Estate agents that have driven me mad, Part 1.

Once again, I am going to interrupt the property history side of this blog by telling you of the latest encounters I have had with estate agents. Yes, I am sure there are some good ones out there. I could name one, from a large, rather pushy agency beginning with F, who hasn't yet given up on me and every week I hear his cheery voice on the phone, telling me of a 'great property' I should view instantly. It usually turns out to be too far from transport, or lacking storage or a balcony, but at least he's trying.

Not like some others I could mention.

On May 10th, I had an email from the agent about a bargain property in Finchley that had been reduced by a whacking £60k for a quick sale, bringing it into my price range - just. I emailed back, suggesting dates and times that I could view and heard nothing. On May 18th, I finally made contact. Apparently my email had gone into his Spam folder. Strange, considering we had emailed each other before.

I whacked an email straight back, suggesting times to view on the 20th May. On the 19th, I emailed again with a few important queries. My friend had kindly checked out the exterior and reported back that it was very scruffy and in need of exterior repair and redecoration so I asked the agent if there was a sinking fund for repairs and if there was anything planned, which was a fair enough question as the buyer could have got stuck with a large bill. He never got back to me. I can only assume someone else snapped it up - an investor perhaps, who didn't bug him with awkward questions - and he couldn't be bothered to reply.

Then I found a cottage on Rightmove and rang the agent last week to ask for a viewing. I was told that the owner was away and he was waiting for keys and would ring me on Monday. It's now Wednesday, Aaargh!

Meanwhile, on the 19th May, another agent rang about a 2-bed flat that was about to come on the market in my ideal area and he had no details or photos yet but it was perfect for me. However, it was £20k over my price limit. He said he was organising a block viewing (I loathe them!) and would let me know when. Later that day, Ping!, a viewing appointment landed in my In-box for 10.30 am this Friday. As I live 25 miles away and don't drive, it would take me 2 hours to get there, and in the rush hour, too. I replied, saying I'd try to fix up a bed for a night with a friend in north London.

Friend couldn't oblige as she had someone else staying that night, so this morning I emailed the agent - to be told, and I quote verbatim: 'No worries the vendor has found a buyer the property has been put on hold I will let you know if something else comes up.'

Aaargh again! I was fuming. He hadn't told me, so I could have stayed on my friend's hideously uncomfortable sofa bed, gone to the viewing and found nobody there! I suppose I should give him the benefit of the doubt and concede that perhaps he would have emailed to tell me, but I have a feeling that he would have forgotten. In fact, his words, 'the vendor has found a buyer' makes me think that perhaps this was a private deal and the agent was deprived of his commission and had developed selective amnesia about that flat.

I do have something momentarily 'in the bag' if I wanted it. It's not in the area I want, it's in the area I live now, that is boring as hell and has nothing remotely going for it, but it's a private sale through an online agency, Purple Bricks, and the owner led me to believe that she was willing to drop the price for a quick sale. But - several 'buts' coming up now - the master bedroom was in the converted loft and had no ensuite, which would mean me trekking down the stairs and along the corridor in the middle of the night (if I had an attack of Delhi belly, I'd never make it), there were no wardrobes - she had all her clothes on portable rails of the kind you see at car boots, the lounge was very cramped as she'd had to nip 5 ft off it to create a hallway and staircase leading to the loft conversion, and the garden can only be accessed by going out of the front door and unlocking the side gate, then creeping through the downstairs flat's garden.

But at least it's a sale that doesn't involve bloody agents, so I am seriously considering going in with a bid. Yet... I do long to get back to my old patch and be able to nip onto buses to see friends and go into town, instead of making my present journey which involves a half hour journey to the tube, an hour into Kings Cross, then another half hour to wherever I'm going.

Will this three year long search ever end?

One fire door too many

I'm interrupting my property history with news of my latest excursion to view. It was yesterday, Saturday 30th April and the Northern Line was only going as far as Archway and I needed the far end of East Finchley high street just before it joins the North Circular.

I had sore feet, as I am on cat-sitting duty in Camden for a week and have brought the wrong shoes. I walked to the nearest bus stop, caught the 46 bus to Kentish Town, then the 134 to Archway. The traffic was terrible. My appointment with the agent was at 3.30 pm and it was 3.10 by the time I reached Archway. I had 10 minutes to wait for the 263, but it steamed along and obviously got ahead of schedule because, just before it reached E. Finchley station, it stopped. For ages. I rang the agents and said I might be a little late and was told the agent I was meeting would be there till 3.45.

I was fuming and fretting and also needed the loo. Eventually, the bus chugged off again, though I was losing the will to live. It was 3.35.I had left my friend's house at 2.15. At 3.44 I leapt off the bus, raced across the road, read the sign to flats 35-46 and found myself trekking up a wide metal external staircase. I counted the numbers on the doors: 35, 36, 37, 38, 41. Where was flat number 40, the one I supposed to be viewing?

I clanged back down the metal staircase. A woman was getting into a car so I hailed her and she told me she thought it was up the stairs and through the fire door. So back I clanged, found a small turning with a fire door, pushed with all my might and it didn't budge.

Gathering my strength, I hurled myself at it and it gave a little and I squeezed through. There was only one way to go - through another heavy fire door. This time I leaned all my weight on it - I'm 5'4", 71 years old and weight 9 and half stone! I should not be heaving heavy fire doors open, I thought as I climbed yet another staircase - a stone one this time.

At last, I found number 40 and rang the bell. The agent, resplendent in shiny grey suit and gelled hair, was showing a couple round. I was left to my own devices. The flat was big enough. It had plenty of cupboards. One window had a nice view over greenery. The others looked over the grim rear of the tallest part of this local authority block.

They say you know whether you want to buy a place or not within the first 15 seconds. I had made my decision after the metal stairs and first fire door. No way!

The young agent told me he was hoping to buy his first property and was praying for a price crash. Him and me both!