectibles. Is that too much to ask? Or is a mad scientist going to come and shrink us all with special magic ray-gun, so we can fit inside?
Tuesday, 5 February 2008
Scally In The Bin Room
In Dovecot Towers the other day, I found a scallie in the bin room. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but was slumped on the floor, drinking supermarket cooking lager. The bin room has grates instead of windows to let fresh air circulate; he must have been freezing. He was of course wearing his hoody, and dressed from head to toe in black, but seemed extremely embarrassed. The main door has been broken for two months now, and he might have wandered in. He might even live here.
Recently, I have noticed a lot of scallies hereabout. Landlords have entrenched ideas about who makes the ideal rent payer, and scallies are at the bottom of that list, especially unemployed examples. Current economic turmoil is challenging the stereotypes long treasured by landlords who - since they won’t actually live in the flats themselves- select a mirror image to dwell in their investment. Even being employed isn’t enough; the perfect tenants are established professionals, non-smokers, compulsive cleaners, all obsessive about paying rent on time. Letting agents even check your fingernails.
When I first moved in, I half expected to look around at five thirty and watch a battalion of bowler-hatted city types making their way home to Dovecot Towers. But most solicitors, accountants and internet millionaires with psychological cleaning problems have property of their own, forcing landlords to let go of their desires and accept that ordinary people had better move in pronto if they wish to avoid repossession and ruin. These replacements may or may not have jobs, as long as they pay the rent and behave themselves, then everyone is happy.
I used to live in Glasgow. Sartorially speaking, the Glaswegian equivalents of scallies - Neds - are the extreme opposite to their counterparts in North West England. Many Neds dress entirely in white, and pride themselves on their pristine, deceptively virginal clothing, whereas scallies dress completely in black (allegedly copied from criminals who wear black to stop police identifying them from their dress). If Neds and Scallies ever met, a nuclear event would ensue, and I fear the world would end. Incidentally, the word Ned was originally thought to derive from Non Educated Delinquent, until a Ned wrote to a Glasgow paper, pointing out that the grammatically correct phrase is actually Un Educated Delinquent, which would have made them Ueds.
‘Gentrification’ is a pious, snide, and snobby term, but increased rents were forcing established residents away from districts bordering the desirable Merchant City. Around Dovecot Towers, similar traffic is in reverse. As has been documented on rentergirl many times previously, there are too many empty flats, all scrabbling for the ‘good’ tenants. It seems that reality is enveloping these gated communities for students just passing through, or accountants on six month contracts, who move in with a wheelie bag and head home at weekends, or those of us destined to stay for a while. Dovecot Towers is being repopulated.
Recently, I have noticed a lot of scallies hereabout. Landlords have entrenched ideas about who makes the ideal rent payer, and scallies are at the bottom of that list, especially unemployed examples. Current economic turmoil is challenging the stereotypes long treasured by landlords who - since they won’t actually live in the flats themselves- select a mirror image to dwell in their investment. Even being employed isn’t enough; the perfect tenants are established professionals, non-smokers, compulsive cleaners, all obsessive about paying rent on time. Letting agents even check your fingernails.
When I first moved in, I half expected to look around at five thirty and watch a battalion of bowler-hatted city types making their way home to Dovecot Towers. But most solicitors, accountants and internet millionaires with psychological cleaning problems have property of their own, forcing landlords to let go of their desires and accept that ordinary people had better move in pronto if they wish to avoid repossession and ruin. These replacements may or may not have jobs, as long as they pay the rent and behave themselves, then everyone is happy.
I used to live in Glasgow. Sartorially speaking, the Glaswegian equivalents of scallies - Neds - are the extreme opposite to their counterparts in North West England. Many Neds dress entirely in white, and pride themselves on their pristine, deceptively virginal clothing, whereas scallies dress completely in black (allegedly copied from criminals who wear black to stop police identifying them from their dress). If Neds and Scallies ever met, a nuclear event would ensue, and I fear the world would end. Incidentally, the word Ned was originally thought to derive from Non Educated Delinquent, until a Ned wrote to a Glasgow paper, pointing out that the grammatically correct phrase is actually Un Educated Delinquent, which would have made them Ueds.
