It had to happen eventually and now it has. Builders are starting to make buyers offers that are often almost too good to be true – if the deal on the table from one London apartment developer is anything to go by

Buy one of the upmarket one or two bedroom apartments at Ipsus01 at Hardwicks Square in the heart of Wandsworth to the west of central London, and up to eight extraordinary incentives are on offer worth nearly £20,000.

This includes a £10,000 discount on the price, Waitrose vouchers worth £4,160 plus a free Virgin active gym membership worth £900, a £1,032 travel card, £1,200 towards your mobile phone bill, a free DVD rental every week plus a cinema pass for two (together worth £470) and the property’s £1,175 council tax paid for the first year.

Prices at Ipsus01 start at £249,995 for a one-bedroom apartment and £350,000 for a two-bedroom unit so the cheapest flats come with a 7.6 per cent discount on the original asking price. And if buyers aren’t interested in the deal then Ipsus01’s developer say it will offer a cash alternative as well.

More information from Hamptons International on 020 7758 8434.

From http://blogs.propertyfinder.com/outthere

I remember student halls of residence fondly for torrential water fights, utilitarian fittings and superhuman livers. Nowadays however halls are positively bleak. They are also expensive. A friend’s student flat was made of bare cinder blocks and I’ve seen plans for another which is basically a random pile of Portacabins.

Student flats are so small I wonder if it’s all some kind of elaborate joke. There’s one narrow single bed – as you know, students are famously celibate for religious reasons – a tiny en-suite shower room, a desk, and well, that’s it. What about storing books, linen, clothes, and other general stuff?

Some private landlords are heroes, but the worst examples treat students with outright disdain. Most scholars are young and excited to be living independently for the first time. They are optimistic and accept the shabby state of the property, although a broken heater in September seems more important when December comes.

Some houses are so bad you’d think the Young Ones was a documentary. Owners rent out hovels, knowing they won’t make get as much money, but won’t have to do any repairs. They don’t reckon on parents. Do not mess with articulate, protective, litigious parents. They are fierce.

Rigsby-ite owners assume they can cheat and fleece students, ignoring the Deposit Protection Scheme or docking money for minor misdemeanours. One landlord even tried to charge a back-dated retainer on a house we’d moved into in the autumn. Nice try.

Neighbours argue that students destroy their community, having moved for the old style houses or peace and quiet, not parties, gigs and poster sales. Students, meanwhile counter that they need to live somewhere.

It’s not their fault, but students are a beacon for crime. Criminals think they own computers, drugs, loads of lovely cash and consumer items, and landlords can put burglar alarms low down on the list of importance.

Studentland is very quite in May (exams) but noisy in June (parties!) Outside of term time, it’s a wasteland. One friend watched the value of his home tumble, and then the accompanying theft and mugging rates made the streets a no-go. He was beaten up on his own doorstep, and moved away.

Buses are so plentiful that diesel smog chokes your lungs and obstructs the view. Then come July they all migrate in herds like Wildebeest back to the depot, where they stay grazing until September. Mind you, for those no longer in the first flush of youth, it’s a compliment to be asked at the bus-stop what course you are on.

Student zones are coalmine canaries, indicating where the next up and coming area will be, usually full of large cheap family homes, unrenovated, with intact original features (and a smell of stale weed and pizzas).

One neighbourhood in Edinburgh campaigned against the transient nature of its student population, which they claimed discouraged any sense of community. The students offered to organise a street party for the grumpy neighbours, who were long past the stage of swigging BOGOF Frascati from the bottle with a fag end bobbing about, but it’s the thought that counts.

From http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/

Whenever I write about bad landlords, the good landlords get angry. They pout with indignation and claim to be doing a great job, while assuming that I am exaggerating, rabble-rousing or lying. They are, they insist tormented to the edge of ruin: “Tenants trashed my precious flat,” they say “…and then they did a runner!”

Sorry; it’s not the same at all. Bad landlords are dangerous, but you probably think that’s over the top.

