Following up my last post about the challenges of flatshare hunting in London, I think it’s only fitting that I whinge on a bit about that other nightmare of the moving-house experience: Dealing with estate agents on move-out, or the pursuit of the deposit.
So, you might have noticed that one of the striking differences between living in London and basically anywhere else is the whole process of flat-hunting, flat-finding, flat-moving-in, and then, later, flat-moving-out. While I’ve spent the last month on the super-stressful path towards a new flat, I have also been dealing with the equal anxiety of making sure that, when I leave One Florence Street, I get my whole deposit back.
You see, the estate agent in London is one of the most hated creatures on the earth. And rightfully so. Honestly, if I met a guy in a bar and found out he was an estate agent, I would promptly turn on my heel and run away. It seems to me their only purpose is to be as difficult as possible through the entire experience, from moving in right through to moving out.
To be fair, my experience with apartment hunting back in Canada is limited. When I moved to Toronto, I found my adorable little bachelorette pad after only two or three other viewings, and I set up shop for four years. I had it real good: my landlord/building manager lived across the hall and was literally available 24-7 for any situation that arose.
In London, the landlords do not really factor into the process. Instead, their identities are shrouded in darkness and they put all the power into the hands of the estate agents, who shoddily manage their properties, making life for the tenant as difficult and disorganized as possible.
By estate agents I am referring to the likes of Foxtons, Savills, Ludlow Thompson, Winkworths and the incompetent crew over at Thomson Currie, which I have had the painful pleasure to deal with for the past 12 months.
In searching for a flat, you must inevitably sign up with these estate agents, registering your requirements and then waiting for that elusive match. For the privilege of arranging viewings for the tenant and putting together a tenancy agreement, the estate agent takes at least £100, not to mention whatever exorbitant fees they charge the property owner. At move-in, they also take a hefty deposit, which is a guarantee that the tenant is not going to trash the flat during their time there.
I do think that the general principal of a deposit is fair enough. But, what happens here is a far cry from the Canadian tradition of forking over first and last month’s rent. Back home, you pay for those beginning and ending months, but nothing else is on the line. And there isn’t some ridiculous administrative fee for literally changing names and dates on a contract.
When Lauren and I moved in last year, we had to have the contract redone about three times, due to the complete disregard of a few of our very clear requests, not to mention the fact that the agreement was made out for Lauren Patterson and Jenniffer Fleming, blatant spelling errors and name changes repeated over and over again.
I mean, I would gladly pay an administrative charge if I knew I was going to be looked after, with prompt responses to maintenance and other queries, and general competency. But that is not the case. Our numerous requests had to be constantly followed up, locks changed more than once after a few scary incidents of being locked in the bathroom, and simple maintenance to the outdoor space blatantly ignored.
And all this without any contact with the actual owner of the property. I completely understand the need for a landlord to enlist the expertise (I use that term loosely and ironically) of a management company for the day-to-day needs of a building and its tenants. But at least, with a known landlord, you have the peace of mind that they care about the property and the person living in it, while the estate agent simply sees you as one in a multitude of addresses.
Anyways, this is a broad rant about estate agents in general, but I promise there is a personal point somewhere in here. My estate agents have a big chunk of my and Lauren’s money (£1,100 each, to be specific), so it doesn’t get much more personal than that. It is basically key to my survival to have all of that returned to me so, coming into the home stretch of living at One Florence Street, and with my lovely roomie returned to Canada, I became obsessed with making sure the flat looked identical to the day we moved in.
Even though we are very tidy and organized tenants, there is still that inevitable wear and tear of 12 months of living. (Not to mention a certain mishap that left a splash of red wine up one of the walls.) When we moved in the flat had been newly painted a sparkling white, and the countertops and appliances newly fitted. So I was focused on returning it to that pristine condition.
Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever cleaned so diligently in my entire life. And, on top of my own work, I also brought in a professional cleaning service, just to be on the safe side. Last weekend, clad in sweatpants, blasting tunes, sipping whiskey, and armed with every single cleaning product known to man, I set to work. I washed walls, bleached the porcelain bathroom fittings and kitchen sink, cleaned windows and cupboards, dusted baseboards, swept and mopped the hardwood floors, and grouted and repainted little nail holes where we had hung our limited art.
In fact, I was so pleased that the generic white paint I had picked up at my local DIY shop blended right into the previous coat, that I obsessively covered various scuff marks – not to mention a certain red wine stain that had made an impressive Pollack-style canvas out of one wall. Yesterday, with all of our belongings (much more than any temporary London inhabitant should own) moved out, the professional cleaners took care of any nook and cranny I might have missed.