‘Gentrification’ is a pious, snide, and snobby term, but increased rents were forcing established residents away from districts bordering the desirable Merchant City. Around Dovecot Towers, similar traffic is in reverse. As has been documented on rentergirl many times previously, there are too many empty flats, all scrabbling for the ‘good’ tenants. It seems that reality is enveloping these gated communities for students just passing through, or accountants on six month contracts, who move in with a wheelie bag and head home at weekends, or those of us destined to stay for a while. Dovecot Towers is being repopulated.
Tuesday, 29 January 2008
The Smell Of Dovecot Towers
An ominous thick cloud lingers over Dovecot Towers, and it stinks. But then, Dovecot Towers often smells bad. Some of this is caused by a malodorous and determined criminal lurking in our midst: the guerrilla farter. Pernicious flatulence is so anti social. Farting in the lift should be a hanging offence, but hanging is too good for them. Perpetrators exit the lift wearing a smug and knowing grin, just before I enter and nearly die. All lifts should be fitted with those oxygen masks that drop from the ceiling in airplanes, to save our lungs from dissolving in an acrid pall of human methane.
As if that’s not bad enough, there then follows the humiliation of another stranger stepping into the lift, recoiling, grasping at their throat and retching, clawing and banging on the door for release, screaming: ‘SWEET JESUS LET ME OUT!!!’
Their piercing, hate-filled eyes betray the fact that they are blaming me!
So then I stutter unconvincingly: ‘Oh god - it’s horrible isn’t it? It wasn’t me…no really…honest…it wasn’t…DEAR GOD - PLEASE BELIEVE ME!!!!’
But they glare at me again, clearly sceptical about my now desperate please of innocence. Then I become frantic; I couldn’t live another day if anyone actually thought a delicate thing like me was responsible for a pungent, vituperative stink like that. Mind you – that snotty woman on the floor below me? I bet it’s her.
Along the corridors, you can usually inhale the smell of simple quotidian existence, like cooking, takeaways and smoke. It’s a not entirely unpleasant proof of life, and since smaller flats have bathrooms next to the front door, you can occasionally even smell bubble bath, which is proof of bathing. On a Saturday and Sunday morning, there’s an odour of vomit, alongside the smell of skunk, and the accompanying, fruitless perfume of supposed skunk defeaters, like incense. Nice try.
As of last week there’s a new stench around here, which is worse than the fetid odour of bin rooms. We are banned from starting a compost heap (why would you want to in a flat?) but some residents seem to stack up vegetable matter. No, worse than that, it’s the air freshener used to hide the fetid odour of the bin rooms; a sticky, treacly, sickly, syrupy sweet aroma. It’s horrible. I haven’t seen the cleaner around as much as usual, and I suspect his hours have been cut, and that air freshener cubes are the management company’s attempt at disguising their mean spirited short sightedness. Either that or someone’s stashing a corpse. Could be either, really.
This morning there was another new addition to our repository of fragrance. The entire building reeked of beer. On the ground floor, outside the lift, someone had dropped an entire cardboard carton of Stella, which had smashed. What a waste. Of course, some people might return to their flat for a mop and bucket and start cleaning, but this is Dovecot Towers, and that would count as deviant behaviour. Mind you, there was a time when a large pool of free beer would have seen most residents running home for a straw.
As if that’s not bad enough, there then follows the humiliation of another stranger stepping into the lift, recoiling, grasping at their throat and retching, clawing and banging on the door for release, screaming: ‘SWEET JESUS LET ME OUT!!!’
Their piercing, hate-filled eyes betray the fact that they are blaming me!
So then I stutter unconvincingly: ‘Oh god - it’s horrible isn’t it? It wasn’t me…no really…honest…it wasn’t…DEAR GOD - PLEASE BELIEVE ME!!!!’