I once lived in shared flat where the landlord’s daughter was a fellow tenant, so you’d think we’d be treated well. Not a bit of it.

We told the owner that the ancient combi boiler was temperamental and that we could smell gas, but he just sneered, stating – somewhat oddly, I think you’ll agree:
“Don’t come that communist nonsense with me – all property is theft and rubbish like that. And don’t try and boss me around.”
“I’m hardly stirring up a revolution,” I replied. “But that boiler’s dangerous. Would you fix it please?”

He ignored me, so I energised him with an enormous estimate from a registered repair firm. Eventually, he sent round his friend, a gas-installer, who took one look at the appliance before turning white with rage.
“You stupid bastard!” he shouted down the phone. “Get your arse round here right now and you’d better bring the money for a new heater! It could blow up any minute! It’s like a bloody bomb!”

Outraged, he continued: “Your daughter lives here! For crying out loud, what’s wrong with you?”
The landlord was unrepentant, and frankly, a bit miffed. I left soon after.

Landlords do their worst in ramshackle shared houses, where tenants move in and out like renting yo-yos. In one HMO, the ancient shower broke; the landlord agreed to replace it, but only after accusing us of “….being heavy with him, when he’d been nice to us.”
Being nice, by the way, involved him once turning up late at night expecting “…coffee.”

To our dismay some ‘cousins’ arrived. They let themselves in unannounced with a spare key, and swaggered around, saying things like: “Hey – ladies, time to paaarrrtay!” After clocking our surly expressions they left in record time, but at least we had a new shower.

Some time later I heard a scream – my terrified housemate had suffered a serious electric shock, and was genuinely lucky to be alive.

The sodden plaster had been partly washed away, exposing the bare wires which were embedded haphazardly in the wall. We called Health and Safety, who challenged and berated the landlord, ordering him to get it sorted, or else.

His response was petulant and unapologetic:
“…you know what girls are like,” he pleaded. “Always nagging and whining.”
The word bitch was used.

As you might have realised by now, I am writing this post in anger. Here’s why. Thanks to the excellent Nearly Legal (see blog roll) for alerting me to this case from Cornwall. To any landlords out there who are feeling betrayed by calls for regulation, please remember this: bad landlords are a minority, but owners can be lazy, negligent, callous, defiant and stupid. The worst landlord is a killer landlord. In a bad way.

Report by The Residential Landlords Association: “A young mother was electrocuted by bathroom taps at a rental home. The coroner said he found it inexplicable that whilst gas safety checks and annual gas safety certificates are a specific legal requirement, electrical checks are not. He called it a loophole.

The woman, Thirza Whittall, 33, was found by her five-year-old daughter Millie. The young mother died instantly when she was hit by 175 volts when running the bath.

Heartbreakingly, the little girl said a prayer over her dead mother’s body before taking her two-year-old brother, George, out of his cot, locking up the house, and walking down the street into a shop to get help.

A series of electrical problems had combined to make the bathroom a death trap, the inquest heard. Mrs Whittall was electrocuted after she part-filled the bath with water and touched the taps with wet hands.

The home had not been professionally rewired or inspected electrically for nearly 30 years. The landlady, Hilary Thompson, had it rewired in 1981, and it had then been checked by her husband. Since Mrs Whittall’s death, the property has been rewired, at a cost of £4,000.

Mr Whittall, a builder, said: “I remain deeply concerned that there is a gap in the legislation which permitted this incident to occur and which puts others at risk. “Whilst landlords of rented properties are obliged to provide an annual gas safety certificate, no such regulation applies in relation to electrical wiring in rented properties.

“As we have learnt to our cost, a fault in an electrical installation is every bit as dangerous as a faulty gas supply.”

The Electrical Safety Council, a charity, is now calling for basic checks to be carried out on rental homes and has published a new guide – the Landlords’ Guide to Electrical Safety.”

