One indication that you’re properly grown up is having friends who are not only married, but divorced. Now there’s another sign: when your mates are landlords.
I have friends lumbered with houses they can’t sell, and so in the interim, they must let them. It’s not all good. One was shafted by tenants who did a runner owing a fortune in arrears. He’s not a scumbag landlord who ignored repairs; he simply needed to cover his mortgage when he’d been compelled to move.
‘Forced Landlord’ is the slightly melodramatic term for this new and growing phenomenon. Even though I generally write from the tenant’s point of view, it’s still a major cause for concern. One of my friends bought a house at the height of the madness, but now she wants to move.
Several houses carry ‘To Let/For Sale’ boards on her street. It’s not the nicest area in the land: a mix of student HMO’s, family houses and some rough spots. Certain houses are visibly nicer, and judging by the amount of skips blocking the pavement, owners have been doing them up, so they’ll sell or be let first.
Being a landlord is harder than anyone imagines, especially of you aren’t a property magnate by choice. Rents are falling, and fast. Letting agents devour around 15% of rental income (if tenants ask for repairs, they’ll be referred to the owner.)
Even well-intentioned owners who go it alone are frequently ill-informed about new deposit protection schemes, Energy Efficiency Certificates or HMO licences. They are also blithely unprepared for voids, where they must go without rental payments when in between tenancies. As for insurance, burglar alarms, fire precautions and their own repair obligations? Don’t get me started.
The amount of forced tenants is also increasing. They want to sell their house but can’t, so they let it, and rent temporarily while house-hunting to avoid a chain. Do not mess with them. They know exactly what they want, which is never a shabby hovel that owner never got round to refurbishing, but a safe, empty, clean, neutral-toned, well-insulated family home.
Landlords with only vague memories of their own student renting experience may have bought a draughty wreck and filled it with cracked vinyl sofas and crusty unsprung mattresses. It’s not good enough for anyone, let alone the children who might live there.
Forced landlords might be happier if they saw tenants as long-term house-sitters, and cast aside any resentment that the property conveyor-belt has stalled. They’d also benefit from treating tenants not as trespassers (that’s how bad landlords still regard those unfortunates kind enough to safeguard their mortgage and underwrite their pension) but creatures after their own image, in similar circumstances, and to cherish that thought.
Ultimately, this craziness is creating an absurd carousel of owners renting property to residents who in turn own a house that they are also renting out to another home-owner. To rejig a childhood rhyme:
“Tall landlords have small landlords
Upon their backs to bite ‘em
Stuck landlords have broke landlords
And so on, infinitum.”
Monday, 15 December 2008
Tuesday, 9 December 2008
The Measure Of The Van
Recently, when in between homes once again, I kept my worldly goods in storage for months. My entire life, all my memories, dreams and baggage was dormant in some distant warehouse.
With everything safely out of reach, it’s odd what you begin to miss. Clothes stashed safely in bin bags suddenly become essential. For months at a time, I hauled everything around in one bag (okay – it was a very large bag.) Briefly, I was tempted to jettison everything and start all over again.
When you know you’re moving around and won’t be needing that sack of winter woollies for a summer by the seaside, or your flimsy skimpies in the wintry north, it’s nice to know that they are under lock and key, and won’t be ‘borrowed’, or go mouldy with neglect. But it was strange not to have them lying around.
I own nothing of value. In fact I don’t own much at all. Oddly, it wasn’t the clothes I pined for, but random items, like books, and my collection of cheap green glassware, everyday things that I wanted to have around me for some semblance or normality. I felt as if my entire existence was borrowed, and I had to ask permission for everything. I began to miss random treasured possessions, like a large white bowl, perfect for greedy amounts of soup.
That was my introduction to the crazy world of storage centres. These vast warehouses safeguard household belongings, as people hover between house moves, or downsize. Storage centres are modern phenomena, created by the insecure nature of tenancies, and decreasing living space coupled with increasing acquisitiveness. When booking your space in one of these storage units, you must predict how many square foot you will require. I’d never thought about my life in those terms before. When I saw my tiny cupboard, I despaired. Is this the sum of my life? Is that all there is? And how would I fit everything in? (I was even more demoralised when it did).
I’ve always prided myself on not hoarding piles of stuff, in regularly discarding tat, and never collecting things. I am ruthless about the books, and music I keep. I never bought a video or DVD player because to do so would lead me along the evil path of assembling a film library (i.e. more stuff) which I will eventually wind up lugging upstairs at some point.