But they glare at me again, clearly sceptical about my now desperate please of innocence. Then I become frantic; I couldn’t live another day if anyone actually thought a delicate thing like me was responsible for a pungent, vituperative stink like that. Mind you – that snotty woman on the floor below me? I bet it’s her.
Along the corridors, you can usually inhale the smell of simple quotidian existence, like cooking, takeaways and smoke. It’s a not entirely unpleasant proof of life, and since smaller flats have bathrooms next to the front door, you can occasionally even smell bubble bath, which is proof of bathing. On a Saturday and Sunday morning, there’s an odour of vomit, alongside the smell of skunk, and the accompanying, fruitless perfume of supposed skunk defeaters, like incense. Nice try.
As of last week there’s a new stench around here, which is worse than the fetid odour of bin rooms. We are banned from starting a compost heap (why would you want to in a flat?) but some residents seem to stack up vegetable matter. No, worse than that, it’s the air freshener used to hide the fetid odour of the bin rooms; a sticky, treacly, sickly, syrupy sweet aroma. It’s horrible. I haven’t seen the cleaner around as much as usual, and I suspect his hours have been cut, and that air freshener cubes are the management company’s attempt at disguising their mean spirited short sightedness. Either that or someone’s stashing a corpse. Could be either, really.
This morning there was another new addition to our repository of fragrance. The entire building reeked of beer. On the ground floor, outside the lift, someone had dropped an entire cardboard carton of Stella, which had smashed. What a waste. Of course, some people might return to their flat for a mop and bucket and start cleaning, but this is Dovecot Towers, and that would count as deviant behaviour. Mind you, there was a time when a large pool of free beer would have seen most residents running home for a straw.
Tuesday, 22 January 2008
Pilar From Spain
Residents of Dovecot Towers live in splendid isolation, but for a while I was happily acquainted with a neighbour. At first she was afraid to speak, mumbling a diffident reply to my cheery good morning. Slowly she realised that I’m not one of the bad guys, and we began, occasionally, to chat. She shares a one bed newbuild with her husband, and is appalled at… well, everything, and more.
Pilar is Spanish and can’t understand why the flats are so badly built, especially the walls, which are little more than a flimsy veneer of paint, leaving her able to hear most of what her neighbours say and do.
She asked me: where do all the families live? In Spain, apartments are larger, and families routinely live clannishly in high-ceilinged city flats with generous balconies, large kitchens, against a backdrop of thriving family friendly café culture (should individuals need to escape the confines of domestic life.) Several generations live in one apartment, but then there’s enough space.
Every time I saw her, Pilar was more and more disillusioned. What about respect, she asked: don’t people care? Everybody has their moments, she knows, but parties and screaming every single Saturday? She feels people veer between two extremes: either frosty and unfriendly, or banging drunkenly on her door at night. Why do they drink so much?
And why are the homes so horrible? Why are they built in such a mean spirited fashion, why so small? She wants her younger sister to come and stay, but has had to explain that her home is cramped, and staying for more than a week or so will be difficult for them all, camped out on an airbed in a combined lounge/diner/kitchen/spare room, with a washer on the go.
In Continental Europe, people routinely live in large, reasonably priced apartments. They seem to stay for life. Owners and landlords accept that they will see increase in value over many years, content to profit from reasonable rents, as the property is already mortgage free. Some blocks are Victorian, with both owners and tenants owning and living in the same flat for decades. Some leases have been inherited down the generations from Edwardian times.
In Europe, there is little stigma about renting and seemingly, less greed. Families live slap bang in the middle of thriving urban landscapes, but there are schools, doctors, and some sense of community or village life even in a bustling metropolis. People seem to accept that you never really own a property, but pass it on to your family, who will care for you when you are infirm with illness or age.
Pilar promised to copy me a form she’s obtained from the council about noisy neighbours. But then one day I came home and found boxes of packed belongings stacked outside her flat. Pilar must have had enough – apparently she’s returned to Spain. I really wish the good neighbours stuck around.
