Hello! I’ve been away for a while, but now I’m back. My first post in ages is related to something you may not be aware of: I can see you! Well, not literally, but I have a facility on my blog which tells me how many of you are reading (a heart gladdening amount, I’m always pleased to find.)
I also know the words you key into google, and how surprised you must be to find a site about rented property. And so, here are a few key phrases along with my accompanying thoughts.
I’m a student in halls and I can smell gas.
I could often smell gas when I lived in halls. An accumulated build-up of methane could actually be quite dangerous, so please alert the appropriate authorities.
Does my landlord have a legal right to open my underwear draw.
No he doesn’t. Run away!
Leaving UK because of letting agencies.
Whilst I agree that Letting Agents are actually evil, I still think that’s a little bit extreme. Couldn’t we just get together and enact legislation that will curb their evil excesses. Or we could relocate and live somewhere sunny with a beach. Tricky…
Letting Agents are scum
Obviously. NB see above.
Architects think everyone wants to live in small homes.
No – that’s the developers.
Ah dunn seen ma naybor sunbatin nood.
You seem shocked, but it depends: if this was through a hole in your fence and you were using a telescope – shame on you! Otherwise – enjoy… (NB this gentlemen was in Alabama…)
Living in the UK sucks massively.
Hmm…sometimes, it’s true. But the NHS, the warm friendly people, the culture, the food… Oh come on, is it really worse than Belgium, where you are from?
Readers we now enter a whole new world of ‘gentlemen’s special interest,’ where men (oh come on, they are obviously blokes…) google a phrase, and consequently land on me, in a manner of speaking And here are the phrases:
Girls in rubber gloves, naked ladies in rubber gloves, and (this is special…) ‘Classy naked girls pissing and wanking in rubber gloves..’ (I especially love that ‘classy.’) Best thing about this? Several found me using those words and have since become loyal readers. So imagine then…getting ready for a night of strenuous and devoted self-love, until: “…mmmm…hang on a minute… You know what: the private rental sector in the UK is an absolute scandal!’ Thanks for reading lads - join our struggle (and find a real girlfriend.)
Glasgow mistress custard pies.
I am reliably informed that the ladies concerned earn extra points (…or money) for every ‘bullseye.’
As for my newest loyal reader, the charming ‘human’ who found me by googling ‘Top ten ways to beat up my gay flatmate?’ Know this: I can’t force you repent, or even stop you reading. However I can’t help but feel you are polluting my blog just by looking at it. Go away – you do not belong here!
NB: Thanks for those of you who nominated me for this:
http://www.primelocationblog.com/uk/primelocation-com-blog-awards-and-the-nominees-are
The blog with the most votes wins Habitat vouchers and I need a new duvet. Only saying…
Wednesday, 27 January 2010
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Dovecots In Dubai
The other day, I spent some time chatting with an architect from Dubai, who spoke about his home.
I was picturing otherworldly fake islands in the sun, luxurious super-tower residential blocks, and open spaces decorated with beautiful public art all with a sea view. Then he told me some shocking news: they have dovecots there as well.
I have always imagined that the race for rabbit hutches was a British obsession. I remember all those meagre niches where people lived like gulls on a cliff face, to be counted in hundreds of thousands, every bird, every nest looking just the same. Urban dovecots are increasingly discredited, as they do not sell, people hate them, and at the bottom end of the market, are such a bad investment that you might just as well stand on the balcony and shower money down on the people below as expect to make a profit.
And guess what: everybody hates them in Dubai. Nobody bought them, nobody wanted to rent them, and again, the builders had a strange idea of their target market (tiny stupid people as they are the only creatures who don’t need space to live, and were silly enough to pay up?) Then, after a financial trauma so terrible it was like staring death in the face, the developers realised: if people don’t like them – let’s ask them what they actually want. Let’s build flats people actually enjoy living in!