The thing is, after months with my life on hold, and with everything condensed into one bag, I began to wonder if I needed all that stuff waiting for me in some far-off warehouse. Should I keep it at all, when I’ve managed so well without it, especially when I love throwing things out? The idea of banishing everything to a charity shop, or a wild defenestration extravaganza to entertain bemused locals grew more tempting every day.
Once upon a time my worldly goods could fit into a small car. Then it was a large hatchback, albeit with plants, and blinds hanging out of the window. Soon, everything covered the floor of a small van. These days I own some furniture, so it’s a large transit. My entire life measured out in van sizes. How depressing.
With everything safely out of reach, it’s odd what you begin to miss. Clothes stashed safely in bin bags suddenly become essential. For months at a time, I hauled everything around in one bag (okay – it was a very large bag.) Briefly, I was tempted to jettison everything and start all over again.
When you know you’re moving around and won’t be needing that sack of winter woollies for a summer by the seaside, or your flimsy skimpies in the wintry north, it’s nice to know that they are under lock and key, and won’t be ‘borrowed’, or go mouldy with neglect. But it was strange not to have them lying around.
I own nothing of value. In fact I don’t own much at all. Oddly, it wasn’t the clothes I pined for, but random items, like books, and my collection of cheap green glassware, everyday things that I wanted to have around me for some semblance or normality. I felt as if my entire existence was borrowed, and I had to ask permission for everything. I began to miss random treasured possessions, like a large white bowl, perfect for greedy amounts of soup.
That was my introduction to the crazy world of storage centres. These vast warehouses safeguard household belongings, as people hover between house moves, or downsize. Storage centres are modern phenomena, created by the insecure nature of tenancies, and decreasing living space coupled with increasing acquisitiveness. When booking your space in one of these storage units, you must predict how many square foot you will require. I’d never thought about my life in those terms before. When I saw my tiny cupboard, I despaired. Is this the sum of my life? Is that all there is? And how would I fit everything in? (I was even more demoralised when it did).
I’ve always prided myself on not hoarding piles of stuff, in regularly discarding tat, and never collecting things. I am ruthless about the books, and music I keep. I never bought a video or DVD player because to do so would lead me along the evil path of assembling a film library (i.e. more stuff) which I will eventually wind up lugging upstairs at some point.
The thing is, after months with my life on hold, and with everything condensed into one bag, I began to wonder if I needed all that stuff waiting for me in some far-off warehouse. Should I keep it at all, when I’ve managed so well without it, especially when I love throwing things out? The idea of banishing everything to a charity shop, or a wild defenestration extravaganza to entertain bemused locals grew more tempting every day.
Once upon a time my worldly goods could fit into a small car. Then it was a large hatchback, albeit with plants, and blinds hanging out of the window. Soon, everything covered the floor of a small van. These days I own some furniture, so it’s a large transit. My entire life measured out in van sizes. How depressing.
Tuesday, 2 December 2008
The Horror, The Horror Of HMO's
Since moving out of Dovecot Towers I’ve been staying temporarily in a shared house, which brought to mind the reader who commented here: “…how did this girl think she could afford to live on her own".
She probably didn’t mean to sound so snotty, but seemed to think that not sharing is haughty, wasteful and proud. I deeply resent the notion that anybody under twenty-five, indeed everybody, should be compelled to live amongst strangers.
There are various ways of sharing: as a lodger, for example or when good friends rent a house together. Just to make things clear, what I am discussing here are HMO’s (Homes in multiple occupation). These are increasingly let under the rules of those crafty ‘how to be a ruthless landlord’ seminars. In extreme cases, this means accommodation in the basement, attic, in tiny rooms divided by thin stud walls, with only one bathroom for up to eight strangers (and their overnight guests) and perhaps just the one cooker and fridge.
Should low pay force anybody to live this way, even if they feel intimidated, or where they are unhappy? Must people who work in the caring professions be condemned to live forever in overcrowded houses because they aren’t suited to a lucrative career in the financial sector? And what about older tenants?
I’ve shared with some lovely people, and have friends who lived happily this way for years. I also anticipate comments about how delighted other sharers are. While I’m glad for you, I declared enough is enough after one housemate was drunkenly sick on the carpet on the landing which led to my attic room. She covered the mess with a suitcase for weeks, until I wondered what the smell was (by way of explanation, she was a heavy metal fan.)
