A long ride indeed

If you think finding a house/ flat that both partners-in-debt will like is the hard part, think again. After looking through what seemed like 3 million flats – literally at least one in every building in our chosen area – our to-be flat was something like an “a-ha“ moment from an Oprah show. Suddenly all doubt vanished, potential shone through the glass walls and we were ready to gift away our lives to the mortgage underwriter.

Once the offer was in we just moved to the backseat of the car and waited for the car to drive off the cliff. It’s not an unlikely situation. Most people have at least one gory story of sales falling through or gazzumping or some such wonderful terminology dooming a house purchase. We had heard so many stories that we kept our levels of enthusiasm to a bare minimum. After much to-ing and fro-ing we have exchanged and in a week we should have the keys to our kingdom.

The ride between the offer and the exchange of contract was not fun. Everyone goes on about how labour dense ‘developing’ countries are and how much bureaucratic red-tape there is when you need to apply for something in India, like a passport or ration card. Where do you think the Indians learnt it from? The British are masters of the red-tape system. They are only a bit more stiff upper lip about it.

So here’s the chain of events that a property under offer in the UK must endure (and I have spun it from our own morbidly long experience, humungous phone bills and sore throats from yelling at people):

Week 1 & 2: Offer to the agent. Agent lets the vendor know. Refusal in the first instance. All conspiring on how to leech us dry. Small bidding war as another couple also wants our kingdom. They lose. We win. Since we offer more money than them, we also lose.

I buy my first design magazine under the guidance of Shoefie – Living etc. Mind-boggling.

Week 3: Contact a few mortgage brokers for quotes. Everyone says we are in a prime position to buy. That is just sales speak as they want a big fat fee from us. No way Jose. We shrewdly take on the mortgage broker who will get paid a commission by the bank instead of us. Go to his office for a talk. Turns into a 4 hour marathon of explanations, form filling with mundane details and endless photocopying of documents. With the press of a button the form is submitted to relevant bank. Papers to follow and hearty handshake mortgage broker assures us we’ll be approved in 2 days.

Week 4: Valuation ‘expert’ from the bank goes to check out said flat. Finds the value to be the exact amount we have offered (as told to him by accompanying estate agent). He charges us obscene amount for doing basically nothing but checking out our flat and producing a 2 page letter re-iterating all the things he’s been told.

Meanwhile hearty handshake mortgage broker has passed us on to his Head Office where incompetent liaison lady now has our file. She writes us letter of reassurance that is not reassuring in the least. Discovers that wrong side of bank statements has been photocopied and asks us to produce copies and original again. In Notting-something. No way Jose. Harass local mortgage man into looking at them and taking proper photocopies this time. You would think since it’s a major part of his job he would know which side is up. Incompetent idiot.

Cleared a drawer and a cupboard. Big bag of clothes and 15 pairs of shoes for charity. I feel like an angel. Am exhausted with the effort.

Week 4 & 5: On suggestion of friend-who-has-done-this we appoint a solicitors firm to handle the legal higgledy piggledy. Now they are in touch with vendors solicitors through agent. Reading 10 million documents, conducting searches of random things like the environment, sewage and council issues – it’s a busy life for solicitor Santa.

In the excitement of having a flat we decide to trawl through the 10 magazines I have so far bought for ideas on furnishing. We do not agree on anything.

Week 5: Liaison lady comes back asking for more documents. All irrelevant and making us feel a bit criminal like. Try to prove good intentions by showing required documents and not yelling at everyone concerned.

I want minimal, V wants minimal. Neither knows what that means in real time furniture. We both want a modern streamlined look but cannot agree on a colour scheme let alone any single piece of furniture. Oh hell, this is going to be a long ride!

Week 6: Mortgage approval letter arrives with copies to everyone. Solicitor Santa is slowly wading through documents. We go and meet him in his very tiny office and sign our contract. Pay up a whopping 10% of the dosh as deposit.

We go and look the furniture shops of Tottenham court road. Heals. Habitat. Cargo Home Shop. Lombok. Suddenly we’ve moved from modern to heavy traditional wood. Sea change hits us like a Tsunami.

Week 7: Cheque with 10% takes about a week to clear. Bloody inefficient retail banks. Talk to Santa’s secretary everyday, chasing her to check if the money has been received. Soon she recognizes the voices, pretends to be a garden centre and offers us mulch.

Week 8: The vendor does not back out – in fact after many hair-turning-grey nights he signs his side of the contract and the exchange is done. Now we are both legally bound to each other – him to sell, us to buy. 2 months on something is happening

Also in week 8: I go and meet vendor in ‘our’ house. Take measurements to see if world’s largest pieces of furniture will fit. They will; but we will then have to walk on skirting boards and jump from chair to chair. Like monkeys. Am pointed toward appliance manuals, am offered names of electrician/ plumber and cleaner and am offered advice on installing an air-conditioning unit for the 2 hot weeks in an otherwise grey year.

Week 9: Went to shop and signed away what’s left of our arms and legs to get 13 bits of heavy solid looking wood; from a sustainable forest; made by workers paid above the average wage; ethical (for all you sunflower seed chewing organic earth and fair-trade lovers!!).

Today: We are off to sign deeds and stuff. So in a week we should complete and own a piece of London for the next 992 years.

I’m off to live in a cardboard box with a roll of duck tape, scissors and 25 pairs of shoes.