And, this morning, the last step in the whole nightmare process was completed. I met with an independent inventory checker, as we did when we first moved in, so he could determine whether the flat was being left in a suitable condition. I was expecting a cold and uninformative third party, based on past experience, but this guy was friendly, and reassured me that there was only a missing light bulb that would be flagged up as a tenant responsibility. Big sigh of relief.
So now we wait for our deposits to be transferred back to us. I anticipate we will get the whole sum back (though I suppose they would be in their right to charge me for the cost of a single light bulb). I am back at my gracious and considerate cousin Pearl’s house, set up in the West Wing, which I called home for my first six weeks in London two years ago. I honestly don’t know what I would do without her.
And, of course, the flat-hunt continues. Hopefully, I will discover the perfect new home in Angel with a great double-room, lovely new roomies and, if I’m really lucky, a private landlord rather than an estate agent.
Saturday 27 August 2011
Saturday 20 August 2011
The ups and downs of flat-hunting in London
I had intended to wait for a happy ending before I launched into the tale of my latest flat-hunting adventures. But, yesterday marked exactly one week until I must vacate my lovely Florence Street flat, and I am no closer to finding a new home than when I first embarked on the search a few weeks ago.
It was a hard decision to give up my flat. I have spent one amazing year here. But rents are up and I need to save a bit of money every month. It turned out, once the flat was on the market and then quickly let, that finding another two bedroom in the neighbourhood I love, and to save a few quid on rent each month, was a better idea than it was a reality.
My roomie of three months, Donna, who took over Lauren’s room when she returned to Canada, had a very different list of flat requirements than I did, the most important of which was the preferred borough. She wanted to be closer to work (near Victoria station, so Pimlico, South Kensington, Chelsea, Fulham) and I was having serious issues imagining a life outside of Angel, or Islington in general.
So we have decided to part ways, as flatmates but not friends, and she soon found a lovely flat in Pimlico, with an 8-minute walk to the office. Meanwhile, I have spent the month of August seeing flat after flat, and am still essentially homeless. I am looking into flatshares, and have seen 12 flats in the past two weeks, but that perfect new home still evades me.
This is not to say that I didn’t love any of those 12 flats. In fact, I did. I fell in love with three of them. But those flats didn’t love me. Hunting for a flatshare is much like dating: Even if you meet a guy you like, feel the chemistry and the attraction, it doesn’t mean that he is going to feel the same way. The rejection is like that empty-stomach-drop of a break-up with a really great guy. It is gutting.
So, imagine having your heart broken three times in three weeks. Now you can imagine my general emotional state these past few weeks.
The first flat I fell for was off Essex Road, really close to my cousin Pearl’s. The rent was ideal, the girls who lived there were super-friendly, and the place was really adorable, with large living and dining area, and a great kitchen that opened into a backyard. I expressed interest, waited with bated breath for a second date, but they chose someone else instead.
The next flat came along the same week, this time off Upper Street, with three mixed-sex roomies, large living area and backyard space, and a young, down-to-earth landlord. For this flat, I even went on a group date with my potential new roomies – meeting one Irish girl, one French guy and one Aussie lad at a local pub. I really put myself out there. But, it turned out they had been seeing someone else the whole time. Though they were stringing along three other possible roomies, they had already essentially planned to give the room to one of their friends.
Flat #3 was at Highbury Corner, 30 steps from my favourite tube stop. It’s going to sound weird, but it was a room in a house with a couple. They were young, super cool and had a lot in common with me. I feel like she is the British version of me, and he is a chef at The Narrows, a Gordon Ramsey restaurant that I’ve been dying to try. In the 30 minutes I spent chatting with them, I fell for them pretty quickly, but it was not to be. They also picked someone else. And, by this third strike, the rejection was killing me.
Twelve flats later, I should know better. I should know how to protect my heart. But you don’t find the perfect match without diving in head-on from time to time. My first experience with this process, that first month that I lived in London back in 2009, I found the perfect flat rather quickly, and was welcomed with open arms by Justin and Arthur. I guess I was lucky back then. I never imagined that searching for a flatshare was so difficult, and finding the ideal relationship would be so emotionally wrenching.
Anyways, despite rejection after rejection, I am still open to that idyllic connection. In fact, I have a date this afternoon. It sounds almost too good to be true. Two very well priced rooms are available in a four-bedroom flat off Essex Road. I am going in blindly and, despite recent experience, getting my hopes up yet again.
