A bird in a hand is better than two in the bush....unless it's dead

I put my bitterness to rest for a while because we finally found a flat we liked and for a while it seemed things were going well and we would come out of the flat hunting serial as winners…but this blog would not survive if the gods of Wanstead allowed all to be well and as such the saga began…

After a while it dawned on us that hoping to get a flat with a decent kitchen and bathroom, or one where real wood is used as flooring would be futile and we settled for a great view. I saw the 'chosen one' alone with an agent one Friday afternoon and although I loved the layout and the light, the ghastly kitchen scared me. Whoever chose the colour scheme for it was obviously a fan of camouflage as the tiles and the surfaces were depicting the most impressive camouflage green you can find and the cabinets were the colour of the most unusual autumn leaf in acid yellow. If someone placed this kitchen in the forest, you could use it with a peace of mind that you will not be seen by the enemy.

While I walked around my feet played the all familiar but not so welcome laminate song which always makes me cringe and the lift was something I saw in the film Rosemary’s baby I’m sure.

But none the less I saw the potential. Ah…the potential, the word that gives hope, feeds desires, makes dreams more colourful and gives you the feeling all will be OK…where there is potential, there is innovation, where there is innovation there is the possibility of greatness...

The better half, always critical of any minor decorative flaws came back to the flat with me and another agent and as soon as I saw him walking towards the grand PVC window in the living room as if he is greeting his mothership, I knew we would be buying this flat. He saw the potential too and all was forgiven… the horrid kitchen, the cheap looking bathroom, the PVC windows of which few were faulty, the laminated sitting room, shabby bedroom carpets, fluorescent tube lighting in the kitchen… all of that did not matter once I pictured a nice solid oak dining room table from John Lewis ‘henry’ range, positioned to catch the view of the trees and the lake, where I would be sitting with my laptop, working hard on my research. This flat represented the 'better' me, me who is organised, trendy, hardworking, posh (oak table, remember) and quite frankly...incredibly intelligent. And I could see it all so clearly. So when the dream was taken away as swiftly as it formed, my disappointment had no bounds. 

The bidding was not smooth. Our initial offer was accepted but then we were told that someone who saw the flat a while back offered exactly what the sellers wanted. Initially, we declined to bid further but had terrible feeling of foreboding over the weekend and yet again, we focused on the potential and this gave us hope. So we upped our offer way past the dude bidding also. And I asked several times if we can move our two delightful Bengal cats into the building and I was told the building has 'no pets' policy but that the management company allows pets on license…a strict legal agreement which pets owners must adhere to and I was more than happy to do that. This issue even went as far as the seller, who is on the committee of the management company as the building manages itself, consulted other committee members and we were told cats are OK. So we proceeded with the purchase.

But law and behold, when my solicitor tries to obtain the license, the war of the worlds erupts and we end up in one of those weird ‘he said, she said, they said but no one knows who is telling the truth’ situations.

Agent tells me…and only when I rang him to say if I can bring the kitchen fitter in to measure for the new kitchen (not being the army type) that over the weekend one resident complained, after initially saying I can have the cats…due to the fact he/she was refused a dog a while back. And there needs to be all resident agreement. I relay this to the solicitor. Solicitor advises me to try and speak to the seller and see if she can work this out. I offer to meet the person who complained, bring flowers, food, muffins, my cats, sign terms and conditions of pet use, buy them a pony… and get a license for it…but all to no avail. This is where it turns ugly; suddenly I receive an email from the agent saying the vendors are putting the flat on the market if we don’t want to go ahead without a license. And they do. Perhaps done to make us panic… and we do but I turn aggressive rather than gullible and instead of saying yes to moving in and then having the fight over cats on my hands, I advise the agent that I proceeded with the buying upon assurances that cats will be granted the license, which came from the committee itself (the seller is a member). The agent panics and tries to make me see sense by explaining this has upset the vendors too, they are losing money on an empty flat etc…and when that leaves me cold he apologizes and promises me he will find me a place with no pet issues.  Problem with promises like that is that he can only find me places he gets and even then it is not as if I will be the only person viewing or bidding for them so this too is a sentiment worth nothing to me.

However, saga would not be complete with the vendor ringing me. She sounds as if she is on my side and trying to sort things out and at this point I realize that all along she probably thought I would take her word for a fact and not pursue the license till I am in the building and she is long gone. But she sounds so convincing and nice that it leaves us confused and unable to pin the bad guy. She conveys that more than one resident has raised an issue over cats so I am now not sure where the story about the disgruntled dog lover came from, her or the agent… But there are few facts that no one can deny; things were left till the end, she did not consult the residents even though, as a member of a committee, she should know how the voting system works, but I was told she did and it was fine.