And here’s what residents were found to favour: what are called furniture walls – i.e. walls or partitions where you rest a sofa or put up a picture or two. Separate kitchens, all achieved by wooden partitions, so safety if allowed. The toilet does not open out onto the dining area, but out into a hallway. There should be storage (any of this sound familiar?)
This is just so obvious they might as have said: where does the sun rise? People buy large homes if they can afford it, but the kind of people renting in Dubai, according to my source, are single (or couples with no children) who still like a separate kitchen.
My informant also told me about some earlier mistakes: like the development with a row of three blocks allowing for space, and views and a sense of freedom (until the greedy developers filled in the gaps with yet more apartment blocks, and removed any sense of openness and liberation.)
Developers everywhere should read their red bank statements, count their empty properties, and pacify those angry buy-to-let landlords, furious at being promised a gold-standard money maker (but lumbered instead with a catastrophic ruin waiting to happen.) They should look and listen to all these things and then they ask people, i.e. mostly tenants how they actually want to live, not just put their fingers in their ears and whistle so as to drown out disgruntled investors and miserable tenants. They need to build some nice flats. Honestly, is it really that hard?
In Dubai, they were planning to do exactly that, but they left it too late, and look what’s happening there.
I was picturing otherworldly fake islands in the sun, luxurious super-tower residential blocks, and open spaces decorated with beautiful public art all with a sea view. Then he told me some shocking news: they have dovecots there as well.
I have always imagined that the race for rabbit hutches was a British obsession. I remember all those meagre niches where people lived like gulls on a cliff face, to be counted in hundreds of thousands, every bird, every nest looking just the same. Urban dovecots are increasingly discredited, as they do not sell, people hate them, and at the bottom end of the market, are such a bad investment that you might just as well stand on the balcony and shower money down on the people below as expect to make a profit.
And guess what: everybody hates them in Dubai. Nobody bought them, nobody wanted to rent them, and again, the builders had a strange idea of their target market (tiny stupid people as they are the only creatures who don’t need space to live, and were silly enough to pay up?) Then, after a financial trauma so terrible it was like staring death in the face, the developers realised: if people don’t like them – let’s ask them what they actually want. Let’s build flats people actually enjoy living in!
And here’s what residents were found to favour: what are called furniture walls – i.e. walls or partitions where you rest a sofa or put up a picture or two. Separate kitchens, all achieved by wooden partitions, so safety if allowed. The toilet does not open out onto the dining area, but out into a hallway. There should be storage (any of this sound familiar?)
This is just so obvious they might as have said: where does the sun rise? People buy large homes if they can afford it, but the kind of people renting in Dubai, according to my source, are single (or couples with no children) who still like a separate kitchen.
My informant also told me about some earlier mistakes: like the development with a row of three blocks allowing for space, and views and a sense of freedom (until the greedy developers filled in the gaps with yet more apartment blocks, and removed any sense of openness and liberation.)
Developers everywhere should read their red bank statements, count their empty properties, and pacify those angry buy-to-let landlords, furious at being promised a gold-standard money maker (but lumbered instead with a catastrophic ruin waiting to happen.) They should look and listen to all these things and then they ask people, i.e. mostly tenants how they actually want to live, not just put their fingers in their ears and whistle so as to drown out disgruntled investors and miserable tenants. They need to build some nice flats. Honestly, is it really that hard?
In Dubai, they were planning to do exactly that, but they left it too late, and look what’s happening there.
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
The Strange Case Of The Missing Architect
I am rarely lost for words; you might even describe me as chatty (well, that’s the polite way of putting it) but the other day, I discovered something that left me absolutely speechless.
I’ve always wondered just who designs those nasty little orange euroboxes like my former home of Dovecot Towers which are disfiguring cities everywhere. Whoever they are, they express their hatred of humanity by designing homes that are less about domestic bliss and more about smiting people with vengeance. I imagine their wizened yellow faces contorted with malice, manically intoning their evil plans and cackling until dawn as they draw up the blueprints, satisfied at the huge amount of misery they inflict upon their enemies.
