I am becoming used to the disappointment
For the last couple of weeks I've been running around like a mad thing, trying to raise enough money to buy the house of my dreams.
Yes, it's another property moan - sorry. But this is the life we lead here in the good old U of K.
I thought the house of my dreams was forever gone, when it was put on the market three years ago at about twice what I could even contemplate affording. I shrugged my shoulders then, moaned a bit about the unfairness of life, and got on with other things.
For three years, the house of my dreams didn't sell, but neither did the price come down. And whilst I'm all in favour of bidding low when you want to buy something, I couldn't quite bring myself to offer someone I consider a friend half what they were asking. But two weeks ago, a fellow in the village who is normally a reliable source of information told me that the house was, finally, under offer, and at a price not far north of that 50%.
Another, even more reliable, source in the village, regaled me with a story of the woes the owner of the house of my dreams had undergone in trying to sell his place. He had, as the vernacular has it, been mucked about something proper. Rumour had it that if he didn't complete by the end of May he was going to give the whole thing up and carry on living where he was. In the house of my dreams.
I couldn't have that, but neither did I want to go straight to the owner of the house of my dreams and muddy his waters any further. I'd hate to go to him, say I wanted to buy the place, and then find out I was a few pence short even after guddling around the back of the sofa. So I hatched a plan. First ascertain that I can raise the cash required, then approach harassed owner with a solid offer and fast completion date. Simple. Except that I had to squeeze every last financial pip until it bled just to raise the money.
But I did it. And this afternoon the dachshund and I strolled up to the house of my dreams (see, it's only a mile away - how perfect is that?) to make our offer.
Seems the usually reliable sources of village gossip were, this time, way off the mark. Yes the house is under offer, and that offer has been accepted. Yes the buyers are mucking about trying to scrape all the money together and generally making life a bit of a misery for the owner. But no, their offer isn't substantially lower than the original asking price. In fact it's a good deal higher. Still twice what I can possibly afford even though I can afford a good deal more than I could three years ago.
Ah well. If everything was easy and went to plan, wouldn't life be terribly dull?
Yes, it's another property moan - sorry. But this is the life we lead here in the good old U of K.
I thought the house of my dreams was forever gone, when it was put on the market three years ago at about twice what I could even contemplate affording. I shrugged my shoulders then, moaned a bit about the unfairness of life, and got on with other things.
For three years, the house of my dreams didn't sell, but neither did the price come down. And whilst I'm all in favour of bidding low when you want to buy something, I couldn't quite bring myself to offer someone I consider a friend half what they were asking. But two weeks ago, a fellow in the village who is normally a reliable source of information told me that the house was, finally, under offer, and at a price not far north of that 50%.
Another, even more reliable, source in the village, regaled me with a story of the woes the owner of the house of my dreams had undergone in trying to sell his place. He had, as the vernacular has it, been mucked about something proper. Rumour had it that if he didn't complete by the end of May he was going to give the whole thing up and carry on living where he was. In the house of my dreams.
I couldn't have that, but neither did I want to go straight to the owner of the house of my dreams and muddy his waters any further. I'd hate to go to him, say I wanted to buy the place, and then find out I was a few pence short even after guddling around the back of the sofa. So I hatched a plan. First ascertain that I can raise the cash required, then approach harassed owner with a solid offer and fast completion date. Simple. Except that I had to squeeze every last financial pip until it bled just to raise the money.
But I did it. And this afternoon the dachshund and I strolled up to the house of my dreams (see, it's only a mile away - how perfect is that?) to make our offer.
Seems the usually reliable sources of village gossip were, this time, way off the mark. Yes the house is under offer, and that offer has been accepted. Yes the buyers are mucking about trying to scrape all the money together and generally making life a bit of a misery for the owner. But no, their offer isn't substantially lower than the original asking price. In fact it's a good deal higher. Still twice what I can possibly afford even though I can afford a good deal more than I could three years ago.
Ah well. If everything was easy and went to plan, wouldn't life be terribly dull?
Comments
So much for reliable gossip.
Actually, in an odd way I'm relieved. We were looking at a scary mountain of debt to get this place and a long hard slog just to make the repayments. Perhaps I should learn to be happy with what I've got.