Needless to say we are £1000+ worse off for no other reason than that this woman was either stupid or dishonest… or both and we are devastated over the flat and bitter and cynical and these are the emotions which, once they set in, never quite disappear, leaving one a damaged person, someone who is unable to trust, unable to love again in a way one is meant to love. It also takes away the delight that comes with innocence. Once there is cynicism there can be no potential, no innovation and therefore no greatness. I no longer view Wanstead as a lovely area, somewhere to belong and I know there is no good reason for this, that the actions of one person should not make me turn on the mankind, that losing the flat will not define our future forever but quite frankly if I hear another person say to me "you know, when things like this happen, it is often for the best and it means you will get a better place" I will explode. The thing is...no one knows what I will find. I may not find a better place. The search certainly doesn't give one hope and I certainly don't feel it either. Platitudes like this, when offered as a solace, make me feel extreme sadness. Just as statements such as "it is better this way" that I heard way too many times at my mum's funeral, they make me yearn someone would just offer sympathy without wisdom... a simple "boy that is truly crap" would go a long way actually...because it is truly crap. Unfair and sad and pointless. 

One thing I can say about Wanstead though... in the time of need, there is comfort in the shape of  Belgique chef's signature Nutella donut. Looking out of my window right now...perhaps I don't have a killer view of the lake but at least I have a clear view of Belgique. 

Why Wanstead rocks

 Finally the weather was good. We dragged ourselves out to Provender and had a wonderful lunch and their signature trifle which tastes like small slice of heaven served with cherries, cream and pieces of gold leaf (they actually serve it with pieces of gold leaf). After that we decided on a stroll to the lake, check out the flat we put an offer on and then go back through Eagle lane to Hermon hill and back through the high street. The park was alive with dogs, kids, birds and general high spirits. Spring should hurry up. Then I might be more motivated to take these wonderful walks. Our favourite game is to walk through the pretty streets and pick the houses we would like to own. Then pick the second best, then the third and so on. There are many pretty things to look at...

Those that like the places of worships will be spoilt for choice in Wanstead.

Should things go smoothly with our chosen pent house, this pond will form a part of my view every day. My personal favourite are the impressive, moody, old trees full of charisma and quiet solace... small green paths leading to enchanting places that look like the pit of the darkest forest but are only seconds away from your next cappuccino.

Pristine doorways...no rotting mattress or rusting cooker in sight. And tudor mansions.

Why you should never go to a house viewing at night

Getting a notification that a new property has been added to Rightmove is like a new episode of Breaking Bad in our house. We gather over the laptop, cats included, and we prepare to look intently, analyse the street view, look up the nearest stations, inspect the floorplan...and then it can either go one of two ways...hearts will sink upon realisation that the flat is 20 metres from A406. Or we realise that estate agents have described it as 'walking distance from the station'. This is never a good sign...and the quick check on Google maps quickly confirms that the walking distance to the station is indeed 25 minutes. Sometimes there will also be a dire warning, such as 'beware, this route might not have pedestrian walkways' - meaning that the estate agents think you are an eagle and flying over motorways every morning on your way to work is a piece of cake.


None the less, when we saw the notification about the new(ish) build flat, we jumped at the opportunity to see it. The pictures were hazy and not great and the estate agents advertising the flat were based in Docklands (miles from Wanstead). But I rang them and arranged a viewing, which was hard in itself as the flat was let and the tenant had strict times when he/she allowed viewings.

Just to let you know a thing or two about viewing flats that have tenants in... it is always an awful experience for two reasons; the tenants are angry because the landlord has decided to now sell their home and they have to move all their furniture and stuff somewhere else, which is inconvenient and costly and this makes them bitter. The second is that the tenants have rights to specify times they allow viewings and due to anger and bitterness over having to move, they tend to exercise those rights. There is usually a window of one hour on a Monday night one can view tenanted properties. Another problem is that tenants will, when they agree to be out for an open house, mark the territory. One such viewing had washing hanging in every room and unflushed pee in the loo. If that is not a message to the landlord, I am not sure what is.


The tenants in this particular flat were actually nice and a lovely woman showed us the flat. We quickly realised that the flat the agents advertised is not the one being sold (is that not illegal...misrepresentation act and all that?) but we were pleasantly surprised. The flat was on the ground floor and although generally we are against ground floors, it came with a garden. She opened the french doors leading to the garden but it was very dark and due to lack of garden illumination, our imagination took over. We were aware that at the end of the garden there was a Central line track, but having lived near the trains before, it did not upset us. The tenant told me it is not very loud and we were fine with that.


