Thursday, February 12, 2004
S's Super Saturday has come to little, although she reportedly saw a kitchen she liked with a W4 postcode. Not sure about the lounge but you could probably convince the Chiswick education authorities the kids slept on the hob if needs be. She was scheduled for an unprecedented six viewings but only got through four, including one in a council block that was so rancid she turned around before actually reaching the property. The remaining couple were cut off because of a street protest about the impending closing of Uxbridge Road for the building of the new tram system. The thought of getting to work quicker triggers pound signs to rotate in eyeballs.
We're starting to get a solid idea of what is available around the £170k mark: reception and bedroom slightly smaller than we'd like; communal garden if any; bath if you're lucky. Any more and there's something else wrong, either the quality of the area or the distance from transport or, as with Quirky by the Broadway, it has no proper windows and an underground pit for a bedroom. Either we need to look elsewhere or scale back our want list.
Records for walls
In an effort to broaden horizons area-wise I embark on a tube trip to Caledonia Road after seeing an estate agent's photo of a vast-lounged one-bed flat with a small garden to itself. Things don't start well – it's on a busy corner, opposite a massive council block and when slick Bollywood-wannabe opens the front door there's a distinct smell of wee.
Once inside, it soon becomes apparent why the lounge looks so big. Current incumbent has taken out the bedroom wall and replaced it with a bookcase full of 33rpm records. It's a studio flat of his own making. Kitchen is a building site ("We told him the new owner would want to do their own thing," SBW explains amidst the plasterboard) and back yard is small and grotty.
Nice idea, bad execution
Fortunately the trip is not completely wasted. SBW has another place just down the road, where the cars that have blazed around the corner have slowed to a more respectable pace. First floor, two beds, no lounge, massive kitchen, shower room that requires standing sideways to enter.
Sound odd? It is, although the sentiment is a good one. The owner has converted the original large bathroom into a second bed, and nabbed half the entrance hall for a shower room. He could have stopped there, but he then put a kitchen around the chimney butt in the largest room – the fitted cooker juts out into the middle of the room.
There are a couple of choices here:
1.Put a sofa into the kitchen and put up with the cooker intruding, and the noise of washing machine etc. Have a spare bedroom.
2.Turn the larger of the two bedrooms into the lounge, maybe even make an arch from dining kitchen into that room, and use the smaller room to sleep in. Trouble is there wouldn't be wardrobe space in the smaller bedroom.
It's got size, but the proportions are all wrong, and I'd soon lose patience with the miniscule shower/washing/loo space.
Spinster lime
Just downstairs from Bachelor-pad pink in that purpose-built block backing onto the railway line in Acton in a flat the same size with an asking price £10k higher. We decided it was worth a look to find out what we could do with the cheaper version upstairs once the crap was removed, the walls were scrubbed and the carpet shampooed. I'm visiting with a different estate agent, so this is a test of ingenuity as I express surprise at the amount of off-road parking and make the same joke about the sticking front door as I made on the last visit with PSB a couple of weeks ago.
First the estate agent, then the flat: He's driving a Ford Ka, a women's car, he says, because he smashed his other one reversing into a woman driver. He's not used to small cars, apparently. Until a couple of months ago he was in the States, driving a Lexus, bought for him by his rich wife, with whom it didn't work out. Now he's working for peanuts in West London and frightened stiff by his tyrannical female boss. I get all this before we even arrive at aforementioned Ka, and I surmised the last bit after observing office etiquette.
The radio is on, but the flat is empty. The previous resident has exited, leaving only her stereo, a leopard-print scarf and hat and some little post-it notes for the estate agent reminding them to switch off the lights. In a furnished house a stereo might work to fool would-be thieves that you've just nipped to the loo, but when the stereo is the only thing in the house it's pretty obvious, in my opinion, that you haven't.
Nicer, less smelly and apparently ready to take an offer. Not terribly big but a possible and – a new discovery on my second visit – West Acton tube is a short stroll away.
Click
We're getting dangerously close to North Acton as we stop at the next place. In fact, as I look out of the front window I can see the buildings surrounding the tube station, to which I used to trek every morning from my old place, before S moved south. She joined me there for three days before declaring she couldn't stand it past the weekend.
North Acton is a mass of (mainly) industrial estate and council houses (rather than blocks) bordered on one side by the A40 and on another by the vast railway yards around Willesden Junction.
This place is at least on the other side of the A40, though, and once inside there is no hint of the nearby traffic. It's cosy, with a larger than average lounge, complete with an iron fireplace, and the first kitchen I have seen with enough room for a table. The current occupants have the largest double bed I've ever seen, dwarfing the bedroom, which is perhaps a little small but has fitted wardrobes.
Outside, facing south, is a communal garden with a decent lawn and a park bench. There's an allocated parking spot out front. There are four flats but only two share our front door.