We all have horror stories. Another house-mate habitually waltzed out of the front door at night, leaving it wide open behind her. You just reach the stage, where – what with verucca plasters abandoned by the shower and the clamour when you just want some peace after a fraught working day – you can’t take anymore. Another friend regularly knocked on a housemate’s door to check she hadn’t taken the latest in a long line of small, non-life threatening overdoses. She was clearly very troubled, but he could only take so much.
Lovers of solitude are not divas, demanding rainbows and freshly laundered fluffy white kittens to order. Freelancers with insufficient job security to guarantee a mortgage aren’t profligate, arty-farty types without a proper career; but victims of outsourcing and mandatory employment flexibility. Why should they be compelled to live like teenagers? Wanting to live alone is a modest ambition (and these days there are definitely enough flats to go round, especially outside of London.)
Although now I think about, it makes sense for families to live communally. They could pool resources, even sharing childcare and household duties, like on a kibbutz. Imagine the money they’d save by cooking together in a canteen. What a brilliant idea; let’s billet unacquainted families together in one house.
Admittedly, there’s the lack of privacy as everybody sees your post in the morning; you know - hospital appointments etc. And you might not enjoy sharing a lounge with other families, voting on what TV shows to watch etc, stumbling over washing left to dry in the hall, having your food stolen, hearing private phone-calls, organising a rota for the bathroom (with hot water if you’re lucky) the daily challenge of other residents’ somewhat cavalier regard for hygiene, the screeching personal melodramas, petty vendettas and biological warfare in the sink, all set against the backdrop of a toilet which doesn’t flush properly.
You mean, you don’t like the sound of that? Well, guess what? Neither do I.
She probably didn’t mean to sound so snotty, but seemed to think that not sharing is haughty, wasteful and proud. I deeply resent the notion that anybody under twenty-five, indeed everybody, should be compelled to live amongst strangers.
There are various ways of sharing: as a lodger, for example or when good friends rent a house together. Just to make things clear, what I am discussing here are HMO’s (Homes in multiple occupation). These are increasingly let under the rules of those crafty ‘how to be a ruthless landlord’ seminars. In extreme cases, this means accommodation in the basement, attic, in tiny rooms divided by thin stud walls, with only one bathroom for up to eight strangers (and their overnight guests) and perhaps just the one cooker and fridge.
Should low pay force anybody to live this way, even if they feel intimidated, or where they are unhappy? Must people who work in the caring professions be condemned to live forever in overcrowded houses because they aren’t suited to a lucrative career in the financial sector? And what about older tenants?
I’ve shared with some lovely people, and have friends who lived happily this way for years. I also anticipate comments about how delighted other sharers are. While I’m glad for you, I declared enough is enough after one housemate was drunkenly sick on the carpet on the landing which led to my attic room. She covered the mess with a suitcase for weeks, until I wondered what the smell was (by way of explanation, she was a heavy metal fan.)
We all have horror stories. Another house-mate habitually waltzed out of the front door at night, leaving it wide open behind her. You just reach the stage, where – what with verucca plasters abandoned by the shower and the clamour when you just want some peace after a fraught working day – you can’t take anymore. Another friend regularly knocked on a housemate’s door to check she hadn’t taken the latest in a long line of small, non-life threatening overdoses. She was clearly very troubled, but he could only take so much.
Lovers of solitude are not divas, demanding rainbows and freshly laundered fluffy white kittens to order. Freelancers with insufficient job security to guarantee a mortgage aren’t profligate, arty-farty types without a proper career; but victims of outsourcing and mandatory employment flexibility. Why should they be compelled to live like teenagers? Wanting to live alone is a modest ambition (and these days there are definitely enough flats to go round, especially outside of London.)
Although now I think about, it makes sense for families to live communally. They could pool resources, even sharing childcare and household duties, like on a kibbutz. Imagine the money they’d save by cooking together in a canteen. What a brilliant idea; let’s billet unacquainted families together in one house.
Admittedly, there’s the lack of privacy as everybody sees your post in the morning; you know - hospital appointments etc. And you might not enjoy sharing a lounge with other families, voting on what TV shows to watch etc, stumbling over washing left to dry in the hall, having your food stolen, hearing private phone-calls, organising a rota for the bathroom (with hot water if you’re lucky) the daily challenge of other residents’ somewhat cavalier regard for hygiene, the screeching personal melodramas, petty vendettas and biological warfare in the sink, all set against the backdrop of a toilet which doesn’t flush properly.
