I have just read that US estate agency Keller Williams is opening up in Britain. Apparently one of their staff was so appalled at the lackadaisical treatment he encountered while trying to buy a flat in London (lost keys, unanswered questions, agent not getting back to him for days) that he decided the UK was ready for a taste of American real estate agency treatment, where phone calls are answered instantly, even out of office hours, and online enquiries dealt with within five minutes. They offer the full package, sourcing solicitors and lenders and chasing paperwork, and claim to reduce the average 10 weeks it takes to complete, to just one.
Oh, how I empathise with this guy's experiences of UK estate agents! My latest attempt to buy a flat went like this.
Day 1: email agent.
Day 2: no reply.
Day 3: still no reply, so ring agent. Agent claims not to know anything about the property and will get someone to ring me on Monday.
Day 4 - Monday: nobody rings.
Day 5: Tuesday passes and still nobody rings.
Day 6: I ring and get - oh joy! - a human being. He asks if I can come along at 6 pm when he is showing the flat to some other clients. I say no, as it takes me two hours to get there and I don't want to be travelling the two hours back in the rush hour. He asks if I can come at 6 pm the following night instead. Didn't he listen to my objections first time around? He asks if I can come on Saturday. I say no as I have visitors. I request a daytime viewing during the week. He says he will ask the vendor and ring me the next day. I tell him either Friday or Monday are good for me.
Day 11. Monday. Agent never got back to me. I can only assume he received an offer, or several, over the weekend and it's now proceeding to the dreaded 'best bids' stage.
I despair. It's obvious to me that, as there are few properties and many would-be buyers, agents have got lazy and no longer feel the need to make an effort.
Roll on Keller Williams. Expect a call from me!
Monday, 30 January 2017
Wednesday, 21 December 2016
Has it ever been so hard to find a reasonably priced London flat?
I didn't buy the nice flat (see last post) because it was snapped up by someone else while I was still thinking about it and wondering if it was big enough.
So now another year is over and I am still no closer to finding the home of my dreams - or any home at all, come to that. One small spark of hope is that I spoke to a mortgage broker and he mentioned that the latest batch of equity release mortgages might enable me to up my budget. He said that they no longer have the bad reputation that they used to have.
Just for fun, I hit the property websites and keyed in £100k more than the level at which I have been searching. Still nothing. I can only hope that more people decide to move in the new year as, in all my years of buying, selling and moving, I have never known such difficult times, with so many people like me fishing in an ever decreasing property pool.
Move, you buggers, move!!!
So now another year is over and I am still no closer to finding the home of my dreams - or any home at all, come to that. One small spark of hope is that I spoke to a mortgage broker and he mentioned that the latest batch of equity release mortgages might enable me to up my budget. He said that they no longer have the bad reputation that they used to have.
Just for fun, I hit the property websites and keyed in £100k more than the level at which I have been searching. Still nothing. I can only hope that more people decide to move in the new year as, in all my years of buying, selling and moving, I have never known such difficult times, with so many people like me fishing in an ever decreasing property pool.
Move, you buggers, move!!!
Tuesday, 1 November 2016
Four miles, two flats and a £400,000 garage.
Today, I made the two-hour trek by public transport to Finchley, to view two flats. One looked very nice in the online photos. When I got there, I found it was even nicer than the pics, which must be a first! The garden was gorgeous, and south-facing, too. Just three quibbles.
First, the house next door was covered in scaffolding and the agent didn't know why, or how long the work was going to take. (Shouldn't agents arm themselves with this kind of info? I can't be the only potential buyer who wanted to know.)
Second, the agent didn't know who lived upstairs, or how many, or what room was above the bedroom of the downstairs flat. (Again, I would have thought agents would make a point of finding out, anticipating viewers' queries.)
Third, outside the bedroom door were two steps leading down to the kitchen and, more importantly, the loo. I could see myself waking up at 3 am, breaking my neck for a wee - and then breaking my neck literally!
But it's in the running, even though it would mean a mortgage. It had share of the freehold, a big plus.
The next flat was in East Finchley's 'Old Village', which may have been a village 150 years ago but is nothing like one now. A horse and cart to take one down to the Tube, a 20 minute walk away, would be a good idea. Someone I know lives downstairs, which is a big plus. But the flat itself was just horrid, with damp in the bedroom, musty-smelling cupboards and some worrying cracks over the landing, which the agent said were 'purely superficial'. Hmmm.