There are a few nice touches but there really isn't anything massive that stands out from the other places we have looked at. The extras – size of living rooms, bath, cosiness, garden – just all add up.
After bidding goodbye to cathartic estate agent, I call S to sort out a second viewing. She suggests the same evening, and does well to suppress her anti-North Acton feelings as we meet at the tube and go for a beer at the only mildly dodgy pub round the corner before viewing. Afterwards she says, "I want to live there." Sorted.
Narrow, with cats
As we're in the neigbourhood, we stop in at a place being sold privately on the web. It's more expensive and a little small, although the bedroom is nice and there is a huge back garden, including a shed. I feel like I'm squeezing down the corridor to a decent dining kitchen. The owner has a cat. She looks like a cat person. After much to-ing and fro-ing she has decided to move, but we won't be buying.
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We're starting to get a solid idea of what is available around the £170k mark: reception and bedroom slightly smaller than we'd like; communal garden if any; bath if you're lucky. Any more and there's something else wrong, either the quality of the area or the distance from transport or, as with Quirky by the Broadway, it has no proper windows and an underground pit for a bedroom. Either we need to look elsewhere or scale back our want list.
Records for walls
In an effort to broaden horizons area-wise I embark on a tube trip to Caledonia Road after seeing an estate agent's photo of a vast-lounged one-bed flat with a small garden to itself. Things don't start well – it's on a busy corner, opposite a massive council block and when slick Bollywood-wannabe opens the front door there's a distinct smell of wee.
Once inside, it soon becomes apparent why the lounge looks so big. Current incumbent has taken out the bedroom wall and replaced it with a bookcase full of 33rpm records. It's a studio flat of his own making. Kitchen is a building site ("We told him the new owner would want to do their own thing," SBW explains amidst the plasterboard) and back yard is small and grotty.
Nice idea, bad execution
Fortunately the trip is not completely wasted. SBW has another place just down the road, where the cars that have blazed around the corner have slowed to a more respectable pace. First floor, two beds, no lounge, massive kitchen, shower room that requires standing sideways to enter.
Sound odd? It is, although the sentiment is a good one. The owner has converted the original large bathroom into a second bed, and nabbed half the entrance hall for a shower room. He could have stopped there, but he then put a kitchen around the chimney butt in the largest room – the fitted cooker juts out into the middle of the room.
There are a couple of choices here:
1.Put a sofa into the kitchen and put up with the cooker intruding, and the noise of washing machine etc. Have a spare bedroom.
2.Turn the larger of the two bedrooms into the lounge, maybe even make an arch from dining kitchen into that room, and use the smaller room to sleep in. Trouble is there wouldn't be wardrobe space in the smaller bedroom.
It's got size, but the proportions are all wrong, and I'd soon lose patience with the miniscule shower/washing/loo space.
Spinster lime
Just downstairs from Bachelor-pad pink in that purpose-built block backing onto the railway line in Acton in a flat the same size with an asking price £10k higher. We decided it was worth a look to find out what we could do with the cheaper version upstairs once the crap was removed, the walls were scrubbed and the carpet shampooed. I'm visiting with a different estate agent, so this is a test of ingenuity as I express surprise at the amount of off-road parking and make the same joke about the sticking front door as I made on the last visit with PSB a couple of weeks ago.
First the estate agent, then the flat: He's driving a Ford Ka, a women's car, he says, because he smashed his other one reversing into a woman driver. He's not used to small cars, apparently. Until a couple of months ago he was in the States, driving a Lexus, bought for him by his rich wife, with whom it didn't work out. Now he's working for peanuts in West London and frightened stiff by his tyrannical female boss. I get all this before we even arrive at aforementioned Ka, and I surmised the last bit after observing office etiquette.
The radio is on, but the flat is empty. The previous resident has exited, leaving only her stereo, a leopard-print scarf and hat and some little post-it notes for the estate agent reminding them to switch off the lights. In a furnished house a stereo might work to fool would-be thieves that you've just nipped to the loo, but when the stereo is the only thing in the house it's pretty obvious, in my opinion, that you haven't.
Nicer, less smelly and apparently ready to take an offer. Not terribly big but a possible and – a new discovery on my second visit – West Acton tube is a short stroll away.
Click
We're getting dangerously close to North Acton as we stop at the next place. In fact, as I look out of the front window I can see the buildings surrounding the tube station, to which I used to trek every morning from my old place, before S moved south. She joined me there for three days before declaring she couldn't stand it past the weekend.
North Acton is a mass of (mainly) industrial estate and council houses (rather than blocks) bordered on one side by the A40 and on another by the vast railway yards around Willesden Junction.
This place is at least on the other side of the A40, though, and once inside there is no hint of the nearby traffic. It's cosy, with a larger than average lounge, complete with an iron fireplace, and the first kitchen I have seen with enough room for a table. The current occupants have the largest double bed I've ever seen, dwarfing the bedroom, which is perhaps a little small but has fitted wardrobes.