You mean, you don’t like the sound of that? Well, guess what? Neither do I.
Tuesday, 25 November 2008
I Dreamed I Dwelt in Dovecot Towers
To mangle and conflate two separate curses: “When the fates wish to punish writers, they grant us interesting times to live in and write about.”
Before I moved to Dovecot Towers, I was largely ignorant about both the enigmatic world of urban newbuild flats and the harrowing effect of mass buy-to-let. Like many others, I had even walked by Dovecots blithely believing them to be comfortable, even vaguely glamorous, upmarket apartments. Now I know better.
The very first weekend I lived there, I heard a truly horrific domestic assault in one of the flats below. I was the only resident to call the police, who had trouble locating the building. There was plenty more to come.
Many memories will haunt me forever. Davey’s death is the worst thing I’ve ever seen anywhere, and afterwards I found it very hard to live here. I hope Sarah escapes the horror of that night, that she finds peace of mind and happiness in the future. Imagine how she’ll feel if she sees Dovecot Towers in the distance through the window of a speeding train, or is inadvertently driven past. The flowers on Davey’s shrine were never stolen (somebody tidied the wilting memorial and left fresh blooms.) New tenants moved in to the flat last week. I wonder if they know what happened there. I hope nobody tells them.
Elsewhere, the ‘murder’ mystery is still unsolved, but police eventually described the flat as containing a crime scene with forensic evidence but no body. They suspect (or rather, have concluded) that something terrible happened. Meanwhile the incident file on Dovecot Towers gets bigger every day.
I always thought that when I left, I’d have my revenge on Dovecot Towers (especially its more irksome inhabitants.) Thumping Techno Boy beat me to the door. Many nights were spent watching my breakables and crystal dancing to the sonic impact of his tunage. I planned to visit at 5am, and press on his doorbell to wish him a cheery goodbye. I also wanted to install a powerful sound-system underneath Georgie the posh 24 Hour Party Girl, and serenade her with recordings of bagpipes or wolves howling for an entire weekend. Unfortunately she left before I did.
Sadly, in the previous few weeks, several friendly tenants moved in, people who would chat and pass the time of day. One couple even had a baby (this might seem strange, but hearing the baby crying was a welcome taste of humanity.) Then there was Yuri and Lev, the affable, upbeat Eastern Europeans who skilfully negotiated their rent down with their landlord when he tried to increase it, as living here was so, well, challenging.
As for my landlord, William, well he’s incommunicado, and never gave me a reference, never even told me when or whether the bailiffs were due. Mending my credit rating and retrieving the money stolen from my bank account is the next task in hand. Something as simple as a block of flats has devastated us both.
Moving out was easy. I was already packed, and didn’t have the flat professionally cleaned (it’s being repossessed; the bank can pay.) Despite my best efforts, the bathroom still looked filthy as mould was rapidly colonizing the walls. Tiles were put up from top to bottom, instead of the usual (i.e. non-cowboy) practice, from bottom to top. Consequently the tiling crumbled and collapsed, providing a handy gap for damp and spores. The day before I left, every light bulb in the kitchen/diner/lounge died in unison, which could have been a sign. I turned off my music, and listened to the building for one last time. Silence. Now there’s a first.
I sincerely hope the management company from hell keep their promises. They assured me there would be improvements, and I hope they keep the occupants of Dovecot Towers happy and safe, a hope which diminishes with every passing day.
The night before I moved out, the people staying below me (in a hotel apartment) sang rugby songs until 5am. I closed the door and drove away, without looking back. I dreamed I dwelt in Dovecot Towers. It was a nightmare.
Before I moved to Dovecot Towers, I was largely ignorant about both the enigmatic world of urban newbuild flats and the harrowing effect of mass buy-to-let. Like many others, I had even walked by Dovecots blithely believing them to be comfortable, even vaguely glamorous, upmarket apartments. Now I know better.
The very first weekend I lived there, I heard a truly horrific domestic assault in one of the flats below. I was the only resident to call the police, who had trouble locating the building. There was plenty more to come.
Many memories will haunt me forever. Davey’s death is the worst thing I’ve ever seen anywhere, and afterwards I found it very hard to live here. I hope Sarah escapes the horror of that night, that she finds peace of mind and happiness in the future. Imagine how she’ll feel if she sees Dovecot Towers in the distance through the window of a speeding train, or is inadvertently driven past. The flowers on Davey’s shrine were never stolen (somebody tidied the wilting memorial and left fresh blooms.) New tenants moved in to the flat last week. I wonder if they know what happened there. I hope nobody tells them.
