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.