Pilar is Spanish and can’t understand why the flats are so badly built, especially the walls, which are little more than a flimsy veneer of paint, leaving her able to hear most of what her neighbours say and do.
She asked me: where do all the families live? In Spain, apartments are larger, and families routinely live clannishly in high-ceilinged city flats with generous balconies, large kitchens, against a backdrop of thriving family friendly café culture (should individuals need to escape the confines of domestic life.) Several generations live in one apartment, but then there’s enough space.
Every time I saw her, Pilar was more and more disillusioned. What about respect, she asked: don’t people care? Everybody has their moments, she knows, but parties and screaming every single Saturday? She feels people veer between two extremes: either frosty and unfriendly, or banging drunkenly on her door at night. Why do they drink so much?
And why are the homes so horrible? Why are they built in such a mean spirited fashion, why so small? She wants her younger sister to come and stay, but has had to explain that her home is cramped, and staying for more than a week or so will be difficult for them all, camped out on an airbed in a combined lounge/diner/kitchen/spare room, with a washer on the go.
In Continental Europe, people routinely live in large, reasonably priced apartments. They seem to stay for life. Owners and landlords accept that they will see increase in value over many years, content to profit from reasonable rents, as the property is already mortgage free. Some blocks are Victorian, with both owners and tenants owning and living in the same flat for decades. Some leases have been inherited down the generations from Edwardian times.
In Europe, there is little stigma about renting and seemingly, less greed. Families live slap bang in the middle of thriving urban landscapes, but there are schools, doctors, and some sense of community or village life even in a bustling metropolis. People seem to accept that you never really own a property, but pass it on to your family, who will care for you when you are infirm with illness or age.
Pilar promised to copy me a form she’s obtained from the council about noisy neighbours. But then one day I came home and found boxes of packed belongings stacked outside her flat. Pilar must have had enough – apparently she’s returned to Spain. I really wish the good neighbours stuck around.
Tuesday, 15 January 2008
In Search Of Beauty
I’m no tortured, winsome aesthete; I just like my surroundings to be lovely. I am living in the land of the ugly things. Is there a bye law decreeing that newbuilds must be uniform in their hideous awfulness?
Newbuild complexes are crushing cities countrywide. They are bleak, and blank. One allegedly luxurious development is covered in beige ceramic tiles. It resembles a tribute to the Arndale Centre, which in turn, paid homage to the artistic principles exemplified by municipal urinals.
Victorian city warehouses and even Edwardian tenements were built from attractive red brick and carved sandstone. They stand majestically, still coveted and much loved. Older buildings enhance the architectural beauty of an area. They have names, and their date of completion is lovingly and proudly displayed. They feature carved symbolic relief, and contrasting brickwork.
Newbuilds are identikit flat-packs. They’re not even lego blocks, but duplo, dropped onto a brownfield site with no thought of what they might contribute to the area in terms of pleasing appearance. Oh – forgive me – some have wooden panelling on the outside, so they look like residential Mini Clubmen.
Once inside, the walls are bland, the bath fittings are bland, the people are bland. As evidence of someone’s moment of madness, the carpets are beige. Decorating rules disdain the basic human need for pleasing surroundings.
Landlords forbid us from nailing pictures or any other decoration to the walls, as we are then obliged to cover any resulting holes with filler, and repaint the entire room. This is slightly unreasonable, and I’ve given up on hanging pictures, as when you move around so much, my life would be like that of the men toiling on The Forth Bridge, with never ending emulsion.
Imagine the potential for trouble caused simply by putting up some shelves. If flats are furnished, they are provided with a cursory bookshelf, as newbuilds renters neither read, nor collect CD’s or games. I’m starting a campaign to reinstate the picture rail. Your granny’s house will have had one: a thin wooden rail around the room, allowing for pictures to be hung without damaging the walls. Renters could add their own touch of home, without gouging out the thin, eminently gougable plaster board dividing walls.