Elsewhere, the ‘murder’ mystery is still unsolved, but police eventually described the flat as containing a crime scene with forensic evidence but no body. They suspect (or rather, have concluded) that something terrible happened. Meanwhile the incident file on Dovecot Towers gets bigger every day.
I always thought that when I left, I’d have my revenge on Dovecot Towers (especially its more irksome inhabitants.) Thumping Techno Boy beat me to the door. Many nights were spent watching my breakables and crystal dancing to the sonic impact of his tunage. I planned to visit at 5am, and press on his doorbell to wish him a cheery goodbye. I also wanted to install a powerful sound-system underneath Georgie the posh 24 Hour Party Girl, and serenade her with recordings of bagpipes or wolves howling for an entire weekend. Unfortunately she left before I did.
Sadly, in the previous few weeks, several friendly tenants moved in, people who would chat and pass the time of day. One couple even had a baby (this might seem strange, but hearing the baby crying was a welcome taste of humanity.) Then there was Yuri and Lev, the affable, upbeat Eastern Europeans who skilfully negotiated their rent down with their landlord when he tried to increase it, as living here was so, well, challenging.
As for my landlord, William, well he’s incommunicado, and never gave me a reference, never even told me when or whether the bailiffs were due. Mending my credit rating and retrieving the money stolen from my bank account is the next task in hand. Something as simple as a block of flats has devastated us both.
Moving out was easy. I was already packed, and didn’t have the flat professionally cleaned (it’s being repossessed; the bank can pay.) Despite my best efforts, the bathroom still looked filthy as mould was rapidly colonizing the walls. Tiles were put up from top to bottom, instead of the usual (i.e. non-cowboy) practice, from bottom to top. Consequently the tiling crumbled and collapsed, providing a handy gap for damp and spores. The day before I left, every light bulb in the kitchen/diner/lounge died in unison, which could have been a sign. I turned off my music, and listened to the building for one last time. Silence. Now there’s a first.
I sincerely hope the management company from hell keep their promises. They assured me there would be improvements, and I hope they keep the occupants of Dovecot Towers happy and safe, a hope which diminishes with every passing day.
The night before I moved out, the people staying below me (in a hotel apartment) sang rugby songs until 5am. I closed the door and drove away, without looking back. I dreamed I dwelt in Dovecot Towers. It was a nightmare.
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
Smash It Up
Certain message-boards are speculating about the true identity of Dovecot Towers, which is missing the point. With generic new buildings everywhere, the actual name is irrelevant. Sorry if I sound tetchy, but I am consumed with Japan envy. I need to live in Tokyo, and I want to be Japanese.
I expect you’re wondering where that came from. Before I explain, allow me to me reiterate that in most cities, rabbit-hutch developments monopolise valuable brownfield sites. Judging from your comments and emails, the problems within these walls are endemic: wherever there are Dovecots, trouble is guaranteed, but still nobody in authority questions the wisdom of their ubiquity.
However, Dovecot Towers is unique in one respect: its design is nasty, nadir-skimming, and miserly. Between blueprint and completion, anything pleasing, comfortable or humane was summarily excised with a callous red pencil, creating the bleakest of empty shells.
Meanwhile, greedy, deluded, wannabe property tycoons were ramping up rents throughout the land. Their faith in an infinite supply of occupants able to pay over-inflated prices was short-sighted (i.e. stupid.) Landlords learned that affluent young professionals usually move as soon as possible, buying homes if they can get a mortgage.
Dovecot Towers and its clones are occupied by workers in Nulabour world, where politicians brag about wage restraint and creating a flexible, mobile and as a result, highly insecure workforce, where potential employees must demonstrate their dedication with months of unpaid work experience, and the majority of recent graduates earn below the threshold to start repaying student loans. Reality has bitten hard, and lower rents might allow more of the target demographic to live here.
Along with my neighbour, I am one of the longest established residents. We’ve both lived here for just over two years. Lev was one of the first people to move in. He stayed because he’s an overseas student; Dovecot Towers met his basic needs and in just a few months time, he’s returning home for good. Everybody’s passing through.
What’s my point, you’re wondering; I’ve said this before. It’s just that I’ve noticed a large crack running the height of one interior wall, and it runs along the same spot on every level of the entire structure. Considering the dodgy building standards hereabouts, this might be a harbinger of disaster, although I am sure the management will maintain it’s something to do with plaster shrinkage. I’m concerned that one clumsy passer-by leaning against an outside wall could send Dovecot Towers crashing down.