Who else could be held responsible? I know that developers pay this evil piper to call their tune, but seriously – what were the architects thinking when they designed those meagre little box flats? Does nobody ever reject their demonic plans and drag them out by the scruff of the neck, slapping them as they shout: “You’ve been a very naughty architect!”
In fact truth is worse than that. The architect is invisible and powerless. The architect is absent. You see, there is no architect. Buildings urban twat-flats are designed by anybody who fancies a try.
The excellent blog Bad British Architecture (see links) has coined an excellent phrase, which always makes me laugh: ‘developer vernacular,’ that is, buildings styled and envisaged by developers, who favour cost-saving uniform grey metal fittings and orange brick infill stuck onto a concrete box.
Exactly who is responsible, then? Anybody who fancies giving it a go, basically: the work experience girl, some bloke who was wandering by, the cleaner, the man who delivers the organic veg box, Jeffrey from Rainbow, and (on more than one occasion) a troupe of semi-trained gibbons.
Here’s what happens: they draw a childlike box, with no fripperies, no extras, no fancy accoutrements like strong doors, insulated walls, space, or cupboards. They squeeze everything into their tiny little closet and afterwards put a window-box outside and call it a balcony.
Seriously though – can you imagine the same happening anywhere else, where rank amateurs intent on torturing humanity are given free rein to meddle in what should be a skilled profession and thereby ruin innocent lives? (oh right – apart from letting agents.)
Please tell me I’ve been misinformed: please tell me there’s a law stating that houses must be planned with great skill by people specially trained to this, allowing for safety, comfort and even beauty (shouldn’t our homes be beautiful – if only for the sake of the poor blighters standing outside dumbstruck with horror or pointing and laughing.)
But apparently, that’s the way it is. The plans are drawn up with a stubby crayon, and if we’re lucky, they’re in a straight line and everything! Please tell me that’s not true.
Although thinking about it – why be so churlish? Why not embrace this notion of can-do. Since you’re asking, I’ve always fancied trying a spot of brain surgery, and I’ve also got this great fantastic idea for a nuclear power station. Somebody hire me please – after all, what harm could I possibly do?
I’ve always wondered just who designs those nasty little orange euroboxes like my former home of Dovecot Towers which are disfiguring cities everywhere. Whoever they are, they express their hatred of humanity by designing homes that are less about domestic bliss and more about smiting people with vengeance. I imagine their wizened yellow faces contorted with malice, manically intoning their evil plans and cackling until dawn as they draw up the blueprints, satisfied at the huge amount of misery they inflict upon their enemies.
Who else could be held responsible? I know that developers pay this evil piper to call their tune, but seriously – what were the architects thinking when they designed those meagre little box flats? Does nobody ever reject their demonic plans and drag them out by the scruff of the neck, slapping them as they shout: “You’ve been a very naughty architect!”
In fact truth is worse than that. The architect is invisible and powerless. The architect is absent. You see, there is no architect. Buildings urban twat-flats are designed by anybody who fancies a try.
The excellent blog Bad British Architecture (see links) has coined an excellent phrase, which always makes me laugh: ‘developer vernacular,’ that is, buildings styled and envisaged by developers, who favour cost-saving uniform grey metal fittings and orange brick infill stuck onto a concrete box.
Exactly who is responsible, then? Anybody who fancies giving it a go, basically: the work experience girl, some bloke who was wandering by, the cleaner, the man who delivers the organic veg box, Jeffrey from Rainbow, and (on more than one occasion) a troupe of semi-trained gibbons.
Here’s what happens: they draw a childlike box, with no fripperies, no extras, no fancy accoutrements like strong doors, insulated walls, space, or cupboards. They squeeze everything into their tiny little closet and afterwards put a window-box outside and call it a balcony.