Very rarely my husband and I like any place equally, but this time we walked out in high spirits and we agreed we liked it. Over the course of few days I imagined planting tall bamboo by the Central line wall, imagined buying parasols, imagined lying in a deck chair reading, sipping Nespuccino (drink invented by one of my close friends which consists on cold coffee topped by cold milk shaken in the jam jar till it froths) while my cats catch butterflies around me. The fact that the flat was new build also meant I would not have to live with olive or grey marl effect plastic kitchen work tops and cheap bathrooms and the EPC rating will not be at rock bottom, inviting condensation and mould problems. So we requested to see the property again, in the day time with an agent. When the tenants are showing you around you never quite feel comfortable, even when they are nice. They have nothing but torment to gain from you buying the flat and rifling through their wardrobes and kitchen just adds insult to injury. This is a stark contrast to happy homeowners who clean the property to a high standard, open the cupboards themselves, never ask you to take shoes off and offer you a drink and a warm cookie if you are lucky...all because their happiness actually depends on you liking their property.


The agent kept us waiting in the harsh wind and when he finally arrived he was the epitome of the estate agent from hell, obnoxious, disrespectful, egocentric, rude and clueless. The tenants were in, but now shot me very resentful looks because I requested to come with the agent and they sat on the sofa watching day time TV and seething politely.

When I saw the garden in the daytime I almost threw myself on the bedroom floor to cry. What looked like a large garden surrounded by brick wall in the pitch darkness, now told a different story. There was no brick wall...how did I imagine this? Each flat (not just ground floor flats) had its own patch of grass, approximately 2 metres by 2 metres, separated by tiny shrubs.

Behind the patch of grass was a little path leading from the front so what seemed like a private garden was now more like a communal garden allowing anyone to come to your back door, break in uninterrupted without anyone but Central line passengers seeing them. But best of all... what separates the garden from the train track is a huge metal fence, finished off with a generous helping of barbed wire. It quickly dawned on me that there will be no space for parasol and a lounger on that grass, that no self respecting butterfly will ever come to that garden and that any Tom, Dick and Harry can see into my bedrooms from the gardens next to me...or shall I say from their patch of grass...not to mention tube passengers. It dawned on me I will probably be removing the carcass of my cat off the barbed wire before too long and this quickly ended the dream of that flat. I tried to politely explain to the estate agent that I did not realise the garden is so exposed, not private etc. His suggestion was to plant lots of quick growing conifers for privacy. Apart from the fact I have no land to speak of to plant conifers, to do what he suggested would probably mean that in 2 years the whole building will suffer from foundation problems as conifers are notorious for ruining foundations and causing subsidence, but good to know that those in the profession of houses know this and warn people.


I did get few calls from that agent after, with various suggestions which varied from; the owner will build you a fence, plant bamboo etc... even though I urged him to check the lease if I can actually have a fence, plant bamboo etc... finally he stopped calling me, although I still live in fear.


This is not the first case of the 'night vision' syndrome. We also liked another lovely Victorian conversion flat beautifully decorated, with a garden...only to see it in the daytime and notice that the view at the back is less than desirable, as well as the peeling front...so my advice is to never ever view the property at night unless there is absolutely no other way and you have nothing better to do, you don't mind coming again to see it in the day time or you want to check if the area suffers from night crime. Otherwise insist on coming during the day, barb wire fence looks so much better when you can't see it...and since you spend most of the day time awake staring at it, these things will matter, trust me.

Finding your dream home is like internet dating...without the feel good factor

I will start with the quick overview of the situation to ease you into the story; it all started with a mini break down nearing the 40th birthday. The lovely, tiny house I owned was still lovely but sadly I felt it was no longer offering me what I needed - peace and tranquility. Won't bore you with details here although I could but in a nutshell, my better half and I had our eye on Wanstead, a lovely and leafy area of east London, zone 4 on the Central line. Our reasons were these; normal people wandering the streets, multitudes of lovely shops that sell good coffee and wonderful pastries and a Provender, great little restaurant where Polish waiter makes an effort to sound French and the food is divine. Oh...and lack of chicken bones on the pavement, something we came to really appreciated having moved from slightly uncivilised Newham. 

I had my eye on a flat in a 1930s building...lovely large rooms, charming fireplace and a hallway that reminded me of old flats back home (I am from foreign land, as my friend Emma would say). We made an offer and were set. We also met a lovely estate agent who was dealing with the sale of our house and the purchase of the flat. The day we put the offer in, my hubby and I sat in the Wanstead pub and excitedly projected what our new life will be like. Looking back at that memory is like re watching Sex and the city boxset where Carrie leaves Mr Big in the first season because she wants someone who can commit. When you watch it for the first time you end up thinking 'you go girl' but when you are seeing it for the sixth time, you have tears in your eyes because now you are wiser and, having seen all six seasons, you know she will never love anyone else, she will repeatedly come back to him and then leave him time and time again, she will cheat on other people with him, she will compromise, she will cry...no, sob, she will be broken hearted and in that episode after Mr. Big's heart surgery, where he has a moment and asks her; "What are we doing?" and means 'we should be together'...but then the next morning he forgets it all conveniently, she accepts it with bittersweet apathy...when you know that happens, you never see that first break up in the same way. Instead of filling you with quiet empowerment, it fills you with poignant, heart wrenching despair.  