Outside, facing south, is a communal garden with a decent lawn and a park bench. There's an allocated parking spot out front. There are four flats but only two share our front door.
There are a few nice touches but there really isn't anything massive that stands out from the other places we have looked at. The extras – size of living rooms, bath, cosiness, garden – just all add up.
After bidding goodbye to cathartic estate agent, I call S to sort out a second viewing. She suggests the same evening, and does well to suppress her anti-North Acton feelings as we meet at the tube and go for a beer at the only mildly dodgy pub round the corner before viewing. Afterwards she says, "I want to live there." Sorted.
Narrow, with cats
As we're in the neigbourhood, we stop in at a place being sold privately on the web. It's more expensive and a little small, although the bedroom is nice and there is a huge back garden, including a shed. I feel like I'm squeezing down the corridor to a decent dining kitchen. The owner has a cat. She looks like a cat person. After much to-ing and fro-ing she has decided to move, but we won't be buying.
Friday, February 06, 2004
Chunky labrador-type isn't as slow as I'd reckoned. Quirky by the Broadway has gone under offer at the full asking price, before S had a chance to look at it. I've spent the last 24 hours working out where my computer desk would go, wondering where I should position the sofa and inventing mechanisms to get tea from the kitchen, down the void to the bedroom. Back to square one, for the second time in two days.
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Leg-stretching, parts I and II
I used to have to keep my hiking boots in the car, along with assorted other crap like a basketball and a few boxes of books, because there wasn't enough storage space in our first floor place. Not sure where they are now, but I would need them for either of the places I've looked at in the last 24 hours.
The first would be ideal for a car driver. The only problem being that the rest of London isn't, as our stint in an unmoving line of traffic on the way proves. It is a nicely-sized but unremarkable second floor place in a purpose-built block on Dukes Meadows, backing onto the river in Chiswick. Lovely spot, inoffensive house – big entrance hall that could fit a computer desk and even loft space - miles from anywhere. Not only a 15-minute walk from the route of any bus going towards work, but not a supermarket in sight. Chirpy estate agent, still living with parents in Chiswick, won't be getting any commission from me.
Friday morning sees me off work and trying to do my bit, a day before S sets off on an epic of house-viewing that will put me to shame.
However, even my day-off apathy is no match for Mr Apathetic, who works in Brixton and has a garden flat on the market at £165k on the Kennington/Camberwell borders. The photo on the website looks nice, I put in a call straight off, and Mr A has trouble motivating himself to make an appointment.
It's pouring with rain. The blurb that says a 15 minute walk from Oval tube is spot on, but it's pouring with rain and I'm really pacing. Mr A gets there a few minutes late, and takes a while getting out of the car. House is lovely – security gate before door and large communal back garden, oversize lounge with kitchen as an alcove, smallish bedroom with an Aladin's cave of "dressing rooms" (old coal bunkers) off. There is basically a walk- in wardrobe big enough for both of us, proper wood floor in the lounge, an arty resident who has put mirrors in odd places but to good effect. Apparently one potential buyer pulled out late because the place was too dark. It isn't, especially compared with our current place, which is still fine by us. I posit a "definitely maybe" and Mr A responds with the kind offer of a lift back to the tube.
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I used to have to keep my hiking boots in the car, along with assorted other crap like a basketball and a few boxes of books, because there wasn't enough storage space in our first floor place. Not sure where they are now, but I would need them for either of the places I've looked at in the last 24 hours.
The first would be ideal for a car driver. The only problem being that the rest of London isn't, as our stint in an unmoving line of traffic on the way proves. It is a nicely-sized but unremarkable second floor place in a purpose-built block on Dukes Meadows, backing onto the river in Chiswick. Lovely spot, inoffensive house – big entrance hall that could fit a computer desk and even loft space - miles from anywhere. Not only a 15-minute walk from the route of any bus going towards work, but not a supermarket in sight. Chirpy estate agent, still living with parents in Chiswick, won't be getting any commission from me.
Friday morning sees me off work and trying to do my bit, a day before S sets off on an epic of house-viewing that will put me to shame.
However, even my day-off apathy is no match for Mr Apathetic, who works in Brixton and has a garden flat on the market at £165k on the Kennington/Camberwell borders. The photo on the website looks nice, I put in a call straight off, and Mr A has trouble motivating himself to make an appointment.
It's pouring with rain. The blurb that says a 15 minute walk from Oval tube is spot on, but it's pouring with rain and I'm really pacing. Mr A gets there a few minutes late, and takes a while getting out of the car. House is lovely – security gate before door and large communal back garden, oversize lounge with kitchen as an alcove, smallish bedroom with an Aladin's cave of "dressing rooms" (old coal bunkers) off. There is basically a walk- in wardrobe big enough for both of us, proper wood floor in the lounge, an arty resident who has put mirrors in odd places but to good effect. Apparently one potential buyer pulled out late because the place was too dark. It isn't, especially compared with our current place, which is still fine by us. I posit a "definitely maybe" and Mr A responds with the kind offer of a lift back to the tube.