So here’s why I envy Japan. It’s not the seafood, the scenery, or the art. It’s their attitude to architecture. Even large expensive structures are routinely demolished for practical, aesthetic and financial reasons, once they’ve outlived fashion or a useful life. Faulty or superfluous buildings are destroyed when society, architects and occupants acknowledge that a replacement is justified.
Brits are inappropriately sentimental about any old building (even a bad one) but this is my dream. With owner-occupiers having deserted Dovecot Towers, and since buy-to-let is dead, could somebody buy it, demolish it, then start again, ensuring better, larger flats designed for humans to live happy lives? Please? This newbuild thing just isn’t working out, but an accurate Japanese wrecking-ball could make it all better.
(NB: Last night, the main door was pulled from its frame, and left lying in the corridor. That shouldn’t be possible.)
I expect you’re wondering where that came from. Before I explain, allow me to me reiterate that in most cities, rabbit-hutch developments monopolise valuable brownfield sites. Judging from your comments and emails, the problems within these walls are endemic: wherever there are Dovecots, trouble is guaranteed, but still nobody in authority questions the wisdom of their ubiquity.
However, Dovecot Towers is unique in one respect: its design is nasty, nadir-skimming, and miserly. Between blueprint and completion, anything pleasing, comfortable or humane was summarily excised with a callous red pencil, creating the bleakest of empty shells.
Meanwhile, greedy, deluded, wannabe property tycoons were ramping up rents throughout the land. Their faith in an infinite supply of occupants able to pay over-inflated prices was short-sighted (i.e. stupid.) Landlords learned that affluent young professionals usually move as soon as possible, buying homes if they can get a mortgage.
Dovecot Towers and its clones are occupied by workers in Nulabour world, where politicians brag about wage restraint and creating a flexible, mobile and as a result, highly insecure workforce, where potential employees must demonstrate their dedication with months of unpaid work experience, and the majority of recent graduates earn below the threshold to start repaying student loans. Reality has bitten hard, and lower rents might allow more of the target demographic to live here.
Along with my neighbour, I am one of the longest established residents. We’ve both lived here for just over two years. Lev was one of the first people to move in. He stayed because he’s an overseas student; Dovecot Towers met his basic needs and in just a few months time, he’s returning home for good. Everybody’s passing through.
What’s my point, you’re wondering; I’ve said this before. It’s just that I’ve noticed a large crack running the height of one interior wall, and it runs along the same spot on every level of the entire structure. Considering the dodgy building standards hereabouts, this might be a harbinger of disaster, although I am sure the management will maintain it’s something to do with plaster shrinkage. I’m concerned that one clumsy passer-by leaning against an outside wall could send Dovecot Towers crashing down.
So here’s why I envy Japan. It’s not the seafood, the scenery, or the art. It’s their attitude to architecture. Even large expensive structures are routinely demolished for practical, aesthetic and financial reasons, once they’ve outlived fashion or a useful life. Faulty or superfluous buildings are destroyed when society, architects and occupants acknowledge that a replacement is justified.
Brits are inappropriately sentimental about any old building (even a bad one) but this is my dream. With owner-occupiers having deserted Dovecot Towers, and since buy-to-let is dead, could somebody buy it, demolish it, then start again, ensuring better, larger flats designed for humans to live happy lives? Please? This newbuild thing just isn’t working out, but an accurate Japanese wrecking-ball could make it all better.
(NB: Last night, the main door was pulled from its frame, and left lying in the corridor. That shouldn’t be possible.)
Tuesday, 11 November 2008
Please Try Not To Be Stupid
Some people are so astonishingly, blisteringly, face-meltingly stupid, they make me want to cut off my own head with a blunt penknife, as maybe that would hurt less than reading the cretinous comments they make when rounding up their three remaining brain cells (or mustering the one charged with rational thought) to understand the challenge caused by newbuilds.
My personal favourite came recently from somebody I refuse to dignify by naming. This particular lump of wood with porridge swirling in his cranium actually, genuinely, really, said: “…if the flat’s so bad, why did you move in?”
It’s such a stupid thing to say, that seeing it again made my finger nails ache. Really; it’s up there with “Is Africa a country?”
I’m trying to remain calm. I’m counting to ten, I’m stretched like an elastic band in a yoga pose conducive to tolerance and I’m taking all the tablets. Here it goes; here’s my answer.