Seriously though – can you imagine the same happening anywhere else, where rank amateurs intent on torturing humanity are given free rein to meddle in what should be a skilled profession and thereby ruin innocent lives? (oh right – apart from letting agents.)
Please tell me I’ve been misinformed: please tell me there’s a law stating that houses must be planned with great skill by people specially trained to this, allowing for safety, comfort and even beauty (shouldn’t our homes be beautiful – if only for the sake of the poor blighters standing outside dumbstruck with horror or pointing and laughing.)
But apparently, that’s the way it is. The plans are drawn up with a stubby crayon, and if we’re lucky, they’re in a straight line and everything! Please tell me that’s not true.
Although thinking about it – why be so churlish? Why not embrace this notion of can-do. Since you’re asking, I’ve always fancied trying a spot of brain surgery, and I’ve also got this great fantastic idea for a nuclear power station. Somebody hire me please – after all, what harm could I possibly do?
Monday, 9 November 2009
Your Name's Not Down - You're Not Coming In
Last week, I emailed my Letting Agents stating firmly but politely that they mustn’t come round if I was out. They had (if you recall) left a hand delivered letter on the floor in the communal hallway giving 24 hours notice of a summary inspection.
So there I was bubbling with righteous anger, having cancelled appointments and set aside waiting time (the LA’s allowed themselves a whole day, not even specifying morning or afternoon).
I did some work, typing very fast (I do that when I’m angry) and was speaking to myself in a high-pitched angry voice when, at about ten am, I received an email: they weren’t coming round after all.
How thoughtful of them to them let me know. Were they aware I had complained about my house-keys being passed around like free newspapers? “The office manager is aware of it,” apparently, but not so aware as to apologise.
I reminded them that despite being furnished, there is no shelving or cabinets in the bathroom, so everything is piled up on the floor: not nice, not really hygienic, and so easy to remedy.
But here’s the trap: if I plough ahead, I could be hammered for repair fees. I pointed this out when the LA visited last time (I just the leave the door on the latch for them now) when their response was: “You could buy something yourself.”
I am reasonable. I bought my own towel rack, and I have a clothes rail, since for many landlords, ‘furnished’ is a vague and whimsical term. But drilling into a wall was not the way forward, as I’d lose my deposit (yes, I think I think I’d get it back after a court case, but even so…)
I have as yet received no reply to any of my queries.
So here then, is a thought. Let’s say, hypothetically, that a friend owns several large houses. And let’s say that my hypothetical friend, knowing that I was flat-hunting, had asked me to report on Letting Agents, in a mystery shopper capacity: you know, tell him how they treated me so could select a firm to manage his property portfolio. Let’s say that he wanted them to be fair to tenants, having (hypothetically of course) been a private tenant for years himself. Not wanting to work with a company who abused, disdained and trampled on the rights of residents, he wanted nice people, fair people, to oversee his houses.
And let’s just imagine that I’ve done just that, ensuring that the Office Where The Nasty People Are didn’t get the gig.
It’s sort of a motto of mine: never shaft people unless you’re willing to accept the consequences. Not for one minute do the spiny sharks ruling my world imagine that I have any standing in the world, or that I am willing to stand up for my rights (they believe that renters, like slugs may be eradicated with impunity.)
Be careful who you pick on - very careful. You never know who can bite hardest.
So there I was bubbling with righteous anger, having cancelled appointments and set aside waiting time (the LA’s allowed themselves a whole day, not even specifying morning or afternoon).
I did some work, typing very fast (I do that when I’m angry) and was speaking to myself in a high-pitched angry voice when, at about ten am, I received an email: they weren’t coming round after all.
How thoughtful of them to them let me know. Were they aware I had complained about my house-keys being passed around like free newspapers? “The office manager is aware of it,” apparently, but not so aware as to apologise.
