Hits the fan
I'm finding it remarkably hard to be upset.
Or perhaps I'm vacillating between moments of extreme rage and periods of almost zen-like calm. I always wondered what it would be like to vacillate.
The reason for my curiously ambivalent state is that I am currently being shafted.
No, not like that. I wouldn't be able to type, surely. And besides, there's no-one here but me. I'm being shafted from afar by someone I've never met.
To explain: I have been for some time engaged in the purchase of a plot of land, upon which I intend to build a house. Yesterday, just after lunch, I received a phone call from the vendor's agent. It seems that someone with far too much money has offered Mog the farmer (or Moc, which I think is the correct way of spelling his nickname) twice what he was asking me for my plot, with the same to be pledged in the next financial year for the next door plot.
What this fellow with far too much money wants to do is build himself a house, then build one next door, sell the first one when he's lived in it long enough for it not to be considered a development (thus avoiding the paying of any nasty taxes on it), and move into the second house. The fat profit he makes on the first house should greatly amortise the cost of building the second (do people use words like amortise in polite society? If not, I'm sorry. I used to work in banking you know.)
It's a good plan, in principle. Especially if you've got a great big wad of cash behind you. And the little guy trying to scrape enough together to set up his own home? Shit on him. Fuck him. Screw him. He doesn't count.
Such men as sleep o'nights.
To be fair, Moc (or Mog) hasn't agreed to this gazump yet. He has a conscience, and he feels that people working in the community here should be able to afford to buy (or build) houses here. He is a gentleman. But he's also being offered £100,000 for a tiny corner of a field, with the promise of another £100,000 next year for the adjacent tiny strip of land. That's $186,567.21 US or $233,092.13 CAN, twice over. I think I'd be biting off the hand. Up to the shoulder.
Instead he has made me a very generous offer. If I can meet him halfway - £75,000 - the plot is still mine. £75k for twenty metres by forty. That's within spitting distance of £100 a square metre, even if it's not polite to spit. It's a 50% increase in the cost of my plot.
It's more than I can afford.
I've already spent £1500 on plans, local authority searches, solicitors fees, planning application fees. Not to mention the hours spent chasing quotes. I even built a model of the house I was going to build.
I haven't even been able to discuss it with Barbara. She went to Nottinghamshire yesterday afternoon for a job interview (same company, same location, different business unit). The last thing I wanted to do was send her off with this cheery bit of news, so I had to keep it to myself. Not easy.
Like I said, right royally shafted. Yesterday was a bad day.
Or perhaps I'm vacillating between moments of extreme rage and periods of almost zen-like calm. I always wondered what it would be like to vacillate.
The reason for my curiously ambivalent state is that I am currently being shafted.
No, not like that. I wouldn't be able to type, surely. And besides, there's no-one here but me. I'm being shafted from afar by someone I've never met.
To explain: I have been for some time engaged in the purchase of a plot of land, upon which I intend to build a house. Yesterday, just after lunch, I received a phone call from the vendor's agent. It seems that someone with far too much money has offered Mog the farmer (or Moc, which I think is the correct way of spelling his nickname) twice what he was asking me for my plot, with the same to be pledged in the next financial year for the next door plot.
What this fellow with far too much money wants to do is build himself a house, then build one next door, sell the first one when he's lived in it long enough for it not to be considered a development (thus avoiding the paying of any nasty taxes on it), and move into the second house. The fat profit he makes on the first house should greatly amortise the cost of building the second (do people use words like amortise in polite society? If not, I'm sorry. I used to work in banking you know.)
It's a good plan, in principle. Especially if you've got a great big wad of cash behind you. And the little guy trying to scrape enough together to set up his own home? Shit on him. Fuck him. Screw him. He doesn't count.
Such men as sleep o'nights.
To be fair, Moc (or Mog) hasn't agreed to this gazump yet. He has a conscience, and he feels that people working in the community here should be able to afford to buy (or build) houses here. He is a gentleman. But he's also being offered £100,000 for a tiny corner of a field, with the promise of another £100,000 next year for the adjacent tiny strip of land. That's $186,567.21 US or $233,092.13 CAN, twice over. I think I'd be biting off the hand. Up to the shoulder.
Instead he has made me a very generous offer. If I can meet him halfway - £75,000 - the plot is still mine. £75k for twenty metres by forty. That's within spitting distance of £100 a square metre, even if it's not polite to spit. It's a 50% increase in the cost of my plot.
It's more than I can afford.
I've already spent £1500 on plans, local authority searches, solicitors fees, planning application fees. Not to mention the hours spent chasing quotes. I even built a model of the house I was going to build.
I haven't even been able to discuss it with Barbara. She went to Nottinghamshire yesterday afternoon for a job interview (same company, same location, different business unit). The last thing I wanted to do was send her off with this cheery bit of news, so I had to keep it to myself. Not easy.
Like I said, right royally shafted. Yesterday was a bad day.
Comments
Now I'm not so sure