The windows all needed replacing as they were single-glazed and the surrounds were rotten. A chat with Mr Downstairs revealed that the damp was the result of a blocked gutter which he had asked the managing agents repeatedly to clear, with no response. Said agents claim around £1700 pa from the leaseholders for doing sod-all. In the eleven years Mr Downstairs had lived there, they had done nothing and any problems had to sorted and paid for by the leaseholders. He also told me that there was a new ceiling in the upstairs flat because the old one had collapsed!
This flat was £30,000 cheaper than the other, but, for me, the potential problems and the awkward location outweighed the saving. Mr Downstairs took cabs everywhere and did his shopping online, but I like to pop out and and come back at least twice a day. Today, I walked from Ballards Lane to East Finchley High Road and back to Long Lane. I am a trifle knackered!
So the second flat is a definite No, and the first is a Maybe, if the agent can answer my questions. Meanwhile, it's back to perusing Rightmove and Prime Location. As I scanned the latter, my hopes were raised when I saw a flat in central London advertised at just under £400k. Then I read the details. It wasn't a flat at all, but a garage for two cars. Were the walls gold-plated and diamond-studded? Or is that just the luxury vehicle that will inhabit it, while 5,000 people are sleeping rough on the streets of London. It's a bloody disgrace. Think I'll sneak in and pitch a tent.
First, the house next door was covered in scaffolding and the agent didn't know why, or how long the work was going to take. (Shouldn't agents arm themselves with this kind of info? I can't be the only potential buyer who wanted to know.)
Second, the agent didn't know who lived upstairs, or how many, or what room was above the bedroom of the downstairs flat. (Again, I would have thought agents would make a point of finding out, anticipating viewers' queries.)
Third, outside the bedroom door were two steps leading down to the kitchen and, more importantly, the loo. I could see myself waking up at 3 am, breaking my neck for a wee - and then breaking my neck literally!
But it's in the running, even though it would mean a mortgage. It had share of the freehold, a big plus.
The next flat was in East Finchley's 'Old Village', which may have been a village 150 years ago but is nothing like one now. A horse and cart to take one down to the Tube, a 20 minute walk away, would be a good idea. Someone I know lives downstairs, which is a big plus. But the flat itself was just horrid, with damp in the bedroom, musty-smelling cupboards and some worrying cracks over the landing, which the agent said were 'purely superficial'. Hmmm.
The windows all needed replacing as they were single-glazed and the surrounds were rotten. A chat with Mr Downstairs revealed that the damp was the result of a blocked gutter which he had asked the managing agents repeatedly to clear, with no response. Said agents claim around £1700 pa from the leaseholders for doing sod-all. In the eleven years Mr Downstairs had lived there, they had done nothing and any problems had to sorted and paid for by the leaseholders. He also told me that there was a new ceiling in the upstairs flat because the old one had collapsed!
This flat was £30,000 cheaper than the other, but, for me, the potential problems and the awkward location outweighed the saving. Mr Downstairs took cabs everywhere and did his shopping online, but I like to pop out and and come back at least twice a day. Today, I walked from Ballards Lane to East Finchley High Road and back to Long Lane. I am a trifle knackered!
So the second flat is a definite No, and the first is a Maybe, if the agent can answer my questions. Meanwhile, it's back to perusing Rightmove and Prime Location. As I scanned the latter, my hopes were raised when I saw a flat in central London advertised at just under £400k. Then I read the details. It wasn't a flat at all, but a garage for two cars. Were the walls gold-plated and diamond-studded? Or is that just the luxury vehicle that will inhabit it, while 5,000 people are sleeping rough on the streets of London. It's a bloody disgrace. Think I'll sneak in and pitch a tent.
Tuesday, 18 October 2016
The case of the phantom door
I can't believe that three months have gone by since my last post and I am STILL no closer to snaring a property. Because 'snaring' is what it feels like. I feel I am a cowgirl in an urban jungle, racing around whirling my lasso in the hope that I will at last entrap some bricks and mortar.