I reminded them that despite being furnished, there is no shelving or cabinets in the bathroom, so everything is piled up on the floor: not nice, not really hygienic, and so easy to remedy.
But here’s the trap: if I plough ahead, I could be hammered for repair fees. I pointed this out when the LA visited last time (I just the leave the door on the latch for them now) when their response was: “You could buy something yourself.”
I am reasonable. I bought my own towel rack, and I have a clothes rail, since for many landlords, ‘furnished’ is a vague and whimsical term. But drilling into a wall was not the way forward, as I’d lose my deposit (yes, I think I think I’d get it back after a court case, but even so…)
I have as yet received no reply to any of my queries.
So here then, is a thought. Let’s say, hypothetically, that a friend owns several large houses. And let’s say that my hypothetical friend, knowing that I was flat-hunting, had asked me to report on Letting Agents, in a mystery shopper capacity: you know, tell him how they treated me so could select a firm to manage his property portfolio. Let’s say that he wanted them to be fair to tenants, having (hypothetically of course) been a private tenant for years himself. Not wanting to work with a company who abused, disdained and trampled on the rights of residents, he wanted nice people, fair people, to oversee his houses.
And let’s just imagine that I’ve done just that, ensuring that the Office Where The Nasty People Are didn’t get the gig.
It’s sort of a motto of mine: never shaft people unless you’re willing to accept the consequences. Not for one minute do the spiny sharks ruling my world imagine that I have any standing in the world, or that I am willing to stand up for my rights (they believe that renters, like slugs may be eradicated with impunity.)
Be careful who you pick on - very careful. You never know who can bite hardest.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Come Round Anytime!
Last Thursday, whilst sucking at an oxygen tank, sick with altitude fever after traipsing up the many flights of stairs, I realised the rubbish needed taking down. Cursing at the journey and the rain, I noticed a hand-delivered letter soggy and discarded on the floor. It was addressed to me, and had apparently been left on a first floor ledge but had been moved or made its own way down.
And guess what’s inside? A cheery letter from my letting agent. Apparently, they’re inspecting my flat between 9am and 5 pm next week. How thoughtful of them to let me know.
The letter says: “It is not necessary for you to be present.”
Erm…actually people, yes it is, since you mention it. I have no intention of allowing strangers free-rein to gambol in my lounge, poking their sticky beaks into my affairs. And they intend on doing this every three-four months “…on behalf of the landlord.”
Whatever next: summoning tenants with a whistle like the Von Trapp children, compelling us to wear uniforms and stand by our beds military fashion while saluting?
To be honest, it’s like Piccadilly Circus in here. A fortnight ago, my flat required a small repair, and I was expecting the contractor to arrange a convenient time. When I called, he said: “But I’ve already been to your house; the agency gave me the keys and I was round last Saturday.”
What?
At least he had the grace to be embarrassed at having marched uninvited in my home, and was astonished that I hadn’t been informed. In fact, he was mortified, but not as horrified as I am. Furious doesn’t cover it, and words are inadequate. The letting agent are so keen to protect themselves and yet stomp over my rights, crushing my privacy and legal entitlement to peaceful enjoyment at every turn.
God, I was angry. The cheek of it: I have no idea who has the key to my home, how many keys exist, and (this is the terrifying part) how many copies have been made. I will allow reasonable access in an emergency, but surely frequent, random spot-checks is against the spirit of the law (I might add that an agency employee had already called two weeks ago so they know I’m not wrecking the place.)
I wonder if I’m allowed to change the locks (which I really want to do, considering the amount of unauthorised visitors who’ve had my door key in their grubby little mitts). Also, can the letting agents insist that the law is on their side?
It’s so demeaning, and I feel powerless, since I know full well that - as retaliatory evictions are widespread - dissent will lead to me being shown the door. On days like this, I loath being a tenant, I really do. I hate it because these measures are less about inspection – more about making me feel unwelcome in my own home, the one I pay rent to live in.
