Archives for January 2013

Did you know that we started looking for a new house at the beginning of 2011?

We had previously house hunted at the beginning of the boom [in 2002]. This is dispiriting because the house you turned your nose up at last week is sold this week for more than your budget and next week all you can afford is a large broom cupboard.

But hunting in a bust is no fun either. As we looked at many, many houses, it became abundantly clear that when the property market collapses, three things happen:
a) Nobody who can possibly avoid it sells a house so there are very few new properties on the market;
b) Most of the sales are executor’s sales [see (a) above re avoiding selling, if you’re dead, then selling is pretty unavoidable] and the houses are in need of considerable care and upgrading [central heating, for example]; and
c) Landlords who regard new regulation of rented dwellings with dubiety will put their properties on the market [“Ideal for conversion to family home, currently in 10 units.”]

We saw lots of houses. 16 in six months. That’s more than one every second weekend. But still I went to every viewing filled with hopes destined to be dashed.

I remember going around a small house with a nice garden in one of Dublin’s southern suburbs. An older woman wandered around the rooms confiding to her companion: “This is a very dark house. Somebody has been ill here, I sense bad feelings and unhappiness” while the estate agent audibly ground his teeth.

I had the greatest difficulty getting to see another house as the estate agent assured me it would not suit. “But I want to see it,” I protested. Reluctantly, he conceded. He was right, it didn’t suit.

On my birthday, in March 2011, we saw a great house. In my heart of hearts I felt that this would be the house for us. Mr. Waffle said, “Let’s agree to have moved by this time next year.” We hummed and hawed over the birthday house. It needed a lot of work. Work is not our strong point. We are no good at dealing with workmen.

My mother asked me whether we were ever likely to have a drawing room where she could have tea. I felt not. [Aside, advising on furnishing, she told me that she bought the carpet which furnished the drawing room when she lived in a big house and, subsequently, two bedrooms and a study in a smaller house at an auction of the contents of the grand hotel in Cork. Possibly the best carpet investment ever. Do you think that hotels still auction carpets or is it all polished hard surfaces? Recent experience has shown that they certainly still go into liquidation.]

End of 2011.

We kept looking. Mr. Waffle suggested that we might want to escape the “crime and grime” of our current location. I regret to say that by March 2012 we had not moved. Woe.

In April 2012 we put in a bid on a property in Rathmines on the opposite side of the city. The auctioneer sneered at our offer. “Make it higher,” she said. “No,” said Mr. Waffle considering the bulge in the front of the property warily [only needs to be strapped she said cheerfully]. “We’re the only bidders,” said Mr. Waffle, “we’re not going to bid against ourselves.” “You wouldn’t be bidding against yourselves,” she said airily, “you would be bidding against the vendors’ expectations.” We walked away.

At the end of April we saw a lovely house. This would be the one. It was in good nick. The children came with us. They liked it. We sent them off to sit in the car while we made an offer to the estate agent. When we came back to the car only two of our three children were in it. In the driving rain, Daniel had gone in the opposite direction to his siblings and was lost in the streets of identical redbrick houses. We ran around shouting for him. It took quite a while to find him and I don’t think he has ever been happier to see us. As well as having trudged gloomily for quite a distance in the rain, he had put his wellingtons on the wrong feet. I carried him back to the car overcome with triumph and relief.

The next day at work, I discover, to my chagrin, that a colleague has viewed the house and she too is thinking of putting in a bid. “I didn’t even know you were looking,” she said. “How could you not?” said another colleagues sardonically, “Anne’s house hunt has its own page on facebook.” We are outbid but, fortunately, not by my colleague because otherwise I might never have been able to speak to her again. In any event our surveyor’s report identified the attic bedroom as a fire hazard. I might mention that this entire process has been part of our attempt to ensure that Irish surveyors survive the bust.

In May we see a nice place with a big garden on a busy main road. I wonder is it a bit rough [you will appreciate the irony of this when you read the next paragraph]. My sardonic colleague asks wisely, “Is it near a chipper?” It is near a chipper. We go to see it anyway. Twice. When making the first appointment, I say to the secretary in the estate agent’s “I recognise that agent’s name I think we saw something with her before; is she pregnant by any chance?” “Oh no, her baby will be 1 in July.” We have officially been looking forever. This house is big and in reasonable order. And not too dear for us. I am filled with hope. Again, oh for heaven’s sake.

