Dear Powells,
I am writing this is a cave, by candlelight. I am hoping the candlelight will infuse my writing with the same intelligence and wit that Shakespeare’s candles gave to his writing. Candles, in my opinion, make everything better; if this letter at any point feels lack lustre to you it is likely because you are reading it by artificial light - I take no responsibility for that.
The cave I was referring to is actually the house my husband and I rent. Built in the mid-1800s it used to be a shop and it has a large front window. This is no ordinary window. It is special in the fact that it is confused about its identity: it lets no light in, but all our heating out. It obviously thinks of itself not as a window, but as an extractor fan made entirely of glass. As such, by day, I am forced to wear two layers of thermals under an outer layer of clothes that are made entirely of wool, two cashmere hats, thermal socks and fingerless gloves. At night, I replace my outer layer of clothes with fleeced pyjamas, remove one hat, and add another pair of socks and a pair of earplugs. Scrooge would be impressed.
In recent days I have turned into someone who could pass for Scrooge. Gone are my flushed cheeks and happy demeanour no matter the weather. My face has soured, my posture has stooped. I have tightened my purse strings and become cantankerous, grouchy, irritable. It has nothing to do with the sub-zero temperatures of our rented cave and everything to do with selling property.
I am in the process of selling my London home. An over-priced two storey box based in West London that I own a 25% share of and the remaining share is owned by a housing association. In the old days here’s how I think selling a home would have played out: You decide your home no longer meets your requirements. You mention it in passing to neighbours as you walk your goat each morning. Word gets around. Someone else in the village is thinking the same thing about their home. As luck would have it, you want to upsize, they want to downsize. Perfect! You pay them a visit and over a cup of warm beer and a slice of spiced turnip you reach an agreement: you will give them 2 bales of hay, 3 bags of grain, a cow and 4 carrots. They, in return, will pay you 2 sheep, 5 chickens and supply you with eggs for 6 months. You both agree to make this exchange on the next new moon and to swap houses on the next full moon. You shake hands. Job done. Everybody is happy.
This not how the process works now. All was going well. A buyer was found before it was even advertised, offers were made and accepted. Then paperwork two inches thick containing baffling questions arrived through my letterbox. Time and energy was spent – or wasted, I can’t decide which – googling what Radon is and whether my property has ever had it, does have it or might want to have it in the future. I paid a woman called Monica £65 to beat my radiator with a stick and give an energy performance rating of B. My tenant was informed, discussions were had, moving out dates have been agreed upon – imminently – but we’re not sure where she should leave the keys as I live 141 miles away if you take the M1, 163 miles away if you take the M40. Solicitors exchanged things, most likely by Second Class post as we wouldn’t want things to pick up speed: First Class post would be bordering on insane, unmanageable; things would start to get out of control if we used First Class post, better to stick to Second Class. Buyers went off to get their mortgages confirmed, solicitors went off to buy Second Class stamps. And then? Silence. Silence so loud it’s deafening. MADDENING. Great big expanses of it hang around me filled with tumbleweed and the rotten carcasses of a cow, 2 sheep, 5 chickens and some rotten eggs.
My forehead has a large egg-shaped lump on it from hitting it repeatedly against the wall. I have begun looking to the sky and screaming obscenities to passing clouds. Emails have been sent with words such as imperative, urgent and concerned in every other sentence. Yesterday, on the phone to a legal secretary, I heard the word ‘dissatisfied’ come out of my mouth followed by two words I have never said before – escalate and vexed. Earlier, I was told my solicitor is up-to-date - hurrah! No flies on us! – but then I had to apologise for hurling the words dissatisfied, escalate and vexed at her legal secretary yesterday. I am back to chasing the Housing Association who appear to have asked their I.T department to filter all my emails into an unmanned inbox and who have flung their phones up into outer space where they ring off the hook heard only by a passing moon rat. There is only one thing I haven’t tried yet and that is utilising the bold and underlining features of Gmail. If that doesn’t get a response I will be left with no choice than to change the colour of some words to red, or even use CAPITALS. I have risen from Second Class to First Class and beyond: I am now on Next Day Special Delivery: Recorded Tracked and Guaranteed to Arrive Before 1pm which costs £8.75 a pop.
I pray to the housing gods that today someone in my housing association – a passing moon rat would do – will pull their finger out and make something happen before my tenant moves out in 216 hours. If not, I will be left paying for an over-priced two storey box with an EPC rating of B in West London AND a frozen cave in rural Derbyshire with an EPC rating of Z.
I will, of course, keep you informed.
Yours, in a permanent state of consternation,
Powell x
This rings so many bells in my mind. When we sold our shared ownership flat, just as we were getting somewhere, the person with our “case” at the housing association would LEAVE and we would only find out when a new person would contact us after being ghosted by the first person. In this time, the valuation would have run out and we would have to pay for another. WHAT LARKS.
May yours be dealt with very very soon, sounds like the home stretch.
Oh dear, I hope somebody bungs some turnips in the right direction to expedite matters!