That flat fell through mid sale and I won't go into much detail and we decided to rent for a while because we did not want to inconvenience our buyer and because everyone was telling us this was a smart move, then we will be ready to pounce, chain free, with a large deposit on the house of our dreams. Those first days when I hunted for a flat in Wanstead, it never occurred to me that the high prices in Wanstead and the amount of estate agents on a relatively short high street were highly correlated. I remember going to see a flat no bigger than my Orla Kiely Mathilda bag with a pretty dire decor and a cerise carpet so worn that it resembled a much loved teddy bear that has been hugged for far too long and laughing at the asking price. The estate agent looked at me and said; "They can ask those prices because things always sell."  I didn't know how these words will haunt me then...

I am no longer laughing. It has been close to 6 months and I have seen some pretty bad things. Flats without any heating, flats with kitchens from the fifties, flats with bathroom from the sixties which still stands, albeit barely... a flat where some strange man, who had a grandiose mirror opposite his bed and a wet room that resembled the worst that NHS service has to offer, died doing DIY (this is my conclusion upon seeing the exposed electrical wires in the sitting room and having been told that he died suddenly), a flat which belonged to a strange man with a water bed, 50 leather jackets and his own way of calculating the value of his flat, the flat that smelt of urine, the flat with damp problem so bad you don't need a surveyor to tell you that, the flat where the rooms were so small that people can walk only in a single file...to a flat we really liked and have booked to see only to be told a day later that an investor has snapped it up. They all sold.

What I have realised, somewhat bittersweetly, in the time we have been renting in Wanstead, patiently waiting to unpack our pictures and books and shoes in the new place we would buy...is that Wanstead is in the league of its own. It has a charming English feel to it, which has been lost in London, it has great schools, lakes, swans, woods, old buildings with charming features, lots of trees, picturesque high street, good restaurants, lovely opticians, more than awesome dentist called Alex, who by the way could also work as a Calvin Cline model, a pharmacy stocking Vichy stuff, an old post office lady who can do additions quickly and accurately without a calculator, great green grocer, a friendly butcher...oh and about 20 estate agents who all do very well and I know most of them by the first name now.  I also realised that all the things we have been told...that buyers are kings in the current economy, that having a large deposit, no chain etc. is like having the holy grail and that it won't be long before we will find that amazing home for us, was simply not true. It may be true in another area but it is slowly dawning on me that in Wanstead we are like a homecoming queen from a very small rural town, loved, admired, envied, carefree and innocent...who suddenly finds herself in the big city where she is a big nobody. And that feeling is so unpleasant and made worse by the never ending longing to finally be able to buy the blinds we want, have a dishwasher again and to hang our pictures. 

At the worst of the moments, instead of getting drunk (as I don't drink), I sit with packets of Randoms and a finger on the Rightmove and I do one thing Phil and Kirsty will urge you not to do; I browse way above our budget. And I browse past sold prices. These two are the most harmful things one can do and this is why: the houses above our budget will always be unattainable and looking at them is like fantasising that Karate Kid (my first love) or Morrissey (my second) will somehow bump into you and in that one chance encounter realise you are so divine and special that love will blossom. The fact they are famous and you are no one special just adds to the story...as they crave the girl next door (they always did in my head), the ordinary girl, a leo for that matter... Out of that one starts to have irrational thoughts such as spending money on lottery or ever worse, logging onto betting sites and playing demo roulette in order to see if there is money to be made if one plays for real. There never is... To dreaming about some distant relative, one that you didn't even know you had, dying (this idea came to me after watching Heir hunters) and leaving you £50.000 or £70.000 as this amount would make a huge difference in attaining that dream flat in Wanstead. 

Looking at the houses that sold is harmful in a different way...you see the prices and you know that some of them were sold to investors under the table, quietly emailed by the few estate agents who love quick and uncomplicated sales of properties described as 'investment opportunity' or 'a place to really put you stamp on'...which sell for a very nice price...or you see houses that sold in a hurry due to broken chains etc...and you want to weep because the asking prices are ridiculously high and are in no way a reflection of a true value or past sold prices. Then you get defiant and you think that this discrepancy between asking prices and sold prices is down to making a reasonable offer... so you try that. I did, but was laughed at... that was a flat where the kitchen had no floor and the cabinets were falling off the walls. It needed £40.000 spent on it to bring it to a liveable condition...even still, they laughed at me...and later they sold it. 

This is the story so far... and tomorrow another viewing, another mini heartbreak. Oh and I am still to tell you about the flat with a barb wire garden and a flat with a view...but that is now another mini saga so stay tuned.