Thursday, February 05, 2004
After much agonising, flirtation and discussion we have decide to end our week-long relationship with PB and his garden flat in Acton. It took a second date, pre-work to see whether we would respect it in the morning, but the doubts started to flourish as the day went on.
Aside from the few doubts we had about the place – small, square, single-glazed windows at eye-level in the bedroom and lounge plus proximity to the main road – we didn't want to be rushed into making a decision by a vendor who was threatening to let if he didn't get the right price.
Late last night S and I came to the conclusion we weren't enough in love with the place to dive in and make a commitment. Well, we offered £167.5k just to see if he would bite, knowing he probably wouldn't accept below 169. S says PSB took it on the chin with no hard feelings but I bet he was straight off to buy a bottle of thunderbird.
On Monday, by the way, a meeting with a pre-pubescent mortgage advisor confirmed our budget around the £170k mark. Surprisingly we could take out quite a bit more, if we had the five percent deposit to back it up. But then the repayments would be more than the £1k per month we're paying now in rent, and which is only just comfortable.
Quirky by the Broadway
It being my day off I take a trip to see an intriguing "mews cottage" near Fulham Broadway. The property spec has no photo, and the plans have a square in the middle of the flat that says "void" in it. Apart from a small fear of inadvertent time travel, I'm eager to see the place, if only to find out what said void consists of.
The mews in question is really a large driveway, leading off the main road to what appears to be a fishmonger's. The roadway isn't particularly spacious but the house number I've been given is a lovely, white painted place with hanging baskets outside. The estate agent - a chunky type who has probably only been outside SW6 to go to the rugby in Twickenham or walk the labrador in Richmond Park – has got it wrong. We're next door, a grimy dark blue door set into a grimy wall.
Inside it's like Dr Who's Tardis. The ground floor is large and open-plan – half dining kitchen, half brick-walled conservatory and pretty spacious. There's a large cupboard and a shower room also above ground, then a set of stairs down to a smallish bedroom – and the reality of the void.
There is no natural light in the bedroom, just a square in the ceiling that goes into the conservatory-like lounge, with a banister stopping you from leaping through from upstairs and directly into bed. Labrador owner is honest – the bedroom is a little odd and the price reflects it. But, inside at least, this place really has character. S is set for a visit on Saturday – she likes quirky.
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Aside from the few doubts we had about the place – small, square, single-glazed windows at eye-level in the bedroom and lounge plus proximity to the main road – we didn't want to be rushed into making a decision by a vendor who was threatening to let if he didn't get the right price.
Late last night S and I came to the conclusion we weren't enough in love with the place to dive in and make a commitment. Well, we offered £167.5k just to see if he would bite, knowing he probably wouldn't accept below 169. S says PSB took it on the chin with no hard feelings but I bet he was straight off to buy a bottle of thunderbird.
On Monday, by the way, a meeting with a pre-pubescent mortgage advisor confirmed our budget around the £170k mark. Surprisingly we could take out quite a bit more, if we had the five percent deposit to back it up. But then the repayments would be more than the £1k per month we're paying now in rent, and which is only just comfortable.
Quirky by the Broadway
It being my day off I take a trip to see an intriguing "mews cottage" near Fulham Broadway. The property spec has no photo, and the plans have a square in the middle of the flat that says "void" in it. Apart from a small fear of inadvertent time travel, I'm eager to see the place, if only to find out what said void consists of.
The mews in question is really a large driveway, leading off the main road to what appears to be a fishmonger's. The roadway isn't particularly spacious but the house number I've been given is a lovely, white painted place with hanging baskets outside. The estate agent - a chunky type who has probably only been outside SW6 to go to the rugby in Twickenham or walk the labrador in Richmond Park – has got it wrong. We're next door, a grimy dark blue door set into a grimy wall.
Inside it's like Dr Who's Tardis. The ground floor is large and open-plan – half dining kitchen, half brick-walled conservatory and pretty spacious. There's a large cupboard and a shower room also above ground, then a set of stairs down to a smallish bedroom – and the reality of the void.
There is no natural light in the bedroom, just a square in the ceiling that goes into the conservatory-like lounge, with a banister stopping you from leaping through from upstairs and directly into bed. Labrador owner is honest – the bedroom is a little odd and the price reflects it. But, inside at least, this place really has character. S is set for a visit on Saturday – she likes quirky.
Monday, February 02, 2004
It’s strange how years of public school leave you unprepared for normal life.
A period of introspection? More a knee-jerk reaction on meeting Public School Boy, our estate agent for this Saturday morning, who is wearing a suit but no tie, as if it’s exeat weekend.
