Moving day and the quest to win back my deposit

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.