Dovecot Towers was brand new. I was the flat’s first accursed occupant. It should have been perfect. I was innocent then, and full of joy. Why the hell would it have occurred to me to interrupt the dismissive, contemptuous, abrupt and intermittently oleaginous letting-agent to ask if the building is falling down? Or is the management company utterly inept? And is design so shamefully impractical and standards of construction so abysmal that thieves force the door and enter at will?
Prospective home-owners have the right to ask vendors about nuisance neighbours, and are permitted, indeed obliged, to have the building surveyed for major structural faults, and problems like damp. Prospective tenants, however, lack the opportunity, the money and (disgracefully) are denied the legal entitlement to ensure that property they pay to live in reaches even minimum standards in sound-proofing or building quality before signing a contract.
Having said that, I learned the hard way about the importance of googling an address to check it’s not listed under the ‘young and funky, party-no-problem’ section on some dubious hotel-apartment agency website, which would never have occurred to me before. I also know to check the post-room is sufficiently secure, but, hey - guess what? All post rooms are virtually the same, so pre-emptive research is pointless. As I wrote recently, brave tenants who ask about the ratio of owner-occupiers during their hasty ‘viewing’ will be misled or lied to.
Should I demand to know if my seemingly sturdy front door is actually so flimsy that my gran could kick it down? Or (you’ll love this: my latest best discovery) were the locks fitted the wrong way round? Perhaps I should dispatch the agent upstairs to piss in the en-suite bathroom, to see if I can hear?
I can’t. I want to. I wish I could; I wish I did. But I can’t.
(NB: The lift has been broken for weeks now. The new caretaker told me that ‘someone’ dismantled the machinery and piled vital components quite neatly on the steps outside. Should I have predicted that as well?)
My personal favourite came recently from somebody I refuse to dignify by naming. This particular lump of wood with porridge swirling in his cranium actually, genuinely, really, said: “…if the flat’s so bad, why did you move in?”
It’s such a stupid thing to say, that seeing it again made my finger nails ache. Really; it’s up there with “Is Africa a country?”
I’m trying to remain calm. I’m counting to ten, I’m stretched like an elastic band in a yoga pose conducive to tolerance and I’m taking all the tablets. Here it goes; here’s my answer.
Dovecot Towers was brand new. I was the flat’s first accursed occupant. It should have been perfect. I was innocent then, and full of joy. Why the hell would it have occurred to me to interrupt the dismissive, contemptuous, abrupt and intermittently oleaginous letting-agent to ask if the building is falling down? Or is the management company utterly inept? And is design so shamefully impractical and standards of construction so abysmal that thieves force the door and enter at will?
Prospective home-owners have the right to ask vendors about nuisance neighbours, and are permitted, indeed obliged, to have the building surveyed for major structural faults, and problems like damp. Prospective tenants, however, lack the opportunity, the money and (disgracefully) are denied the legal entitlement to ensure that property they pay to live in reaches even minimum standards in sound-proofing or building quality before signing a contract.
Having said that, I learned the hard way about the importance of googling an address to check it’s not listed under the ‘young and funky, party-no-problem’ section on some dubious hotel-apartment agency website, which would never have occurred to me before. I also know to check the post-room is sufficiently secure, but, hey - guess what? All post rooms are virtually the same, so pre-emptive research is pointless. As I wrote recently, brave tenants who ask about the ratio of owner-occupiers during their hasty ‘viewing’ will be misled or lied to.
Should I demand to know if my seemingly sturdy front door is actually so flimsy that my gran could kick it down? Or (you’ll love this: my latest best discovery) were the locks fitted the wrong way round? Perhaps I should dispatch the agent upstairs to piss in the en-suite bathroom, to see if I can hear?
I can’t. I want to. I wish I could; I wish I did. But I can’t.
(NB: The lift has been broken for weeks now. The new caretaker told me that ‘someone’ dismantled the machinery and piled vital components quite neatly on the steps outside. Should I have predicted that as well?)
Tuesday, 4 November 2008
With Reference To Landlords
Despite his promise, ‘William’ still hasn’t given me that reference, which set me wondering: how come there’s no way for tenants to appraise our landlords when we leave? There are after all plenty of ‘rogue tenant’ sites and databases (some of them cheeky enough to link with this blog.)