I’ve grown used to flash harrys trying to sell me over-priced square-footage. I’m not ready for stuttering honesty. After a week of exploring other people’s property I feel I know if the seller will accept five grand less without the fun being spoiled.
I want a speedy motor parked on a double-yellow outside the shop not a four-block walk through Acton in the drizzle. And I’m sick of being shown what’s what by people who have barely started shaving.
Not worth a visit
PSB has to wait for a senior colleague to show his people round a flat before we get a look. They are emerging, disgruntled as we arrive. “You’ll see for yourself – it’s tiny,” says miserable female on the way out, her mood not having been improved by a broken heel, which is causing her to limp comically.
It is, and it’s still a building site, on the first floor, and there is only a small storage heater in the lounge.
Next!
Bachelor-pad pink
According to PSB, this first-floor apartment in a purpose-built block backing onto the railway line isn’t that great – cluttered, in need of decorating and generally unappealing. Way to go, boy, sell that pad.
As it turns out, though, we are able to put our initial disgust to one side as we squeeze past the piles of papers and cramped furnishings and try to ignore the stale cigarette smell that permeates the entire place.
This is so clearly a bachelor pad it could have been designed by Neil Morrissey and Martin Clunes, with tin of lager in one hand and badly-cleaned paintbrush in the other, spreading peach-pink paint with cavalier amateurishness. It’s probably the sort of place I’d have if S were not there to keep me in check.
Absent incumbent forgot to measure the height of his kitchen surfaces before he bought a washing machine and dishwasher. Consequently they are sitting in the middle of the kitchen alcove, which opens onto the lounge. They are next to the sideboard, which divides the room like a breakfast bar but acts as an extension of the over-burdened desk.
But we have been so prepared for the unpleasant chaos that we manage to see the advantages of the place. It’s a little larger than many of the places we’ve seen, it’s well within our price range at a negotiable £169,950. To PSB’s delight, we’re making positive noises.
First serious relationship
The good vibes sustain us south of Uxbridge Road, as PSB tells us he’s a keen sailor, chats about rowing and, added to the job he did on the last place, makes me feel guilty for my initial assessment.
Despite the proximity of a main road we like this “garden flat” from the off. There’s a bit of a squeeze past the iron staircase that serves the upper floors to our door at the back, but behind the house sits a nice garden plot.
Location-wise it is great, with the bus to Shepherds Bush five minutes in one direction and Acton Town tube even closer in the other.
Inside there is a shower room and kitchen – big enough but not spacious – at ground level. Down a few steps is a large, square lounge of almost the same size as our current place. It is without nooks and crannies which means it is a little featureless but doesn’t dictate our decorating plans.
The bedroom is properly proportioned for our needs – S gets the side nearest the door while I get a couple of feet next to the wall for my accumulated tat and a radiator to dry my damp kit.
Downsides: small, single-glazed windows in bedroom and lounge, allowing the noise of the road through, and all the other unknowns that occur as you ponder whether to make an offer.
PSB might have to meet us for a second date.
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A period of introspection? More a knee-jerk reaction on meeting Public School Boy, our estate agent for this Saturday morning, who is wearing a suit but no tie, as if it’s exeat weekend.
I’ve grown used to flash harrys trying to sell me over-priced square-footage. I’m not ready for stuttering honesty. After a week of exploring other people’s property I feel I know if the seller will accept five grand less without the fun being spoiled.
I want a speedy motor parked on a double-yellow outside the shop not a four-block walk through Acton in the drizzle. And I’m sick of being shown what’s what by people who have barely started shaving.
Not worth a visit
PSB has to wait for a senior colleague to show his people round a flat before we get a look. They are emerging, disgruntled as we arrive. “You’ll see for yourself – it’s tiny,” says miserable female on the way out, her mood not having been improved by a broken heel, which is causing her to limp comically.
It is, and it’s still a building site, on the first floor, and there is only a small storage heater in the lounge.
Next!
Bachelor-pad pink
According to PSB, this first-floor apartment in a purpose-built block backing onto the railway line isn’t that great – cluttered, in need of decorating and generally unappealing. Way to go, boy, sell that pad.
As it turns out, though, we are able to put our initial disgust to one side as we squeeze past the piles of papers and cramped furnishings and try to ignore the stale cigarette smell that permeates the entire place.
This is so clearly a bachelor pad it could have been designed by Neil Morrissey and Martin Clunes, with tin of lager in one hand and badly-cleaned paintbrush in the other, spreading peach-pink paint with cavalier amateurishness. It’s probably the sort of place I’d have if S were not there to keep me in check.
Absent incumbent forgot to measure the height of his kitchen surfaces before he bought a washing machine and dishwasher. Consequently they are sitting in the middle of the kitchen alcove, which opens onto the lounge. They are next to the sideboard, which divides the room like a breakfast bar but acts as an extension of the over-burdened desk.
