Cold Feet

COLD FEET

 

Thursday 2^nd. Just had one of those days which are much worse than you ever expected, even lying awake at night. I went to the estate agent in the morning to discuss the finance for my proposed move to Oxford. I think I have enough, but I am already £10k down on my original offer. My mother has offered to fill any shortfall. I went in full of confidence but  received the news that I have had a bad survey on my flat.

An odd little man with wiry hair came round to have a look for the buyer’s mortgage company weeks ago and this is the result. He was very edgy and made rather astringent remarks about my painting, not good not bad, but rather grudging. Now he has valued my flat at £20k below  my price, shafted me in fact.

 His survey was strangely negative, saying for instance that London W3  is only ‘average’ for renting. I have been a landlady since 2000 with no problem getting tenants.  Most property around here is rented. Also he wrote that I only have one living room, completely ignoring my large conservatory, where I do the painting.  

 I wonder if he is a Marxist, or a follower of Pierre Proudhon, and decided to eat away at the property owning class by becoming a mortgage surveyor?  If so he is doing an excellent job and the rest of my day unravelled.

I sat there staring at my fat faced estate agent wondering, was the surveyor honest or in the pay of the buyer?

‘They have to be honest or they can be prosecuted,’ said my estate agent. Is the agent himself a man of probity I wondered.  How do I know whether these people are working for me or themselves, and on top of that I have no idea now what my property is really worth.It will take two weeks for another survey, and the agent says they always agree with each other anyway.

The Asian property developer buying the flat says he hasn’t got the money I asked, but he plans to rip the flat apart and redevelop it, so he must have money somewhere. I said the price was not going down any further and left. As I walked along the Chiswick High Road, I gradually succumbed to feelings  of shock. That slightly elevated, almost euphoric feeling.

In the evening sitting by myself I became quite shaky and called my mother. The only person I can be sure is on my side in a situation like this. Even at 92 she is good on practical matters. Then I got the rather wild idea of offering to rent the house in Oxford, until the market picks up again here. Although it was past working hours, this elicited a furious phone call from the hot shit woman estate agent in Oxford.

She upbraided me with so many failings on the part of my agent and my solicitor I could hardly follow. ‘Renting is not going to happen,’ she spat. ‘We are putting the house back on the market tomorrow.’

She said she hadn’t heard from my people in London although she’d been trying to contact them. My agent says he hasn’t heard from her. I rang my solicitor who says they are waiting on unanswered queries from the Oxford end. Who is telling the truth? Whatever it is, her acid call has galvanised me, and had an effect on my mother, who now says that she is going to sell her house, where she’s lived since 1963 and move into a small warden controlled rented flat in the village.

This will be easier for her to manage and release some money. She is of course looking at the end of her life, but we don’t speak about that, and  one of the main drivers for her doing this is the fulfilment of her lifelong quest for warm feet. She says that the  flats are ‘very cosy.’

When I visit her now we usually watch ‘Pointless’ and ‘Eggheads,’  in soaring temperatures, so I imagine I will be staying nearby in a B & B.  So now she is moving as well, everything is in flux, which is terrifying and unpleasant in the extreme.