I have had one or two in my grasp. Two weeks ago, I made a trip to East Finchley and viewed three properties. One was a top floor two-bedder in a purpose-built block far up the high street, almost by the North Circular but not within hearing distance. The flat was in a nice little modern enclave, neatly planted with shrubs and well-kept. The communal garden was an exposed patch of land, like a field. There wasn't a tree or a bench or a shady corner. I couldn't imagine sprawling on the grass with a book while the sun beat down on me - then remembering I had left my phone in my flat on the top floor.
It had electric heating. No radiators to dry one's clothes over. No room for a tumble dryer in the very small kitchen. Only one cupboard, most of which was taken up by a large hot water cylinder. It had a loft for storage, but I couldn't imagine myself scrambling up into it every time I wanted my art equipment, or a coat. For that was another thing. No built-in wardrobes. No room for a coat and shoe cupboard in the narrow hallway. It was just too... minimalist.
Flat number two was an even more modern one in Lancaster Road, even closer to the North Circular. The route to it was down an unkempt street full of litter. The apartment had been rented out and it had an air of impermanence, like a holiday flat. The tiny balcony faced east and held a pot in which one poor, wind-blasted plant was doing its best to survive, bent double like a poor old withered crone with osteoporosis. The view was uninspiring, over a weedy concrete wasteland. You could hear the North Circ traffic. It made me feel utterly depressed and I was glad to climb back into the agent's car and leave it behind.
Property 3 was a ground floor flat in a purpose built block on East End Road. The rooms were all good sizes, apart from yet another poky kitchen, but the room I would have had to work in had traffic flashing past the window. I couldn't have sat there writing book chapters, losing myself in an imaginary word, while the corner of my eye was picking up flashes from wing mirrors and reflections from windscreens and the gawping faces of passengers on the 143 bus.
There was an odd thing about that flat, I call it 'the case of the missing door'. I distinctly remember that there was a door from either the living room or the main bedroom which led directly out onto the communal garden, which was well-tended and leafy. I had imagined myself placing a planter on either side of the door, with a couple of lavender bushes in them to attract passing butterflies. Yet, even though I have studied the floor plan and photos on the agents' website with a forensic eye, I can see no sign of that door.
Did I imagine it? Or did I just hope there was one? Or was my soul trying to tell me I couldn't live anywhere where I couldn't walk out into a garden?
At the back of my mind, a project had been lurking. A pretty amazing but very scruffy house close to where I am living now. Five minutes from the tube, but impossible to park. Not that that would have worried me, as I don't drive, but I do have visitors... and I would have needed builders with white vans! I kept putting off making an offer but this morning, sitting in this room with my paltry electric radiator switched up to max and the temperature struggling to reach 59 degrees F (and it's not even winter yet and last December, I ended up in hospital with pneumonia), I made the decision. I would buy it and live in it without doing any work until the Spring, but be warm and happy, mistress of my own boiler.
I reached for the phone and made the call.
The house had gone.
I have had one or two in my grasp. Two weeks ago, I made a trip to East Finchley and viewed three properties. One was a top floor two-bedder in a purpose-built block far up the high street, almost by the North Circular but not within hearing distance. The flat was in a nice little modern enclave, neatly planted with shrubs and well-kept. The communal garden was an exposed patch of land, like a field. There wasn't a tree or a bench or a shady corner. I couldn't imagine sprawling on the grass with a book while the sun beat down on me - then remembering I had left my phone in my flat on the top floor.
It had electric heating. No radiators to dry one's clothes over. No room for a tumble dryer in the very small kitchen. Only one cupboard, most of which was taken up by a large hot water cylinder. It had a loft for storage, but I couldn't imagine myself scrambling up into it every time I wanted my art equipment, or a coat. For that was another thing. No built-in wardrobes. No room for a coat and shoe cupboard in the narrow hallway. It was just too... minimalist.
Flat number two was an even more modern one in Lancaster Road, even closer to the North Circular. The route to it was down an unkempt street full of litter. The apartment had been rented out and it had an air of impermanence, like a holiday flat. The tiny balcony faced east and held a pot in which one poor, wind-blasted plant was doing its best to survive, bent double like a poor old withered crone with osteoporosis. The view was uninspiring, over a weedy concrete wasteland. You could hear the North Circ traffic. It made me feel utterly depressed and I was glad to climb back into the agent's car and leave it behind.