And guess what’s inside? A cheery letter from my letting agent. Apparently, they’re inspecting my flat between 9am and 5 pm next week. How thoughtful of them to let me know.
The letter says: “It is not necessary for you to be present.”
Erm…actually people, yes it is, since you mention it. I have no intention of allowing strangers free-rein to gambol in my lounge, poking their sticky beaks into my affairs. And they intend on doing this every three-four months “…on behalf of the landlord.”
Whatever next: summoning tenants with a whistle like the Von Trapp children, compelling us to wear uniforms and stand by our beds military fashion while saluting?
To be honest, it’s like Piccadilly Circus in here. A fortnight ago, my flat required a small repair, and I was expecting the contractor to arrange a convenient time. When I called, he said: “But I’ve already been to your house; the agency gave me the keys and I was round last Saturday.”
What?
At least he had the grace to be embarrassed at having marched uninvited in my home, and was astonished that I hadn’t been informed. In fact, he was mortified, but not as horrified as I am. Furious doesn’t cover it, and words are inadequate. The letting agent are so keen to protect themselves and yet stomp over my rights, crushing my privacy and legal entitlement to peaceful enjoyment at every turn.
God, I was angry. The cheek of it: I have no idea who has the key to my home, how many keys exist, and (this is the terrifying part) how many copies have been made. I will allow reasonable access in an emergency, but surely frequent, random spot-checks is against the spirit of the law (I might add that an agency employee had already called two weeks ago so they know I’m not wrecking the place.)
I wonder if I’m allowed to change the locks (which I really want to do, considering the amount of unauthorised visitors who’ve had my door key in their grubby little mitts). Also, can the letting agents insist that the law is on their side?
It’s so demeaning, and I feel powerless, since I know full well that - as retaliatory evictions are widespread - dissent will lead to me being shown the door. On days like this, I loath being a tenant, I really do. I hate it because these measures are less about inspection – more about making me feel unwelcome in my own home, the one I pay rent to live in.
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
Stair Mistress
Another new flat, and so far, it’s basic but reasonable: properly sound-proofed and sturdy, with separate rooms and even a bit of storage. It’s in an old warehouse which was converted decades ago, so even if the area can be slightly ‘challenging’ at times, I am happy here.
Except wouldn’t you know it, there’s one problem: it’s position (on one of the highest floors) is starting to become an issue. Yes, I realise I sound ungrateful, and yes I know that the higher the flat the warmer it is and the cheaper the bills, but you try carrying a heavy bag of books, and then stocking up on groceries, after grappling with an amusing collapsible umbrella in a wintry storm and obliged afterwards to climb upwards and onwards.
Where I live, these hallways are called ‘closes.’ The less salubrious examples have no door, granting strangers the freedom to wander in, look around and do whatever they want to do. Once inside it doesn’t matter how luxurious the flats are: even if they house spendthrift millionaires, with décor and fittings both sumptuous and grand, the close always looks like a dodgy alleyway in a notorious slum. Walls are covered in cracked ceramic tiles, or painted in diarrhoea coloured splatters with mysterious oily stains on the chipped concrete steps.
Fortunately, my close has a locked door. Even so, for some reason, even in the middle of snowstorm, someone usually opens a window – so bracing. The cold, grey stairwells become like a film-set, with shadows and plumes of frozen breath contributing to the eerie atmosphere.
This lay-out has an chilly effect on residents. We never linger and only meet when taking steps three at a time, or, when and panting and shattered we rest our red and stripy hands after lugging bags of spuds and washing-powder up the steps.
Occasionally I meet the people who live beside me, or their guests, like the girl who had stayed the night with a neighbour. She was grinning and blushed when I greeted her: she rushed down the stairs, stopping on every level to fasten a button, check the time, or tie back her hair, obviously remembering the night before and smiling again before checking her diary and laughing out loud at a text message.