But we have been so prepared for the unpleasant chaos that we manage to see the advantages of the place. It’s a little larger than many of the places we’ve seen, it’s well within our price range at a negotiable £169,950. To PSB’s delight, we’re making positive noises.
First serious relationship
The good vibes sustain us south of Uxbridge Road, as PSB tells us he’s a keen sailor, chats about rowing and, added to the job he did on the last place, makes me feel guilty for my initial assessment.
Despite the proximity of a main road we like this “garden flat” from the off. There’s a bit of a squeeze past the iron staircase that serves the upper floors to our door at the back, but behind the house sits a nice garden plot.
Location-wise it is great, with the bus to Shepherds Bush five minutes in one direction and Acton Town tube even closer in the other.
Inside there is a shower room and kitchen – big enough but not spacious – at ground level. Down a few steps is a large, square lounge of almost the same size as our current place. It is without nooks and crannies which means it is a little featureless but doesn’t dictate our decorating plans.
The bedroom is properly proportioned for our needs – S gets the side nearest the door while I get a couple of feet next to the wall for my accumulated tat and a radiator to dry my damp kit.
Downsides: small, single-glazed windows in bedroom and lounge, allowing the noise of the road through, and all the other unknowns that occur as you ponder whether to make an offer.
PSB might have to meet us for a second date.
Friday, January 30, 2004
Not even with your granny thrown in
Wide Boy is on the phone trying to clinch a deal when we arrive at W’s.
“Tell you what, I’ll throw in my grandmother – well proportioned, conveniently located, all mod cons,” or something like that.
But as he hawks he casts continual glances across the office to his female boss, who obviously wears the pin-striped trousers and wide lapels. She’s not going to be happy with the results from his 6pm, but then she can hardly be surprised given the material he has to work with.
This second-floor flat in an imposing town house on Uxbridge Road is light, modern and recently refurbished, with all the white goods included. But by God it’s tiny!
Last time out I started wondering if my expectations in terms of size were too high, but I would challenge anyone with arms and legs to live comfortably in this place. There is an indent in the wall of the bedroom a couple of feet deep and four foot wide. An old fireplace? No, it’s the reason the sofa fits in the lounge.
WB adopts a forlorn air as he leads us away from his Lord and mistress. The feet-on-desk act is a front. And he knows we won’t bite. He’s going through the motions as he fills us in on the service charge and council tax. I feel a bit sorry for him but I’m not going for this place even if he does sweeten the deal with his relatives.
S is beginning to get disillusioned as we pick our way home on frozen pavements. If we had a little more money it would be a lot easier. I’m still optimistic for now. For a start we still haven’t worked out our mortgage figure, and there is no pressure to move out of our current place.
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Wide Boy is on the phone trying to clinch a deal when we arrive at W’s.
“Tell you what, I’ll throw in my grandmother – well proportioned, conveniently located, all mod cons,” or something like that.
But as he hawks he casts continual glances across the office to his female boss, who obviously wears the pin-striped trousers and wide lapels. She’s not going to be happy with the results from his 6pm, but then she can hardly be surprised given the material he has to work with.
This second-floor flat in an imposing town house on Uxbridge Road is light, modern and recently refurbished, with all the white goods included. But by God it’s tiny!
Last time out I started wondering if my expectations in terms of size were too high, but I would challenge anyone with arms and legs to live comfortably in this place. There is an indent in the wall of the bedroom a couple of feet deep and four foot wide. An old fireplace? No, it’s the reason the sofa fits in the lounge.
WB adopts a forlorn air as he leads us away from his Lord and mistress. The feet-on-desk act is a front. And he knows we won’t bite. He’s going through the motions as he fills us in on the service charge and council tax. I feel a bit sorry for him but I’m not going for this place even if he does sweeten the deal with his relatives.
S is beginning to get disillusioned as we pick our way home on frozen pavements. If we had a little more money it would be a lot easier. I’m still optimistic for now. For a start we still haven’t worked out our mortgage figure, and there is no pressure to move out of our current place.
Thursday, January 29, 2004
Snow-covered shoebox
It’s sprinkling light, cold rain as I leave home, but by the time I am round the corner at a Hammersmith estate agent there is an inch of snow on the ground, and just as much on my hat and coat as I jump up and down outside the shop.
There wouldn’t be enough room to make anything like that range of physical movement inside the flat we slog our way through the blizzard to.
On the second floor of a 1930s era block, it has a nice enough lounge but the bedroom barely has any space around the queen-size and the kitchen is like a cockpit.
Nice views from the windows, though, as West London disappears beneath the blanket.
No thanks. I’d rather deal with the elements.
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It’s sprinkling light, cold rain as I leave home, but by the time I am round the corner at a Hammersmith estate agent there is an inch of snow on the ground, and just as much on my hat and coat as I jump up and down outside the shop.