Anyone out there still think I’m being unfair?

http://nearlylegal.co.uk/blog/2009/07/shocking-lac/

http://www.esc.org.uk/business-and-community/guidance-for/landlords.html

From http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/

Relocating to another city is a precarious time for tenants. Last time I was in that tricky situation, I alternated between sofa-surfing and staying in a friend’s vacant flat, which gave me time to view homes at my leisure, no pressure to accept a place, any place. Occasionally though, my tenuous chain of accommodation broke and I moved to a hostel.

I’d rather have been snug in my temporary flat, but the hostel was cheap and less awkward than sofa surfing. In the common-room, an American tourist, who pronounced Cardiff as “Carr-deef,” announced: “You must hate us, but I’m a Democrat.”
“What is this, please?” wondered a Slovakian guest, bemused by The Chuckle Brothers, as are we all.

Other residents were self-employed business travellers. They paid their own expenses – aloof but not too proud to book what was a step down from a budget hotel.

Eventually I found a flat. My references were great and I was ready to move with a deposit and rent in advance. I called, arranging to collect the keys.
The landlord said: “…um, yeah. Sorry. A different girl moved in this morning. I think my other flat’s more you.”
I asked why.
“It’s by the river – it’s quite…plush.”
But it’s too dear, I said.
“Oh come on – you can afford it. I can tell.”

I was supposed to be moving in next morning, so I was homeless. Frantically I phoned around, but everywhere was full or else people were away. In desperation, I found a rundown back-packers’ hostel, which was better than the pavement.
The owner said: “Towel hire is 50p.”

The other guests were four uncharacteristically snotty Aussie backpackers, and a group from Bangladesh, attending a student conference. In the morning, the queue for the shower was ridiculous. I waited my turn tutting grumpily because two people were hogging the bathroom.

I went for a brew. When I returned they were still showering. Their fellow delegate said: “I am so very sorry; please to take my place in the line.”

His companions continued their seemingly endless shower. Every now and again they both turned off the water, standing in silence before restarting the weak spray. Judging by some clothes left on the floor, one was male, while the owner of the electric blue salwar kameez was female. It was cold outside, and both owned several layers of shrunken grey wool.

We were all going to be late. An irate Aussie rattled the thin partition. I asked their friend: “Can you make them hurry up?”
He smiled awkwardly, explaining. “They are in love, you see.”
The couple showered on, whispering softly, and affectionately.

I realised what was happening. The showering lovers were devout Muslims, and had never been alone together. Back home, even sitting next to each other was forbidden.

So in a frosty, foreign bathroom, an adoring couple lingered beneath a gentle cascade of warm water, naked but separated by opaque plastic shower cubicles, passing scented soap through a narrow gap below the screens, fingers brushing, close for the first time, oblivious to the strangers hammering on the door.

http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2007/12/please-dont-send-me-out-there.html

http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2007/08/theyre-all-mad.html

http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2007/05/really-actually-properly-homeless.html

From http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/

Right now, I’m settled in a well-constructed, peaceful block which is managed humanely and efficiently rather than for profit alone. I love it here, I really do – this flat has been a refuge. Despite my affection for Nice Heights, it must be said that even here, there is one aspect of its design that is found wanting.

Nice Heights exemplifies the nature of property’s most exclusive luxury: space. Contemporary flats are tiny. It’s hard to obtain accurate figures, but urban newbuilds can be as small as 45 sq metres (I suspect the worst examples are even smaller.) Nice Heights seems fine until a few visitors arrive, and highlight the deficiency. There is no internal corridor. The bathroom door opens out onto the eating area (dining room? Don’t be daft.) When I start flat-hunting again, top of my wish list is separate rooms, and more space.

The obsession with cramming people into low-rise blocks seems to be the result of ill-founded assumptions, fatally combined with a crushing lack of ambition. Low rise? It’s just how things are. There a solution to this problem: we must build higher.