Later I noticed an elderly lady stranding helplessly beside her front door as relatives carried heavy groceries to her kitchen. Stairs make these buildings impossible for anyone whose legs are slowing down.
My new home’s not that high, but already it seems like quite a daunting trek. In my vagabond life, drifting around has led me to formulate a list of must-haves. Thanks to Nice Heights, I know the value of a thoughtful lay-out and a concierge. Thanks to this place (I can’t think of a name) I also want a lift next time. Well, it’s something to aim for, isn’t it, and we all need a dream.
(NB: I’ve had some contact with an admirable and determined rental-rights campaigner from Texas, who issues standard forms to help tenants battle the combined forces of agents and landlords. One is headed: “Record of shots fired.” It’s different over there, isn’t it?)
Except wouldn’t you know it, there’s one problem: it’s position (on one of the highest floors) is starting to become an issue. Yes, I realise I sound ungrateful, and yes I know that the higher the flat the warmer it is and the cheaper the bills, but you try carrying a heavy bag of books, and then stocking up on groceries, after grappling with an amusing collapsible umbrella in a wintry storm and obliged afterwards to climb upwards and onwards.
Where I live, these hallways are called ‘closes.’ The less salubrious examples have no door, granting strangers the freedom to wander in, look around and do whatever they want to do. Once inside it doesn’t matter how luxurious the flats are: even if they house spendthrift millionaires, with décor and fittings both sumptuous and grand, the close always looks like a dodgy alleyway in a notorious slum. Walls are covered in cracked ceramic tiles, or painted in diarrhoea coloured splatters with mysterious oily stains on the chipped concrete steps.
Fortunately, my close has a locked door. Even so, for some reason, even in the middle of snowstorm, someone usually opens a window – so bracing. The cold, grey stairwells become like a film-set, with shadows and plumes of frozen breath contributing to the eerie atmosphere.
This lay-out has an chilly effect on residents. We never linger and only meet when taking steps three at a time, or, when and panting and shattered we rest our red and stripy hands after lugging bags of spuds and washing-powder up the steps.
Occasionally I meet the people who live beside me, or their guests, like the girl who had stayed the night with a neighbour. She was grinning and blushed when I greeted her: she rushed down the stairs, stopping on every level to fasten a button, check the time, or tie back her hair, obviously remembering the night before and smiling again before checking her diary and laughing out loud at a text message.
Later I noticed an elderly lady stranding helplessly beside her front door as relatives carried heavy groceries to her kitchen. Stairs make these buildings impossible for anyone whose legs are slowing down.
My new home’s not that high, but already it seems like quite a daunting trek. In my vagabond life, drifting around has led me to formulate a list of must-haves. Thanks to Nice Heights, I know the value of a thoughtful lay-out and a concierge. Thanks to this place (I can’t think of a name) I also want a lift next time. Well, it’s something to aim for, isn’t it, and we all need a dream.
(NB: I’ve had some contact with an admirable and determined rental-rights campaigner from Texas, who issues standard forms to help tenants battle the combined forces of agents and landlords. One is headed: “Record of shots fired.” It’s different over there, isn’t it?)
Monday, 12 October 2009
Just A Rentergirl Who Can't Say No.
Scotland has sorted out those whimsical, onerous and imaginative letting agents admin fees good and proper. They’ve made them illegal. Agents caught charging fees are transported in chains to Rhyl, beaten about the face with cabbages and obliged to record a sincere, humble and profuse apology broadcast on youtube before repaying all the money and then some.
Yeah, right. There is a law, but letting agents brazenly ignore it, and have done for decades.
When I was sorting my current home (a great flat I might add – I seem to have been lucky for the second time) I raised the whole fees-being-illegal-thing, but you know how it works: no fees paid=no flat.
So: here are some other stories. The tenant who moved into a flat, and was told that she would be charged a £50 admin fee. It’s a three bed flat: that’s £150 in total. An online credit check costs about a fiver, and they didn’t contact her referees.
