Having read Jane Gardam’s introduction to it, last night I began reading Molly Keane’s 1981 novel, ‘Good Behaviour’.
Early this morning Jackie drove us to Ringwood to make a bank transfer; to visit Ellis Jones solicitors; and to buy some eggs and veg. Rain throughout the night had replenished all the familiar pools, one of which required me to make a wide detour in order in order to pay for parking.
Teetering on a low concrete kerb, I was in danger of stepping involuntarily into the swirling water sent rippling by cars driving through it. In those circumstances one expanding ripple is rapidly followed by another which in turn is ultimately superseded by a smaller one.
Back in October, we felt able, at last, to make an offer for The Old Post House. This was because the buyer of the London house part-owned by Jackie had pressed for completion of his purchase before Christmas, claiming he had both deposit and mortgage agreed in principal. It was not an accurate presentation of his position and caused inordinate delay consequent upon constantly moving goalposts. That sale is now complete, and today we transferred our purchase deposit to our solicitor’s client account. We await exchange and completion dates.
It is more than twenty six years since I bought a house in this country and a lot has changed in that time, not just the prices. Never before have I been caught in a chain. I now understand why our English system is considered to be such a nightmare. For those unfamiliar with this, a chain is the term given to the queue that is created by the fact that most people need to sell one house before they can buy another. No-one can be sure that any one purchase will not break down. Thus if I promise you a certain amount of money for your house, you may then promise someone else a figure for their house. I may have undertaken to buy your property based on another person’s promise to buy mine. If my purchaser reneges, I cannot buy your place, and you cannot proceed with your purchase.
The Ashcombe Road house I bought when I was 21 was my first, and there was no onward chain. All I had to do was secure a mortgage. In 1963 the amount one could borrow was based upon one salary only. It is my conviction that the major reason for constantly rising prices is the relaxation of that regulation, effectively meaning two salaries, and eventually even more, would be required.
It was in 1968 that I bought the second house, in fact the London one mentioned above. Again there was no chain. The price that year was £5,000. It has just fetched £745,000.
There was an ongoing chain in the purchase of the Gracedale Road house in 1980, but, no-one having misrepresented their position, all went smoothly. Again, the transition from there to Lindum House in Newark in 1987, was unproblematic. Perhaps, until now, I have just been fortunate.
Nothing is certain about photo number 46 in the ‘through the ages’ series, except that it was taken during the period when I was blissfully ignorant about the processes of buying and selling property. Wimbledon Common is the most likely location, and Vivien the probable photographer sometime in 1962.
We also have a term ‘chain reaction’. This is employed when one event, usually a disaster, follows upon another. Whilst I was writing the above notes, I received a call from Wells garage giving the diagnosis on Jackie’s Modus. The water pump had failed. This caused the engine to overheat. That destroyed the head gasket. Oil mixed with water. As, it seems, with everything else on this make of car, labour is intensive because the design is such that, even to change a headlamp bulb requires a complete dismantling job. We are stretched so far on the house purchase that now is not the time to contemplate the purchase of a new car. A quick discussion resulted in the decision to have the car repaired at a cost of £1,200. That sum in 1962 would have been £50 short of 50% of the cost of the first house mentioned above. Given that we had forgotten about stamp duty for house purchases and almost everything seems to have VAT added, I suppose you’d also call the car problem a double whammy.
The late afternoon and early evening were bright and clear. We drove up to Eyeworth Pond near Fritham and walked along the gravel footpath, now, like the surrounding fields pretty waterlogged. On 10th November last year the pond was not as full, and the terrain not as covered in water as it was today. A rivulet feeding the lake had then trickled its way across the heathland through which the path runs. Today the rivulets were new threads speeding into what is currently a fast moving stream that could be heard from a distance. The now familiar devastation to the trees was here, in parts, even more dramatic than in some other areas. My photograph shows what is nothing more than a huge limb torn from a nearby tree, the shattered shards giving an indication of the force with which it had come crashing down.
Chilli con carne (recipe); wild rice and peas; and strawberry jelly in evaporated milk provided our sustenance this evening. I finished the malbec.
Tag: stamp duty
Proof Of Identity
This has been a reading week. I have managed French and German philosophy, and an English historical novel. But when it came to the electricity meter my performance was subject to certain shocks.
In my experience, Southern Electric are the most reliable and understandable of the UK’s multiplicity of utility companies. They give you a discount for paying promptly and have a fairly smooth system. They do actually read the meters every six months. Our current bill is estimated. That document is easy enough to read, but I do like to pay for what we have actually used. So I had to read the meter.
First of all, I had to find it. There isn’t one in our flat, although there is a cobweb-filled fuse box, that on the estate agents inventory was marked as not inspected because it was too high up on the wall. About ten feet in fact.
There are two entrance halls in our huge building. No meters were to be found in ours. Using the trades entrance to the other side of Castle Malwood Lodge, Jackie found a vast cupboard over there full of meters, none of which was ours. The ceilings are about 11 feet high. Above the cupboards Jackie searched are two smaller, locked, ones. Access to these required a perch on a long stepladder.
There are seventeen flats in our building (no number 13, so 1-18). Each has its own meter. Some of these are indicated by pencil or pen marks on the walls; some by ancient curled-up Dymo marker strips. Ours is number 4. It was therefore somewhat surprising to find that our meter was the only one in the top left cupboard. Up I had climbed to the cupboard; unlocked it; climbed down and moved the ladder so I could open the door; climbed back up, opened the said door, and identified the number embossed on the curly Dymo strip as ours.
It should have been straightforward from then on. However, the device contained a window displaying three sets of numbers in rapidy changing turns. Being on Economy 7 tariff our bill showed one total for Day use and another for Night use. Two of the numbers with which I was confronted bore some resemblance to those on the bill. The other didn’t.
It was time to telephone the supplier. Going through the usual machine-led hoops, I eventually spoke to a very helpful woman who lives in a laird’s cottage in Scotland. From this information you will know that we got on quite well. Having kept me on hold while she sought advice, she abandoned trying to talk me through pressing buttons on the meter once I had managed to convey the logistics of making my way back to it with a phone in my hand. I paid the estimated bill and the meter will be read next time.
But we may not be here then, for this afternoon we visited the bank in Ringwood where we gained a positive response to the possibility of a loan should we have a shortfall on the stamp duty on The Old Post House. We forgot about this exorbitant tax on buying somewhere to live. 
After this we drove to Spencer’s in Lymington to offer proof that we are who we said we were and that we live at the address we gave the agent. Passports proved our identity, and it seemed appropriate to use the above-mentioned utility bill as evidence of residence. I did apologise for having scribbled all over it.
Have I mentioned that one of the radiators for which we are paying rent doesn’t work? I thought not. Purely by coincidence, the manager of the electrical firm engaged to fix this, telephoned me when I was grappling with the meter problem. He wanted to send someone this afternoon. I said we were going out. He suggested making another appointment. Without actually quoting Oscar Wilde, I pointed out that the two previous appointments had been cancelled on the relevant days through someone calling in sick. I didn’t mention that the great Irish epigrammatist may have thought this careless, but I did suggest we may not be able to rely on a third one. He was somewhat chastened by this and undertook to send someone to be here when we returned home. Two men did come, only ten minutes late, and having rung us to let us know. They confirmed that the radiator doesn’t work, and, as for every other task needed in the flat, they have to go back to Penyards, the agent, for permission to do further work. I tried not to get too wired up about it.
The beautifully presented smoked haddock meal we enjoyed, and I photographed, on 2nd May, was repeated this evening. The wine was the same except that it was Roc Saint Vincent 2011.