Unfortunately, the terrible fires in South London recently have stalled a growing campaign for taller buildings. There did seem to be safety problems in those particular blocks, but even a building that touches the clouds – if properly designed – will be as safe as well… houses. Safety is often a management concern though: as I’ve said before, Dovecot Towers had no fire assembly point, and we never had a fire-drill.

Apart from that, why are we so reluctant to build higher? Surely it would eradicate the argument for the little boxes foisted upon buy-to-let tenants? There’d be fire escapes and lifts at either end, and also in the middle of the building. It’s good business to use a low rise footprint for a taller building, allowing greater space for renters, who stay longer, meaning less voids for landlords, who would also benefit.

Increased height would accommodate everything I dream of, like storage space and generously proportioned rooms – even open-plan living is fine with enough space. We’d have bedrooms large enough to double as studies, with a desk and shelves (built into in a niche?) Or perhaps a separate study, and a terrace that’s a proper outdoor room, with space to dry washing, and enjoy the view. Gardens would allow for children’s playgrounds. We’d have rented homes for life in an urban suburb in the sky, with plants creeping up the outside in a vertical garden.

The circle has turned, and vertiginous living is now entirely the domain of rich owner occupiers. The over-lords of the sky-kingdom enjoy vast eyries, peering out between the branches of imported olive groves, glancing down at the poor creatures condemned to remain in orange, low-rise hell-holes. It used to be the other way around: landless, tenant proles housed in stacks of dilapidated council blocks, the very same blocks that in some cases were refurbished to make luxury apartments. How did we get from there to here?

(NB: Regular readers might like to know, I will now be posting on different days, and slightly more often.)

http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2007/07/birth-of-buy-to-let-dovecot.html

http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2008/08/no-english-newbuild-garden.html

http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2008/02/size-matters-in-dovecot-towers.html

From http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/

Recently, it has been suggested that a register of landlords might control their worst excesses. Naturally, owners are against the proposal on the basis of ‘human rights,’ even though they ask a lot – bank statements, credit references – from their tenants. A register of landlords might at least prevent rogue repeat offenders scaring tenants away, and then starting anew with a fresh batch of victims.

But we shouldn’t need a register. We need a house. You have a house. You need our rent. We pay the rent. I have an inkling that this bargain goes wrong partly because landlords have unrealistic expectations of tenants, like their behaviour, the impact they will have and the time consumed by managing property. They have genuinely forgotten that there are warm-blooded, sentient humans living in their investment. Owners want tenants who have taken a vow of perfection.

Landlords want sanctified, holy, winged tenants with halos, who will pay over the odds, two years in advance. These dream tenants pester the landlord pleading with them: “Please sir, can I pay you some more?”
Tenants must never ask for repairs. They accept the squalor, conceding: “It’s exactly what we deserve; it is our destiny – so it was written.”
In fact, they replace all appliances with top-end luxury substitutes on moving, out of devotion to, senseless love of their master.

Either that, or owners will settle for virtual tenants, holograms, or spectral beings that waft around the property without landing (I expect they’d still find a way to make deductions for wear and tear.)

Landlords want a signed personal guarantee from god/your chosen imaginary deity, who will rumble assurances from on high that rent will be paid. In credit checks, tenants must also be divine and superhuman, undertaking a solemn vow: “I swear on my firstborn’s life I have never, ever, ever, paid bills on a red final demand.”

Landlords hate being scared. The following is scary: tenants. They would actually quite like it if we paid rent without living in the property, to save all the nasty, disruptive business of having us contaminating the flat with our presence (even though we pay to live in it.)

Landlords also want the power to dismiss us instantly by snapping their fingers and intoning: “I evict you, I evict you, I evict you,” because it’s Wednesday, or because they stood in a crack in the pavement, or because their astrologer advised against Scorpios, and men (or women) with moustaches.

Robot tenants are the future. Perhaps the National Landlords Association has constructed a clone of us all which they keep in a pod at the Masonic Lodge. Stepford renters leave no messy residue, and are highly obedient. Landlords want armies of cloned mechanical tenants, marching in step like the workers in Metropolis: “Master, we obey and will sign the S.21 notice, just as you order us to.”