Property 3 was a ground floor flat in a purpose built block on East End Road. The rooms were all good sizes, apart from yet another poky kitchen, but the room I would have had to work in had traffic flashing past the window. I couldn't have sat there writing book chapters, losing myself in an imaginary word, while the corner of my eye was picking up flashes from wing mirrors and reflections from windscreens and the gawping faces of passengers on the 143 bus.
There was an odd thing about that flat, I call it 'the case of the missing door'. I distinctly remember that there was a door from either the living room or the main bedroom which led directly out onto the communal garden, which was well-tended and leafy. I had imagined myself placing a planter on either side of the door, with a couple of lavender bushes in them to attract passing butterflies. Yet, even though I have studied the floor plan and photos on the agents' website with a forensic eye, I can see no sign of that door.
Did I imagine it? Or did I just hope there was one? Or was my soul trying to tell me I couldn't live anywhere where I couldn't walk out into a garden?
At the back of my mind, a project had been lurking. A pretty amazing but very scruffy house close to where I am living now. Five minutes from the tube, but impossible to park. Not that that would have worried me, as I don't drive, but I do have visitors... and I would have needed builders with white vans! I kept putting off making an offer but this morning, sitting in this room with my paltry electric radiator switched up to max and the temperature struggling to reach 59 degrees F (and it's not even winter yet and last December, I ended up in hospital with pneumonia), I made the decision. I would buy it and live in it without doing any work until the Spring, but be warm and happy, mistress of my own boiler.
I reached for the phone and made the call.
The house had gone.
Monday, 18 July 2016
Where have all the London properties gone?
I scan Rightmove and various other property websites every day, in the hope of finding somewhere I can squeeze myself into. I don't ask for much. Just one bed, a corner to turn into a study, a lounge and some outside space, as I am at home all day and would go mad if I couldn't go out and tweak a few plants, or pluck some of the herbs I always grow.
I don't drive, so I need to be close to transport of some kind, whether it be bus, tube or overground. Surely I can find something for my budget of around £400,000?
In many parts of the country, I could buy a 4-bed house for that sum. In London, I'll be lucky to get a studio flat! Trouble is, I have been looking for so long that prices have gone up and up.
The reason why I have been searching for so long is because there is so little on the market. For months now, long before Brexit, every time I open Rightmove I find myself staring at the same photographs of the same old flats, all of which, for some reason, haven't sold. None of them suit my requirements. They're either too far from transport, too close to a major road, have no outside space or not enough storage. Then, when something suitable does appear, it's gone by the time I ring up, even if the details only appeared on the agent's listing that morning. Or else I am invited to one of those soul-destroying Open House viewings, where it's always raining and everyone is made to take off their shoes and leave them amongst the heap by the door so as not to sully the carpets - which means you can't go out and look at the garden because you're in your socks and it's raining.
Lack of storage in flats is another of my beefs. I have seen many new-builds and new conversions which are obviously aimed at first-time buyers whose belongings consist of three shirts and a cheese-grater, as there are no storage cupboards for anything else, and the rooms are so poky that there is no space to build any, either. No wonder so many interior shots are cluttered with guitars, clothing rails, sports and gym equipment and heaps of... well, things.
Get real, developers. People have lives, they have interests, they have computers and clothes, books, musical instruments, cricket bats and balance balls. They have kitchen equipment, too. I have seen kitchens - usually the ones integrated with the living room - where just a juicer and a mixer would take up the whole of the worktop area. We ladies have shoes! And I would need a cupboard just for my coats and jackets, let alone the rest of my clothing.
But back to my main topic: where have all the properties gone? Why, over the last three or so years, have so few people been selling? I can only think it's because, when they move, they decide to hang onto their previous flat and rent it out. Indeed, when I go onto the Rentals section of Rightmove, I can find plenty of places that would be perfect for me if I didn't mind spending £1600 per month - which, I can tell you, is a lot more than my pensions and monthly income combined.
This brings me to a sad conclusion, which is that the only way I shall be able to move to my ideal area, or even the fringes of it, is to buy something - anything - elsewhere, rent it out, then use the income to rent the property of my dreams. I might just about break even, or even have to fork out £200 a month or so extra, but what price happiness? Right now, Rightmove, it looks like my only way forward.