It used to be the case that owners permitted new tenants paint the walls of their new home (you know – the one we pay to live in) even allowing us a week rent free to pay for paint, but now live in fear of colour. That bloody American woman has flooded our world with neutral tones. It’s like living in the waiting room of a secure unit. Flats and their foyers are decorated in a climate of fear, both of colour and personalising adornment, indeed anything shiny, bright and happy, visually stimulating or interesting. It’s not that we want fuchsia walls, but we can’t even put up our own curtains, as they never even provide a curtain rail. In fact, we are forbidden from using curtain rails as they will leave holes in the ceiling. It defies belief.
It’s so tempting to go out with a flourish, and embellish my flat, the foyer and lifts with a lavish freeform technicolour modern mural. If I’m going to lose my deposit, then I’m going to do it in style.
Newbuild complexes are crushing cities countrywide. They are bleak, and blank. One allegedly luxurious development is covered in beige ceramic tiles. It resembles a tribute to the Arndale Centre, which in turn, paid homage to the artistic principles exemplified by municipal urinals.
Victorian city warehouses and even Edwardian tenements were built from attractive red brick and carved sandstone. They stand majestically, still coveted and much loved. Older buildings enhance the architectural beauty of an area. They have names, and their date of completion is lovingly and proudly displayed. They feature carved symbolic relief, and contrasting brickwork.
Newbuilds are identikit flat-packs. They’re not even lego blocks, but duplo, dropped onto a brownfield site with no thought of what they might contribute to the area in terms of pleasing appearance. Oh – forgive me – some have wooden panelling on the outside, so they look like residential Mini Clubmen.
Once inside, the walls are bland, the bath fittings are bland, the people are bland. As evidence of someone’s moment of madness, the carpets are beige. Decorating rules disdain the basic human need for pleasing surroundings.
Landlords forbid us from nailing pictures or any other decoration to the walls, as we are then obliged to cover any resulting holes with filler, and repaint the entire room. This is slightly unreasonable, and I’ve given up on hanging pictures, as when you move around so much, my life would be like that of the men toiling on The Forth Bridge, with never ending emulsion.
Imagine the potential for trouble caused simply by putting up some shelves. If flats are furnished, they are provided with a cursory bookshelf, as newbuilds renters neither read, nor collect CD’s or games. I’m starting a campaign to reinstate the picture rail. Your granny’s house will have had one: a thin wooden rail around the room, allowing for pictures to be hung without damaging the walls. Renters could add their own touch of home, without gouging out the thin, eminently gougable plaster board dividing walls.
It used to be the case that owners permitted new tenants paint the walls of their new home (you know – the one we pay to live in) even allowing us a week rent free to pay for paint, but now live in fear of colour. That bloody American woman has flooded our world with neutral tones. It’s like living in the waiting room of a secure unit. Flats and their foyers are decorated in a climate of fear, both of colour and personalising adornment, indeed anything shiny, bright and happy, visually stimulating or interesting. It’s not that we want fuchsia walls, but we can’t even put up our own curtains, as they never even provide a curtain rail. In fact, we are forbidden from using curtain rails as they will leave holes in the ceiling. It defies belief.
It’s so tempting to go out with a flourish, and embellish my flat, the foyer and lifts with a lavish freeform technicolour modern mural. If I’m going to lose my deposit, then I’m going to do it in style.
Tuesday, 8 January 2008
Darkness Falls On Dovecot Towers
As they say in mediocre westerns, it’s quiet. Too quiet. Recent nights in Dovecot Towers have been silent, and gloomy.
After all I’ve written about noisy parties and rowdy neighbours, you’d think the lead up to the festive season, especially New Year’s Eve, would be crazy with booming, bass-heavy, drug-fuelled debauchery. I’m not so churlish as to expect silence, especially not on New Years Eve, but I was dreading yet another 48 hour party from hell, with my neighbours screaming and banging on doors for a fortnight. But they didn’t.