She asked me what she should do. I suggested that she should mention casually and chattily that the fees were illegal. She was told: ‘It’s a grey area.’ Only in so far as a minority opinion argues that ‘reasonable’ fees may be charged, to cover actual expenses.
Another prospective tenant queried the purpose of that £100 ‘key-money’ (this scam operates under a multitude of different names.) She was told it covered the onerous and time consuming duty of hauling in written references from her nominated referees (perhaps they live on the moon; rocket fuel is costly which might explain the rates.) Can you can guess what happened next? Just as with myself, none of the referees was actually contacted.
My agency justifies these mystery monies: “...as we have to pay to run our office.” Moving left me out of pocket, what with storage, removal vans to hire, and deposits to find. Perhaps I should send them an invoice?
I was also ambushed by sudden news of six weeks in advance for the deposit. I queried this, as tenants/customers are entitled to prior warning of any extraordinary costs, but was told by a snide letting-agent: “…this is just what charge; it’s what we charge. You can always say no.”
What would happen if I had stood my ground, looked the agent in the eye, and in my firmest stentorian tones declaimed: “No! I will not pay your illegal charges! Vive la revolution!” But I was technically homeless, and when people say: be strong and refuse to pay it’s hard even for me and I know my rights. I am aware that a charity did some secret shopping, and discovered that the majority of agencies openly and contemptuously break the law.
There is an obvious course of action: the courts, for a possible case involving fraud, extortion and charging illegal fees, but if I choose that path, I might lose the flat. Oh, this mountainous dilemma. What would you do?
(NB: I’ve been away from blogging. Sorry, but that broken memory stick sideswiped me. I need to get it repaired – all advice welcome.)
Yeah, right. There is a law, but letting agents brazenly ignore it, and have done for decades.
When I was sorting my current home (a great flat I might add – I seem to have been lucky for the second time) I raised the whole fees-being-illegal-thing, but you know how it works: no fees paid=no flat.
So: here are some other stories. The tenant who moved into a flat, and was told that she would be charged a £50 admin fee. It’s a three bed flat: that’s £150 in total. An online credit check costs about a fiver, and they didn’t contact her referees.
She asked me what she should do. I suggested that she should mention casually and chattily that the fees were illegal. She was told: ‘It’s a grey area.’ Only in so far as a minority opinion argues that ‘reasonable’ fees may be charged, to cover actual expenses.
Another prospective tenant queried the purpose of that £100 ‘key-money’ (this scam operates under a multitude of different names.) She was told it covered the onerous and time consuming duty of hauling in written references from her nominated referees (perhaps they live on the moon; rocket fuel is costly which might explain the rates.) Can you can guess what happened next? Just as with myself, none of the referees was actually contacted.
My agency justifies these mystery monies: “...as we have to pay to run our office.” Moving left me out of pocket, what with storage, removal vans to hire, and deposits to find. Perhaps I should send them an invoice?
I was also ambushed by sudden news of six weeks in advance for the deposit. I queried this, as tenants/customers are entitled to prior warning of any extraordinary costs, but was told by a snide letting-agent: “…this is just what charge; it’s what we charge. You can always say no.”
What would happen if I had stood my ground, looked the agent in the eye, and in my firmest stentorian tones declaimed: “No! I will not pay your illegal charges! Vive la revolution!” But I was technically homeless, and when people say: be strong and refuse to pay it’s hard even for me and I know my rights. I am aware that a charity did some secret shopping, and discovered that the majority of agencies openly and contemptuously break the law.
There is an obvious course of action: the courts, for a possible case involving fraud, extortion and charging illegal fees, but if I choose that path, I might lose the flat. Oh, this mountainous dilemma. What would you do?
(NB: I’ve been away from blogging. Sorry, but that broken memory stick sideswiped me. I need to get it repaired – all advice welcome.)
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