I don't drive, so I need to be close to transport of some kind, whether it be bus, tube or overground. Surely I can find something for my budget of around £400,000?
In many parts of the country, I could buy a 4-bed house for that sum. In London, I'll be lucky to get a studio flat! Trouble is, I have been looking for so long that prices have gone up and up.
The reason why I have been searching for so long is because there is so little on the market. For months now, long before Brexit, every time I open Rightmove I find myself staring at the same photographs of the same old flats, all of which, for some reason, haven't sold. None of them suit my requirements. They're either too far from transport, too close to a major road, have no outside space or not enough storage. Then, when something suitable does appear, it's gone by the time I ring up, even if the details only appeared on the agent's listing that morning. Or else I am invited to one of those soul-destroying Open House viewings, where it's always raining and everyone is made to take off their shoes and leave them amongst the heap by the door so as not to sully the carpets - which means you can't go out and look at the garden because you're in your socks and it's raining.
Lack of storage in flats is another of my beefs. I have seen many new-builds and new conversions which are obviously aimed at first-time buyers whose belongings consist of three shirts and a cheese-grater, as there are no storage cupboards for anything else, and the rooms are so poky that there is no space to build any, either. No wonder so many interior shots are cluttered with guitars, clothing rails, sports and gym equipment and heaps of... well, things.
Get real, developers. People have lives, they have interests, they have computers and clothes, books, musical instruments, cricket bats and balance balls. They have kitchen equipment, too. I have seen kitchens - usually the ones integrated with the living room - where just a juicer and a mixer would take up the whole of the worktop area. We ladies have shoes! And I would need a cupboard just for my coats and jackets, let alone the rest of my clothing.
But back to my main topic: where have all the properties gone? Why, over the last three or so years, have so few people been selling? I can only think it's because, when they move, they decide to hang onto their previous flat and rent it out. Indeed, when I go onto the Rentals section of Rightmove, I can find plenty of places that would be perfect for me if I didn't mind spending £1600 per month - which, I can tell you, is a lot more than my pensions and monthly income combined.
This brings me to a sad conclusion, which is that the only way I shall be able to move to my ideal area, or even the fringes of it, is to buy something - anything - elsewhere, rent it out, then use the income to rent the property of my dreams. I might just about break even, or even have to fork out £200 a month or so extra, but what price happiness? Right now, Rightmove, it looks like my only way forward.
Thursday, 23 June 2016
Missed out again! Why I don't trust estate agents.
Last Saturday, I was booked in to view a first floor flat in East Finchley. However, the agent informed me by email that he would shortly be getting the keys to another one round the corner, which had a garden, so I told him that, as I live 25 miles away and it takes me two hours to get there by public transport, he should let me know as soon as he got the keys and I could then view both on the same day.
"I'll make sure you're first through the door," he promised.
It is now Thursday and I hadn't heard from him, so I emailed ten minutes ago, only to be told, "The vendor has changed his mind about selling and is going to rent it out instead."
So much for being first through the door! With steam puffing out of my ears, I zapped an email straight back asking if I could still come and see the original flat, only to be told that unless I could get there tomorrow, it would be too late as he had had lots of viewings since Saturday and people had said they were going to put in offers by the end of the week.
I am at a funeral tomorrow so I can't go. I have missed out again and all because of being misled by a damned estate agent. I am furious. How does anyone ever get to see a property, let alone buy one, in the present cut-throat market? Is there any agent anywhere in London prepared to help this desperate damsel who couldn't even vote in the referendum as she was of no fixed abode?
I truly am The Desperate Housebuyer.
"I'll make sure you're first through the door," he promised.
It is now Thursday and I hadn't heard from him, so I emailed ten minutes ago, only to be told, "The vendor has changed his mind about selling and is going to rent it out instead."
So much for being first through the door! With steam puffing out of my ears, I zapped an email straight back asking if I could still come and see the original flat, only to be told that unless I could get there tomorrow, it would be too late as he had had lots of viewings since Saturday and people had said they were going to put in offers by the end of the week.
I am at a funeral tomorrow so I can't go. I have missed out again and all because of being misled by a damned estate agent. I am furious. How does anyone ever get to see a property, let alone buy one, in the present cut-throat market? Is there any agent anywhere in London prepared to help this desperate damsel who couldn't even vote in the referendum as she was of no fixed abode?