I think though, like with any worthwhile relationship in the challenging world of dating, you do have to just get back out there. It can be painful, but you don’t find true love, or the perfect flat, without taking the risk.
It was a hard decision to give up my flat. I have spent one amazing year here. But rents are up and I need to save a bit of money every month. It turned out, once the flat was on the market and then quickly let, that finding another two bedroom in the neighbourhood I love, and to save a few quid on rent each month, was a better idea than it was a reality.
My roomie of three months, Donna, who took over Lauren’s room when she returned to Canada, had a very different list of flat requirements than I did, the most important of which was the preferred borough. She wanted to be closer to work (near Victoria station, so Pimlico, South Kensington, Chelsea, Fulham) and I was having serious issues imagining a life outside of Angel, or Islington in general.
So we have decided to part ways, as flatmates but not friends, and she soon found a lovely flat in Pimlico, with an 8-minute walk to the office. Meanwhile, I have spent the month of August seeing flat after flat, and am still essentially homeless. I am looking into flatshares, and have seen 12 flats in the past two weeks, but that perfect new home still evades me.
This is not to say that I didn’t love any of those 12 flats. In fact, I did. I fell in love with three of them. But those flats didn’t love me. Hunting for a flatshare is much like dating: Even if you meet a guy you like, feel the chemistry and the attraction, it doesn’t mean that he is going to feel the same way. The rejection is like that empty-stomach-drop of a break-up with a really great guy. It is gutting.
So, imagine having your heart broken three times in three weeks. Now you can imagine my general emotional state these past few weeks.
The first flat I fell for was off Essex Road, really close to my cousin Pearl’s. The rent was ideal, the girls who lived there were super-friendly, and the place was really adorable, with large living and dining area, and a great kitchen that opened into a backyard. I expressed interest, waited with bated breath for a second date, but they chose someone else instead.
The next flat came along the same week, this time off Upper Street, with three mixed-sex roomies, large living area and backyard space, and a young, down-to-earth landlord. For this flat, I even went on a group date with my potential new roomies – meeting one Irish girl, one French guy and one Aussie lad at a local pub. I really put myself out there. But, it turned out they had been seeing someone else the whole time. Though they were stringing along three other possible roomies, they had already essentially planned to give the room to one of their friends.
Flat #3 was at Highbury Corner, 30 steps from my favourite tube stop. It’s going to sound weird, but it was a room in a house with a couple. They were young, super cool and had a lot in common with me. I feel like she is the British version of me, and he is a chef at The Narrows, a Gordon Ramsey restaurant that I’ve been dying to try. In the 30 minutes I spent chatting with them, I fell for them pretty quickly, but it was not to be. They also picked someone else. And, by this third strike, the rejection was killing me.
Twelve flats later, I should know better. I should know how to protect my heart. But you don’t find the perfect match without diving in head-on from time to time. My first experience with this process, that first month that I lived in London back in 2009, I found the perfect flat rather quickly, and was welcomed with open arms by Justin and Arthur. I guess I was lucky back then. I never imagined that searching for a flatshare was so difficult, and finding the ideal relationship would be so emotionally wrenching.
Anyways, despite rejection after rejection, I am still open to that idyllic connection. In fact, I have a date this afternoon. It sounds almost too good to be true. Two very well priced rooms are available in a four-bedroom flat off Essex Road. I am going in blindly and, despite recent experience, getting my hopes up yet again.
I think though, like with any worthwhile relationship in the challenging world of dating, you do have to just get back out there. It can be painful, but you don’t find true love, or the perfect flat, without taking the risk.
Sunday 7 August 2011
Extending my Life in London
Arriving at Heathrow on Sunday morning I had my very first intensive inspection at customs (verbal not physical, thankfully). In hand I had my brand new Tier 2 migrant visa, which allows me to stay in the UK until August 2014, and the customs lady had a lot of very specific questions about my job, my company, and my time in London.
About two weeks previously I had quite a few questions myself. I had arrived in Toronto to spend 14 days with my friends and family and, within hours, I was seriously questioning how I could possibly leave again. The inevitable homesickness had overwhelmed me, as it does with every visit home, and I was yearning to re-start my life in Toronto.
That is not to say that I don’t love living and working in London. It is just to say that a big part of me feels more at home back in Canada, as it should, and that feeling can sometimes blind me from really appreciating the great opportunities and experiences I am constantly gaining from my life in the UK.