Even Georgie from 603 has been quiet of late. Same with Thumping Techno Boy (he of the response: ‘I can do whatever I like – it’s my flat!’) To commemorate Hogmanay I was expecting predatory torrents of vomit cascading down the stairs, like the flood of blood in The Shining. But no walls ran with fountains of beer splattered from vigorously shaken cans. No unofficial community urinals appeared; we just had a few pizza boxes left on the floor, but then there are no bins.
Days before xmas, the lights in the surrounding flats went out ominously one by one. The nearby building site shut down, granting a merciful release from my hitherto floodlit lounge. The darkness was eerie. New Years Eve was deathly quiet: nobody shouting their order to the drug dealer conveniently waiting on the street below. Not so much as raised voices or loud laughter. Nothing.
Students heading home for xmas made the building seem even more bleak. Many have gone for good, with replacements electing to start their tenancies at the beginning of term, rather than on the first of the month. For owners, this means a worrying and expensive void period, with no rental income for those dabblers and other property chancers, now officially known to be dancing on the edge of bankruptcy. There have also been some evictions.
Tenants might be calling some of the shots – a timely development in certain respects. Owners are increasingly desperate; simply grateful to have guaranteed occupants - even if newer tenants feel free to be more assertive. Landlords, especially newbies, can be unreasonable and intransigent. Last year, one poor soul was forced to move out by Jan 1st, and Xmas is no time for flat hunting.
I scan the horizon, with its crane raddled carpet of building sites and similar cliff faces of newbuild flats, and notice that the newest blocks are especially slow to light up. A checkerboard of houselights indicates human occupation, but so many buildings seem three quarters empty. The silence is deceptively tranquil, as this stillness is indicative of forthcoming economic desolation. And vacant buildings do nothing for the character and charm of the neighbourhood. Inhabitants who perpetually come and go are literally causing darkness to descend.
The festive season is long over, but Dovecot Towers is still too quiet, and the house lights around me are not switching on. One ray of light was the fact that a neighbour and I exchanged Xmas cards. It might not seem like much, but around here, it’s a massive advance for humanity.
After all I’ve written about noisy parties and rowdy neighbours, you’d think the lead up to the festive season, especially New Year’s Eve, would be crazy with booming, bass-heavy, drug-fuelled debauchery. I’m not so churlish as to expect silence, especially not on New Years Eve, but I was dreading yet another 48 hour party from hell, with my neighbours screaming and banging on doors for a fortnight. But they didn’t.
Even Georgie from 603 has been quiet of late. Same with Thumping Techno Boy (he of the response: ‘I can do whatever I like – it’s my flat!’) To commemorate Hogmanay I was expecting predatory torrents of vomit cascading down the stairs, like the flood of blood in The Shining. But no walls ran with fountains of beer splattered from vigorously shaken cans. No unofficial community urinals appeared; we just had a few pizza boxes left on the floor, but then there are no bins.
Days before xmas, the lights in the surrounding flats went out ominously one by one. The nearby building site shut down, granting a merciful release from my hitherto floodlit lounge. The darkness was eerie. New Years Eve was deathly quiet: nobody shouting their order to the drug dealer conveniently waiting on the street below. Not so much as raised voices or loud laughter. Nothing.
Students heading home for xmas made the building seem even more bleak. Many have gone for good, with replacements electing to start their tenancies at the beginning of term, rather than on the first of the month. For owners, this means a worrying and expensive void period, with no rental income for those dabblers and other property chancers, now officially known to be dancing on the edge of bankruptcy. There have also been some evictions.
Tenants might be calling some of the shots – a timely development in certain respects. Owners are increasingly desperate; simply grateful to have guaranteed occupants - even if newer tenants feel free to be more assertive. Landlords, especially newbies, can be unreasonable and intransigent. Last year, one poor soul was forced to move out by Jan 1st, and Xmas is no time for flat hunting.
I scan the horizon, with its crane raddled carpet of building sites and similar cliff faces of newbuild flats, and notice that the newest blocks are especially slow to light up. A checkerboard of houselights indicates human occupation, but so many buildings seem three quarters empty. The silence is deceptively tranquil, as this stillness is indicative of forthcoming economic desolation. And vacant buildings do nothing for the character and charm of the neighbourhood. Inhabitants who perpetually come and go are literally causing darkness to descend.