I truly am The Desperate Housebuyer.
Tuesday, 7 June 2016
The loo that turned into a kitchen
Property No, 9
The aftershocks of the terrorist atrocities of 2001 affected the global economy in many ways, property being one small element. I spotted a private ad for a Victorian cottage on the outskirts of Highgate. The owner had just lost her buyer, who had pulled out due to worries about tumbling property prices following 9/11 and was desperate not to lose the cheaper property she wanted to buy. If her sale did not go through, her mortgage company would foreclose on her, so I came along at the right time.
She needed a cash buyer who could do the whole deal in two weeks. It was sheer bad luck that I was about to depart for a two-week holiday in Turkey. As I attempted to relax on my sun lounger by the pool in Ovacik, my mobile phone beeped incessantly, with ever more hysterical calls from my vendor who appeared to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
After three days of constant beeps and jangles, I and my mobile were banished from the poolside by the hotel owner, who had receives numerous complaints from other guests, moaning that they couldn't relax and that I was spoiling their holiday. Fair enough, I thought, as I moped wanly in my small room with its white curtains that let in every bit of daylight, and the tree outside that was a haunt of chattering sparrows by day and monotonously hooting Scops owls by night. My holiday was being spoiled, too.
None of the solicitors I had approached were willing to get the deal done in a mere two weeks, so once more my BF came to the rescue. He knew a young solicitor who he had helped train (the BF is a retired lawyer, amongst many other things) and I think he must have stood over him with a stick, beating him if he so much as dared stop to blow his nose.
One odd thing came to light in the searches, which was that, although the cottages in this particular street had all been taken over years ago by the local council, they had originally been built by the church and each one had a statute attached which permitted the church, at any time, to raise a tithe towards church repairs. None of the householders had ever been asked to stump up, but the solicitor warned me that it could happen. However, I was willing to take the chance.
By the time I returned from Turkey, sans suntan due to having spent so many days in my room and with a giant phone bill running into several hundreds, the house was mine, my BF having signed the paperwork on my behalf. I say 'house': it was more like a hobbit home. It wasn't even two up, two down; it was two up, one down!
Originally, it had been a 3-bed house with an outside toilet and I assume bathing was done in a tin bath in front of the fire in the small living room. Through the lounge, there was a very small kitchen, the size of a large cupboard and the garden had a view of tall trees beyond which were allotments. The outside loo still existed, only some idiot had poured concrete down it so it was no longer usable.
It was a real writer's nest and I was in heaven for about an hour after I moved in. Then it started. Bang, bang, bang, for seven solid hours, as a gang of unruly boys booted a football against the wooden doors of a garage right opposite my house. I was shaking. My heart was racing. I couldn't believe that I had made yet another property mistake. How could one tranquillity-loving person have such relentless bad luck? I knew I would never be able to write a word in that house, yet I worked as a freelance writer. How on earth would I manage? I went to the pub with a friend, to drown my sorrows.
In the two years that I owned it, I did a lot to that house. I borrowed cash from a family member to build a conservatory and the BF built a terrace with steps down to the sloping, rather soggy garden. The long-suffering BF also removed the outside loo and somehow incorporated the space into the tiny kitchen, so that I had an alcove in which to place a small table and two chairs. It made a tremendous difference. I also had tons of gravel delivered, and gravelled over the ragged clumps of grass, put down some paving slabs and bought a nice stone bird bath. I hung those Moroccan lanterns in the trees and suddenly, the garden had a touch of magic.
The noise situation gradually improved, too, as I learned to adapt. I had several quiet hours during the day while the kids were at school. It was weekends and school holidays that were the worst. I spoke to the people next door and they had gone through exactly the same reaction as me, the day they had moved in and discovered the football gang. Then one day, I shall never know why, the boys vanished. Either they had found somewhere better to kick their ball, or they had given up football altogether. But peace descended!
External peace, anyway. Internally, all hell had broken loose as a routine eye test had revealed that I had the start of macular degeneration. I looked it up and found I was eventually going to go blind. This coincided with the cancellation of my only regular freelance contract. Then, to cap it all, the person who had lent me the money for the conservatory suddenly needed it back. I couldn't add another £10k to my mortgage as I had just lost my major client. There was only one thing I could do - sell up.
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