Anyways, I was home to sort out my end of a sponsorship visa. My company had jumped through all the hurdles to procure me the visa. Since my working holiday visa will be expiring as of 15 September, this was the best way for me to stay in the UK – beyond actually marrying a Brit.
The visa process ended up being a bit of a nightmare. I had intended to pop into the Toronto visa office with all my documents the very first weekday that I arrived there, and then wait to hear about the outcome through that first week. Unfortunately, there was a little situation with a non-original document that caused a minor panic attack in the visa office, and slowed my progress considerably.
While waiting for the document to be urgently posted from London, I re-booked an appointment at the Ottawa visa office for the end of the week. Long story short, the document was late (having decided to take a “short-cut” through Cincinnati), I re-scheduled the appointment for Monday, and had a mere five days to be considered, issued the visa (hopefully), and sent all my documents – including my passport, which was going to be rather important come my cross-Atlantic flight that weekend.
Obviously, I am back in London so everything worked out in my favour, but it really was touch-and-go there for a while.
Besides trying to sort out my visa through my two weeks in Canada, I had a wide range of proper Canadian summer experiences. A good deal of the time was spent submerged under water as a heatwave had swept southern Canada and the northern US, making for some very steamy weather.
I spent time at Norway Bay, swimming, boating, tubing and windsurfing with my cousins; ate well, whether it was a steak barbecue at my parents’ house, sweet potato fries at the Victory Café with the boys, or an amazing five-course meal at Luma in Toronto; basking (rather, melting) in the Ontario heatwave with a trip to Toronto island, a canoe ride along the Rideau River, and an afternoon with the girls in McKay Pond in Rockcliffe; and fun nights out, with a backyard party at Leslie’s, flatcrawl around Elgin Street to meet the Ottawa girls’ new homes, and pints on patios.
It was a really fantastic two weeks at home, but I am glad to be back in London, even back at work, and settling back into my life here. I know that, when it really comes time to return to Canada, I will make a healthy transition, since I am really excited for phase two of my life in Toronto to begin, whether that’s one year from now or three.
About two weeks previously I had quite a few questions myself. I had arrived in Toronto to spend 14 days with my friends and family and, within hours, I was seriously questioning how I could possibly leave again. The inevitable homesickness had overwhelmed me, as it does with every visit home, and I was yearning to re-start my life in Toronto.
That is not to say that I don’t love living and working in London. It is just to say that a big part of me feels more at home back in Canada, as it should, and that feeling can sometimes blind me from really appreciating the great opportunities and experiences I am constantly gaining from my life in the UK.
Anyways, I was home to sort out my end of a sponsorship visa. My company had jumped through all the hurdles to procure me the visa. Since my working holiday visa will be expiring as of 15 September, this was the best way for me to stay in the UK – beyond actually marrying a Brit.
The visa process ended up being a bit of a nightmare. I had intended to pop into the Toronto visa office with all my documents the very first weekday that I arrived there, and then wait to hear about the outcome through that first week. Unfortunately, there was a little situation with a non-original document that caused a minor panic attack in the visa office, and slowed my progress considerably.
While waiting for the document to be urgently posted from London, I re-booked an appointment at the Ottawa visa office for the end of the week. Long story short, the document was late (having decided to take a “short-cut” through Cincinnati), I re-scheduled the appointment for Monday, and had a mere five days to be considered, issued the visa (hopefully), and sent all my documents – including my passport, which was going to be rather important come my cross-Atlantic flight that weekend.
Obviously, I am back in London so everything worked out in my favour, but it really was touch-and-go there for a while.
Besides trying to sort out my visa through my two weeks in Canada, I had a wide range of proper Canadian summer experiences. A good deal of the time was spent submerged under water as a heatwave had swept southern Canada and the northern US, making for some very steamy weather.
I spent time at Norway Bay, swimming, boating, tubing and windsurfing with my cousins; ate well, whether it was a steak barbecue at my parents’ house, sweet potato fries at the Victory Café with the boys, or an amazing five-course meal at Luma in Toronto; basking (rather, melting) in the Ontario heatwave with a trip to Toronto island, a canoe ride along the Rideau River, and an afternoon with the girls in McKay Pond in Rockcliffe; and fun nights out, with a backyard party at Leslie’s, flatcrawl around Elgin Street to meet the Ottawa girls’ new homes, and pints on patios.
It was a really fantastic two weeks at home, but I am glad to be back in London, even back at work, and settling back into my life here. I know that, when it really comes time to return to Canada, I will make a healthy transition, since I am really excited for phase two of my life in Toronto to begin, whether that’s one year from now or three.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