Before taking a new flat I must bare my soul, providing financial guarantees, actual guarantors, references, deposits and one of my kidneys to keep in the freezer in case I do a runner. But things being as they are and times having a’ changed, I demand similar documents and assurances from future landlords. After all, we need to formally evaluate their financial stability in case they forfeit the property i.e. our home.
I was once badly let down by a landlord. He agreed to let me a flat but changed his mind the night before I was due to move, and so, to even things out, I will need a non-returnable holding fee while deciding whether or not to formally take up residency.
I’d also like a bank reference confirming owners are financially secure, that my rent will cover the mortgage, or written proof that they earn enough to make up the shortfall themselves. Oh – and they can pay for their own credit check, same as me. I also require, randomly, for my own entertainment, a character reference from “…a responsible, professional person.”
The worst of all property overlords are creepy, lazy, strange, abusive, bullying, elusive and perversely, disturbingly over-attentive. Or intrusive: P’s landlord let himself in while P was in bed with his wife (P’s own wife, not the landlord’s.) This landed charmer intended showing some prospective replacement tenants around P’s bedroom, suggesting jauntily: “…just pull the covers up over yourselves.”
Indeed. You’re absolutely right. The correct response ends in -off.
Tenants are especially vulnerable when landlords keep a key. A small minority of landlords are openly and unrepentantly malicious. They delight in making renters feel powerless before exploiting them.
The man who moved into the spare room and terrorised his blameless occupants intending to scare them out is the worst example I’ve encountered hereabouts, although elsewhere a friend awoke to discover that her leering landlord had occupied the room next to hers. Like a coiled spring, she was gone (he also kept her deposit.) Can we have their door key please, to use if they misbehave?
My own particular landlord-from-hell deserves more than bad references or financial penalties. He should be frog-marched through town with someone hollering: “Unclean!” then publicly tattooed on the forehead with ‘W’ for weirdo, and afterwards shunned forevermore.
I was living in a large, shared house. While home alone, I heard someone moving around from room to room; I was stranded upstairs and petrified. With the intruder approaching, I hid in the cupboard, peering through a crack in the door.
Astonishingly, my landlord and not a burglar wandered in. Furtively, he glanced around, before pulling back the bedcovers to ‘inspect’ my sheets.
And before you ask: yes, that really happened.
Before taking a new flat I must bare my soul, providing financial guarantees, actual guarantors, references, deposits and one of my kidneys to keep in the freezer in case I do a runner. But things being as they are and times having a’ changed, I demand similar documents and assurances from future landlords. After all, we need to formally evaluate their financial stability in case they forfeit the property i.e. our home.
I was once badly let down by a landlord. He agreed to let me a flat but changed his mind the night before I was due to move, and so, to even things out, I will need a non-returnable holding fee while deciding whether or not to formally take up residency.
I’d also like a bank reference confirming owners are financially secure, that my rent will cover the mortgage, or written proof that they earn enough to make up the shortfall themselves. Oh – and they can pay for their own credit check, same as me. I also require, randomly, for my own entertainment, a character reference from “…a responsible, professional person.”
The worst of all property overlords are creepy, lazy, strange, abusive, bullying, elusive and perversely, disturbingly over-attentive. Or intrusive: P’s landlord let himself in while P was in bed with his wife (P’s own wife, not the landlord’s.) This landed charmer intended showing some prospective replacement tenants around P’s bedroom, suggesting jauntily: “…just pull the covers up over yourselves.”
Indeed. You’re absolutely right. The correct response ends in -off.
Tenants are especially vulnerable when landlords keep a key. A small minority of landlords are openly and unrepentantly malicious. They delight in making renters feel powerless before exploiting them.
The man who moved into the spare room and terrorised his blameless occupants intending to scare them out is the worst example I’ve encountered hereabouts, although elsewhere a friend awoke to discover that her leering landlord had occupied the room next to hers. Like a coiled spring, she was gone (he also kept her deposit.) Can we have their door key please, to use if they misbehave?
My own particular landlord-from-hell deserves more than bad references or financial penalties. He should be frog-marched through town with someone hollering: “Unclean!” then publicly tattooed on the forehead with ‘W’ for weirdo, and afterwards shunned forevermore.
I was living in a large, shared house. While home alone, I heard someone moving around from room to room; I was stranded upstairs and petrified. With the intruder approaching, I hid in the cupboard, peering through a crack in the door.
Astonishingly, my landlord and not a burglar wandered in. Furtively, he glanced around, before pulling back the bedcovers to ‘inspect’ my sheets.
And before you ask: yes, that really happened.
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