The festive season is long over, but Dovecot Towers is still too quiet, and the house lights around me are not switching on. One ray of light was the fact that a neighbour and I exchanged Xmas cards. It might not seem like much, but around here, it’s a massive advance for humanity.
Tuesday, 18 December 2007
A Heartwarming Festive Tale
Just before Xmas a few years ago, my friend Anna and I were enjoying a drink in a crowded bar, the atmosphere rich with boozy fumes and yuletide bonhomie. A man lingered outside, where his demeanour grew increasingly animated, even (dare I say it?) attention seeking.
Every night, this particular bar allocated a pitch to one beggar, donating leftovers and a large milky coffee in return for The Beggar Of The Day collecting tables and chairs from the pavement at closing time (enforced dignity from obligatory labour, perhaps).
It was freezing. The designated beggar waited outside warming his hands on the heater high above the door, jumping up and down, directing frosty breath towards the windows, unsettling the revellers, who averted their eyes.
Anna and I have both worked with homeless people. Official safety blankets are riddled with holes, and he could easily have fallen through (insufficient statutory need/no local connection) a situation which might well condemn a vulnerable man to sleeping rough. The temperature being well below zero, we thought we’d intervene: point him towards an emergency shelter, contact the rough sleepers initiative, or something.
I wasn’t feeling self righteous, and neither was Anna. Rough sleepers live by their wits, prey to uncertainties like the weather, public piety, capricious, self-righteous benevolence and scepticism, whilst simultaneously battling the accompanying health problems, both mental and physical.
By the time we left, the man was flamboyantly warming his hands underneath the heater, to mass indifference. As we passed, he wished us a Merry Xmas, and expectantly held out his hand. Anna posed some questions - each received a neat reply: he hadn’t contacted the shelter as he was new to town (I’d seen him around recently)… the rough sleepers initiative was run by judgemental god-botherers… (it isn’t) and so on.
He didn’t want assistance, or advice; he wanted cash, probably because he was an addict, and I wasn’t stumping up. Not through disapproval or squeamishness - but because I refused to pay for heroin which could leave him comatose on a sub zero night, when he might drift away to die quietly, alone in the dark. Other than invite him back (get real) there was nothing else I could do.
The amount of actual rough sleepers is hotly disputed. Government statistics claim that nationwide, five hundred people genuinely live on the streets. Anecdotally, and from my own observations this is a gross underestimate. Anyone crossing a city at night will glimpse spectral figures in the half distance. They are the roofless, searching for somewhere to settle in safety, keeping to the shadows, anxious to avoid the gaze of both the police and violent drunks (they often get a kicking at closing time.)
Renting is inherently precarious. Landlords can still end tenancies abruptly, and those fresh from prison or care homes might not be able to cope with finding and paying the rent. I once had a flat in a social housing block, where tenancies were occasionally allocated to people who had recently been homeless.
In one deserted flat, the caretaker was distressed to find no furniture or belongings, indeed anything homely, just unopened bills, and a card which read: ‘Happy Xmas son, glad to hear you’ve got your life in order, and have found yourself a home.’
‘Son’ was badly damaged by years on the street, and had no support network easing him back into the world of the housed. He slept in the corridor, then in the foyer, eventually wandering back onto the streets, never to return.
After rebuffing a homeless beggar, I wasn't feeling too pleased with myself as I made my way home that night. Then I saw a man carrying some large folded cardboard boxes. He slipped into the undergrowth. Discreetly but hastily, he constructed an improvised bivouac, first spreading festive bin liners on the ground to ensure a water proof base, topped by several flattened seasonal boxes as insulation against the frozen earth.
Next, a sort of cardboard coffin, lined with newspaper (another box protected his head.) Wrapped in a cocoon of blankets donated by homeless charities, he crowned another box with more bin liners. As long as it didn’t rain, this inventive man might just survive the freezing night.