There wouldn’t be enough room to make anything like that range of physical movement inside the flat we slog our way through the blizzard to.
On the second floor of a 1930s era block, it has a nice enough lounge but the bedroom barely has any space around the queen-size and the kitchen is like a cockpit.
Nice views from the windows, though, as West London disappears beneath the blanket.
No thanks. I’d rather deal with the elements.
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
Just spoken to a mortgage advisor for the first time. He's offering me a B-level service, apparently, telling me about the range of products on offer at NR. He's Geordie, about 13 years old, and is no doubt wearing a sharp suit.
"We've got Standard Base Rate, Off-set, Tracker, Cashback, Discount and Fixed Rate. Which one would you like me to tell you more about?"
"Erm". Toss coin. "Fixed Rate".
"Well you can have two, three, five or seven year fixed with £500 cashback. Which one would you prefer?"
How the hell should I know. You're the advisor. "Three" It's a nice number, not on either extreme. I get lost a bit here, although I've got some notes about fixed terms and obligations and flexibility. When he mentions the Flex I can't help but let my mind wander to the Dallas Cowboys defense of the same name in the mid-1980s.
The seven-year flex discount means that if you fail to keep up your repayments until 2011, Randy "Manster" White will personally come round your house and throw you around like he would have done a quarterback before the unnecessary roughness rules were toughened.
There's an payment protection charge of £54 per month, which isn't a standard requirement, according to Geordie 13-year-old, but you just need it basically.
Right.
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"We've got Standard Base Rate, Off-set, Tracker, Cashback, Discount and Fixed Rate. Which one would you like me to tell you more about?"
"Erm". Toss coin. "Fixed Rate".
"Well you can have two, three, five or seven year fixed with £500 cashback. Which one would you prefer?"
How the hell should I know. You're the advisor. "Three" It's a nice number, not on either extreme. I get lost a bit here, although I've got some notes about fixed terms and obligations and flexibility. When he mentions the Flex I can't help but let my mind wander to the Dallas Cowboys defense of the same name in the mid-1980s.
The seven-year flex discount means that if you fail to keep up your repayments until 2011, Randy "Manster" White will personally come round your house and throw you around like he would have done a quarterback before the unnecessary roughness rules were toughened.
There's an payment protection charge of £54 per month, which isn't a standard requirement, according to Geordie 13-year-old, but you just need it basically.
Right.
F's estate agents in Ealing is a haven for failed boy band members, who are this week modelling the haircuts favoured by Busted. Our man for the hour is Charlie Busted, who bounces out to his new Mini as if playing the guitar part to Year 3000.
As well as being a wannabe chart-topper, Charlie has ambitions for the rally circuit, as he scrunches his gears and flicks us round the back of Ealing Broadway. "Quick right, down into second, power, power ..."
Meanwhile he tells us about his thing for "Hoover space". You have to have a spot to keep your vacuum cleaner out of the way. I'd like to tell him about sociology textbook space, old rowing kit space (if I am buried in my kit box there will be space for me to take a few comforts for the journey), electric guitar space, general lazing about spreading space ...
Purple third floor, West Ealing
Our first screeching stop is in West Ealing, where a smallish flat sits on the third floor above a row of shops. We take the back route in, avoiding what Charlie tells us is a nail parlour. The flat nestles in the eaves of the building. Slightly emaciated current resident has a residence painted a light purple, perhaps a shade applied in the commercial premises below. The place is nice enough, but we would need a small hoover. Kitchen is an alcove in the lounge, although that lounge is sizeable enough. Bedroom a bit small – barely any space for a wardrobe. Nice bathroom but with no natural light. Ten minutes walk to Ealing Broadway station is probably on the limits of our commuting-on-foot allowance.
Art Deco ground floor with displayable bedroom
Charlie Busted having crow-barred his car out of the parking spot at the last place, he takes us up the road and round the corner to an Art Deco block. The communal front door has gleaming doorbells (including a bell with "tradesmen" on it – I've always fancied one of those) and a green bulb in the porch. "Glad it's not a red light," S observes, failing to account for one possible line of trade which might help pay the mortgage. We would probably have to apply for change of use, though.
Flat is nice without being breath-taking. Faux-floorboard lino throughout and barely any furniture. The front door leads onto a long corridor – perfect for Scalextric, another thing there might need to be space for. For a small flats there are loads of corners and just as many doors. Round a tight corner in mid-corridor is a door for the bathroom and another for an independent toilet. Charlie, S and I could do with a country dancing caller to negotiate our movements. "If you dosey-doe here you might be able to see if there is any double glazing in the bathroom while someone else is examining the wooly orange toilet cover".
Bedroom is small and a bit odd – empty but for a small stereo and a low bed – but the fun bit is a sliding door onto the lounge. Can imagine a John-and-Yoko style bed-in, while friends sit around talking about world peace, enjoy the use of the communal gardens and play Scalextric.