Meanwhile, the council has seen fit to park a container across the road from our house just outside the abandoned terrace. In next to no time it becomes party central and not in a good way. When I come home at 6.30 in the evening and find a number of drunken people using the container as an outdoor toilet, I get very annoyed and ring the council and the body responsible for re-developing the site and complain to their voicemails. As the party goes on into the night, I have ample opportunity to enjoy it. Mr. Waffle is away for work and the Princess in her upstairs front room overlooking the party is scared and so am I. I ring the guards and they send a squad car to disperse the cider drinking revellers. I enlist the help of the council workmen to get the wretched container moved and it does move. But I am all the more determined to move house.

In June, I go back to see my birthday house. I tell Mr. Waffle either we buy this house or the big one on the main road but we are going to get one of them.

Denouement to follow.

On June 20, we see a house that is perfect. We both love it. I am very depressed as I feel we will be outbid and doomed. By June 29 there are no other offers. The estate agent says our offer is too meagre, however, the family of the deceased is considering it. Yet again, I am filled with unwise hope.

On July 3 there is another bidder. We bid in increments up to our limit. We are outbid. On July 10 we said goodbye. I nearly cried. “Right,” I said to Mr. Waffle, “I am ringing the birthday house people and putting in an offer.” “Give it a week,” he says. On July 11, the estate agent for the perfect house is back on. The other bidder had some objection. I hand over to Mr. Waffle as I can no longer stand the trauma of the negotiations. I begin listing to myself the disadvantages of the perfect house so that I am not too depressed should it all fall through: planning permission extant for flats behind the laneway; no central heating; no side passage; east as opposed to west or south facing back garden. I am clutching at straws here.

On July 12 we are sale agreed! Mr. Waffle is a tower of strength. We agree not to tell the children as there might yet be a slip twixt cup and lip. I feel great excitement and also a vague sense of anti-climax. I feel that my greatest ambition of the past 18 months is achieved. Really? This is it, this is all that I wanted in life, a larger house? Oh for heaven’s sake. I am all shallows and no depth.

On July 23 we are on holidays. Michael is desperate to get home to Dublin. He lies in bed weeping at the prospect of waiting until the following day. Herself comments darkly, “This is just a taster of what you can expect, if we ever move house.” The guilt.

Our holidays in France in August are mildly blighted by an estate agent shaped cloud as he keeps ringing to know where we are at in getting the survey and so on. On our return to Dublin, we sign contracts subject to finance. Given our great age, our life insurance involves a physical exam from a nurse. Apparently we are fine. We pay our deposit.

We are on holidays in Kerry in August, the surveyor rings us to say that he has given his survey to the bank. Since the bank wanted it before releasing funds we are happy. He then says casually that he has valued the house at considerably less than our offer. The bank refuses to release more than 90% of the valuer’s estimate. We are in despair and have no idea how to make up the shortfall. We are also furious with the idiot valuer. House prices in Ireland are a bit “make up your own figure”. We know that a house up the road sold at the height of the boom for twice what we are proposing to pay. We offer a number of potential solutions to the bank all of which they reject but in the waiting time, I filled with hope. The vendors’ estate agent is incandescent with rage. The only good thing is that we put him in touch with the surveyor and they had a free and frank exchange of views. Someone comments, accurately but unhelpfully, that if we were to get the house we would be in negative equity before we started.

The estate agent suggests that we go to a mortgage broker. We are not optimistic. When the bank with whom we have banked all our lives refuses to give us credit [thank you Bank of Ireland] we think it unlikely, what with one thing and another, that any other bank is likely to give us credit. The mortgage broker is more optimistic. We do after all have another survey [also from a surveyor on the bank’s approved list valuing the house at what we want to pay for it – in fact, he tells Mr. Waffle that it’s a great buy- kind, good surveyor]. In early October we sign forms with Ulster Bank. The Bank manager is full of bonhomie. On no, wretched optimism again. A fortnight later there is still no news. We drive past the perfect house. I sigh. “Schrödinger’s house” says Mr. Waffle.

On October 16, the vendors put the perfect house back on the market. On October 18 we sign more forms for Ulster Bank. They want a statement of our mortgage payments from Bank of Ireland. This is not available online. It is impossible to get through by phone. I resort to ringing customer complaints. I go through two menus and finally reach a human being. They can only send me a hard copy of the mortgage statement. As this is lunch time on Friday, it will be printed this evening and posted the following Monday. No chance of an electronic copy? No. Can I call in, perhaps? No it is not sent from here. Slightly sarcastically, I asked, from where then, a secret location? Yes, that’s correct. By the following Wednesday there is still no sign of the statement. I ring the bank. Allow 3-5 working days, they say.

On October 31 in the early evening we get news that Ulster Bank have approved our loan. Who would have thought? On November 9, to our amazement, confirmation of the loan offer arrives by fax. Ulster, atypically, says yes. Shortly rivers will begin to run uphill.

Concluding scenes in this stirring drama will follow shortly.