Here in The Wonderful World of Rental, we are all a hair’s breadth away from homelessness. If fortune decrees a downturn, then you, me, and everyone we know could be thrown out onto the streets. Should that fate befall me, at least I will know how to assemble an effective, temporary shelter using rubbish, and I won’t expect a happy ending. Did you?
Every night, this particular bar allocated a pitch to one beggar, donating leftovers and a large milky coffee in return for The Beggar Of The Day collecting tables and chairs from the pavement at closing time (enforced dignity from obligatory labour, perhaps).
It was freezing. The designated beggar waited outside warming his hands on the heater high above the door, jumping up and down, directing frosty breath towards the windows, unsettling the revellers, who averted their eyes.
Anna and I have both worked with homeless people. Official safety blankets are riddled with holes, and he could easily have fallen through (insufficient statutory need/no local connection) a situation which might well condemn a vulnerable man to sleeping rough. The temperature being well below zero, we thought we’d intervene: point him towards an emergency shelter, contact the rough sleepers initiative, or something.
I wasn’t feeling self righteous, and neither was Anna. Rough sleepers live by their wits, prey to uncertainties like the weather, public piety, capricious, self-righteous benevolence and scepticism, whilst simultaneously battling the accompanying health problems, both mental and physical.
By the time we left, the man was flamboyantly warming his hands underneath the heater, to mass indifference. As we passed, he wished us a Merry Xmas, and expectantly held out his hand. Anna posed some questions - each received a neat reply: he hadn’t contacted the shelter as he was new to town (I’d seen him around recently)… the rough sleepers initiative was run by judgemental god-botherers… (it isn’t) and so on.
He didn’t want assistance, or advice; he wanted cash, probably because he was an addict, and I wasn’t stumping up. Not through disapproval or squeamishness - but because I refused to pay for heroin which could leave him comatose on a sub zero night, when he might drift away to die quietly, alone in the dark. Other than invite him back (get real) there was nothing else I could do.
The amount of actual rough sleepers is hotly disputed. Government statistics claim that nationwide, five hundred people genuinely live on the streets. Anecdotally, and from my own observations this is a gross underestimate. Anyone crossing a city at night will glimpse spectral figures in the half distance. They are the roofless, searching for somewhere to settle in safety, keeping to the shadows, anxious to avoid the gaze of both the police and violent drunks (they often get a kicking at closing time.)
Renting is inherently precarious. Landlords can still end tenancies abruptly, and those fresh from prison or care homes might not be able to cope with finding and paying the rent. I once had a flat in a social housing block, where tenancies were occasionally allocated to people who had recently been homeless.
In one deserted flat, the caretaker was distressed to find no furniture or belongings, indeed anything homely, just unopened bills, and a card which read: ‘Happy Xmas son, glad to hear you’ve got your life in order, and have found yourself a home.’
‘Son’ was badly damaged by years on the street, and had no support network easing him back into the world of the housed. He slept in the corridor, then in the foyer, eventually wandering back onto the streets, never to return.
After rebuffing a homeless beggar, I wasn't feeling too pleased with myself as I made my way home that night. Then I saw a man carrying some large folded cardboard boxes. He slipped into the undergrowth. Discreetly but hastily, he constructed an improvised bivouac, first spreading festive bin liners on the ground to ensure a water proof base, topped by several flattened seasonal boxes as insulation against the frozen earth.
Next, a sort of cardboard coffin, lined with newspaper (another box protected his head.) Wrapped in a cocoon of blankets donated by homeless charities, he crowned another box with more bin liners. As long as it didn’t rain, this inventive man might just survive the freezing night.
Here in The Wonderful World of Rental, we are all a hair’s breadth away from homelessness. If fortune decrees a downturn, then you, me, and everyone we know could be thrown out onto the streets. Should that fate befall me, at least I will know how to assemble an effective, temporary shelter using rubbish, and I won’t expect a happy ending. Did you?
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