Do we have to talk money?
My cleaning lady is not happy. She?s caught on to the fact I might be moving again. Over the years, H ? her real name is something absurdly long and Turkish ? has followed me around London from home to home. ?I?ve only just fathomed out how to tackle your wooden floorboards,? she complains after spotting some estate agent?s particulars lying around the loft.
H is rather eccentric. A fortnight ago, I had to unexpectedly pop home from the office. I opened my front door to discover her mopping away furiously, wearing my best YSL sweater. I think she was as embarrassed as I was surprised. ?Sorry, Jeremy, I was really sweatin? so I borrowed one of your tops. I hope you don?t mind.? Err, not at all, I said, minding a lot.
On another occasion she complained that the movie Sexy Beast was too violent. Did you see it at the cinema, I asked? ?No, I watched it at yours on the DVD last week.? How nice.
H is, however, very good for gossip. She lives around the corner from my buy-to-let flat in Hackney so I know what sort of sartorial look my tenant is sporting, whether anybody stays over and the fact that the front-door lock had to be replaced. Sadly, I would have found out that piece of information anyway since the bill will inevitably end up on my doorstep.
I?ve put in an offer for the apartment in Primrose Hill that my ex-wife discovered. It?s not huge (although it houses a family of four), needs a fair amount of work ? mainly cosmetic, I hope ? and is a basement flat. On the plus side, however, it has the most beautiful garden, bundles of potential and is only four doors along from my children.
Since the flat wasn?t on the market, the vendors and I have agreed to do the sale privately. The advantages of this are that I am less likely to be gazumped and the vendors don?t have to pay agents? fees ? which, in theory, means they can offer the place at a more palatable price. This is great if you?re good at negotiating, but sadly I?m not. I hate talking about money and so immediately agreed to pay the price they suggested. Let?s hope the surveyor I?ve booked for next week thinks it a sensible amount.
All I need to do now is sell my loft. Despite the number of viewings, I?ve had only one offer.
My cleaning lady is not happy. She?s caught on to the fact I might be moving again. Over the years, H ? her real name is something absurdly long and Turkish ? has followed me around London from home to home. ?I?ve only just fathomed out how to tackle your wooden floorboards,? she complains after spotting some estate agent?s particulars lying around the loft.
H is rather eccentric. A fortnight ago, I had to unexpectedly pop home from the office. I opened my front door to discover her mopping away furiously, wearing my best YSL sweater. I think she was as embarrassed as I was surprised. ?Sorry, Jeremy, I was really sweatin? so I borrowed one of your tops. I hope you don?t mind.? Err, not at all, I said, minding a lot.
On another occasion she complained that the movie Sexy Beast was too violent. Did you see it at the cinema, I asked? ?No, I watched it at yours on the DVD last week.? How nice.
H is, however, very good for gossip. She lives around the corner from my buy-to-let flat in Hackney so I know what sort of sartorial look my tenant is sporting, whether anybody stays over and the fact that the front-door lock had to be replaced. Sadly, I would have found out that piece of information anyway since the bill will inevitably end up on my doorstep.
I?ve put in an offer for the apartment in Primrose Hill that my ex-wife discovered. It?s not huge (although it houses a family of four), needs a fair amount of work ? mainly cosmetic, I hope ? and is a basement flat. On the plus side, however, it has the most beautiful garden, bundles of potential and is only four doors along from my children.
Since the flat wasn?t on the market, the vendors and I have agreed to do the sale privately. The advantages of this are that I am less likely to be gazumped and the vendors don?t have to pay agents? fees ? which, in theory, means they can offer the place at a more palatable price. This is great if you?re good at negotiating, but sadly I?m not. I hate talking about money and so immediately agreed to pay the price they suggested. Let?s hope the surveyor I?ve booked for next week thinks it a sensible amount.
All I need to do now is sell my loft. Despite the number of viewings, I?ve had only one offer. It was 10% below the asking price, which is a hefty drop and one I turned down immediately. Since there are a number of doom-and-gloom property market stories doing the rounds, househunters are making cheeky offers that some desperate sellers are accepting. My mortgage broker James insists it?s all nonsense and that in six months everything will be fine and dandy again. I suggest, therefore, that perhaps I should rent my loft for the foreseeable future rather than try to sell it.
James looks at the figures to see how this would affect my Primrose Hill purchase. It?s possible, he admits, letting out a big sigh, but perhaps a little close for comfort. This is something I have to consider carefully: I will be very hard up with a portfolio of two flats let out (both heavily mortgaged) and a third that I actually live in (also heavily mortgaged). Three properties are a lot of responsibility for somebody who isn?t a millionaire, failed his maths exams, spends a scandalous amount on school fees and has his eye on a Jil Sander cashmere peacoat.
The trouble is I find it very hard ? positively cruel ? denying myself something that I really, really want. I might not have a head for figures but I?m very good at figuring out how to make the impossible seem perfectly plausible. But I have to bear in mind I?m nearly 40, have two children and need to grow up. The only thing is, I want to mature in Primrose Hill, not Shoreditch.
?Jeremy Langmead is editor of Wallpaper*
Details of this property can be found at: htttp://searcha.primelocation.com/TCGR/html/templates/details.cfm?id=TCCLA3667
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