Early attraction off Hangar Lane
Hangar Lane? Yes that's the biggest traffic black spot in West London. Not sure who is most pleased when the anticipated traffic jam fails to materialise – Charlie, who has another appointment booked for seven or me, contemplating more than five minutes with my knees round my ears in the front seat of the Mini. The neighbourhood ain't great – it's Park Royal after all. But the road our prospective place is on is nicely sheltered from the post-work exodus. It's a 1930s semi, split into two and we're looking at the ground floor, where the current resident, we're told, is shortly off travelling.
I mention it to current resident, who says he's just keen to travel out of London as it's doing his head in. He has been expending his nervous energy on keeping his place clean but the effect is impressive. It's got proper wood floors, a decent sized lounge looking out on the front garden, bedroom the same size as our current one with a big fitted wardrobe, with current resident's clothes stuffed inside in a way that mine could be soon. He's explored putting a French window from the bedroom into the garden, which has also been split in half to make it about five yards wide but stretching back a helluva way. It's dark and we could get lost exploring all the way back to the garden seats, through the rose arbour.
We like it, but we've still got a million other things to sort out, like where the cash is coming from. This one is on the market at £185k. We can afford maybe 10k less than that and, unless everyone else is put off by the location, surely someone is bound to top that.
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As well as being a wannabe chart-topper, Charlie has ambitions for the rally circuit, as he scrunches his gears and flicks us round the back of Ealing Broadway. "Quick right, down into second, power, power ..."
Meanwhile he tells us about his thing for "Hoover space". You have to have a spot to keep your vacuum cleaner out of the way. I'd like to tell him about sociology textbook space, old rowing kit space (if I am buried in my kit box there will be space for me to take a few comforts for the journey), electric guitar space, general lazing about spreading space ...
Purple third floor, West Ealing
Our first screeching stop is in West Ealing, where a smallish flat sits on the third floor above a row of shops. We take the back route in, avoiding what Charlie tells us is a nail parlour. The flat nestles in the eaves of the building. Slightly emaciated current resident has a residence painted a light purple, perhaps a shade applied in the commercial premises below. The place is nice enough, but we would need a small hoover. Kitchen is an alcove in the lounge, although that lounge is sizeable enough. Bedroom a bit small – barely any space for a wardrobe. Nice bathroom but with no natural light. Ten minutes walk to Ealing Broadway station is probably on the limits of our commuting-on-foot allowance.
Art Deco ground floor with displayable bedroom
Charlie Busted having crow-barred his car out of the parking spot at the last place, he takes us up the road and round the corner to an Art Deco block. The communal front door has gleaming doorbells (including a bell with "tradesmen" on it – I've always fancied one of those) and a green bulb in the porch. "Glad it's not a red light," S observes, failing to account for one possible line of trade which might help pay the mortgage. We would probably have to apply for change of use, though.
Flat is nice without being breath-taking. Faux-floorboard lino throughout and barely any furniture. The front door leads onto a long corridor – perfect for Scalextric, another thing there might need to be space for. For a small flats there are loads of corners and just as many doors. Round a tight corner in mid-corridor is a door for the bathroom and another for an independent toilet. Charlie, S and I could do with a country dancing caller to negotiate our movements. "If you dosey-doe here you might be able to see if there is any double glazing in the bathroom while someone else is examining the wooly orange toilet cover".
Bedroom is small and a bit odd – empty but for a small stereo and a low bed – but the fun bit is a sliding door onto the lounge. Can imagine a John-and-Yoko style bed-in, while friends sit around talking about world peace, enjoy the use of the communal gardens and play Scalextric.
Early attraction off Hangar Lane
Hangar Lane? Yes that's the biggest traffic black spot in West London. Not sure who is most pleased when the anticipated traffic jam fails to materialise – Charlie, who has another appointment booked for seven or me, contemplating more than five minutes with my knees round my ears in the front seat of the Mini. The neighbourhood ain't great – it's Park Royal after all. But the road our prospective place is on is nicely sheltered from the post-work exodus. It's a 1930s semi, split into two and we're looking at the ground floor, where the current resident, we're told, is shortly off travelling.
I mention it to current resident, who says he's just keen to travel out of London as it's doing his head in. He has been expending his nervous energy on keeping his place clean but the effect is impressive. It's got proper wood floors, a decent sized lounge looking out on the front garden, bedroom the same size as our current one with a big fitted wardrobe, with current resident's clothes stuffed inside in a way that mine could be soon. He's explored putting a French window from the bedroom into the garden, which has also been split in half to make it about five yards wide but stretching back a helluva way. It's dark and we could get lost exploring all the way back to the garden seats, through the rose arbour.
We like it, but we've still got a million other things to sort out, like where the cash is coming from. This one is on the market at £185k. We can afford maybe 10k less than that and, unless everyone else is put off by the location, surely someone is bound to top that.