Meanwhile, we remain defiantly and flamboyantly human. Landlords must deal with us as we are now, but still operate as if tenants are drones and good for one thing only, and that’s money.

http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2008/04/how-clean-is-your-hover.html

http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2008/11/with-reference-to-landlords.html

From http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/

Life for tenants is a madcap relay of constant moving, all speeded up like a Benny Hill sketch to the sound of funny banjo music. We relocate more than homeowners – potentially every six months if we’re unlucky, which judging from your comments and emails, many are.

It’s very bad for the nerves. Most newbuilds are specifically aimed at renters who’s life-cycle is: move in/get out/then more of the same all over again, it’s bizarre that these specialist, modern constructions manage to make moving so difficult. For one thing, newbuilds have nowhere for vans and lorries to park, and we’ve all been faced on a stressful day with tetchy friends and removal companies waving those inevitable and extortionate parking tickets, which we have to pay.

In modern buildings, there is no freight lift. Moving belongings via a small, creaking elevator, hoping that your vast collection of ancient vinyl doesn’t conspire to send everyone plummeting into the basement is a stressful, albeit character-building test.

Conversions present a different challenge. Internal remodelling fits the original, historic shape and layout of the building, so there are often random pillars blocking foyers, compelling irate removal men to perform a sort of country dance, do-si-doing through double-doors and twirling around posts with heavy boxes and fragile plants. Maybe the answer to the question: “How did they get that enormous sofa through that narrow door and into that tiny lounge,” is the same as: “How did they get that ship into that bottle.”

We used to have this under control. Whenever I pass older structures, like converted canal or roadside warehouses, I notice the original rooftop hoists, ingenious and ideal for lifting goods up the outside of the building if too large or heavy to risk the elevator. I want them back. Bring back external hoists. We want rooftop hoists, and we want them now.

The best example of a humane design which acknowledges the trials of life can be found in a council block in Salford. Residents always wondered about the cubby-hole/niche at the bottom of the back wall of their lift. What was it for? Enquiries revealed that the space was created to allow coffins to lie flat when the occupant made their last relocation to that sitting tenancy in the sky. It makes me wonder how undertakers arrange that same journey from an urban newbuild.

Why does this matter? Well, soon I’m going to be moving again. This time its career related (please don’t ask why – I have a life outside of this blog.) But I’m off elsewhere, so once again I must pack, find another home, move everything, and then unpack again (using my hoard of banana boxes.) My friends say, put it in the blog – put it in the book, but it’s another unavoidable move and I’m dreading it already, really, absolutely and completely dreading it.

More than anything else, I just wish I could put Nice Heights on wheels and take it with me on a monster truck.

http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2009/03/our-lady-of-banana-boxes.html

http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2009/06/vanman-and-supervanman.html

From http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/

Dovecot Towers is on my mind. I’m making preparations for the book I plan to write, going through old posts etc, and a few weeks ago, I went back there.

To my surprise I found the return visit quite daunting. With the building looming up ahead, I imagined the soundtrack, with stag-parties, Sarah screaming, and the people who gossiped, played and argued on their balconies, never realising I could hear. I wonder how the other residents remember life there – after all, some people enjoyed happy days in Dovecot Towers. Occasionally, even I managed to raise a smile…

I was accompanied by Owen Hatherley, author of Militant Modernism, and responsible for the excellent Nasty Brutalist And Short blog – see links. Owen is a fan of brutalist architecture, which, in a column for Building Design, he defends with eloquence and passion. Personally, I’m not so keen, but Owen’s spirited advocacy could almost change my mind.

Owen is aware of Rentergirl, so I wondered what he’d make of Dovecot Towers. With the trained eye of a practiced architectural critic, Owen appraised the exterior. Here’s what he had to say:

“Dovecot Towers is tucked away in the back end of beyond – seemingly in an alleyway, without much hope of any light ever getting into the rooms. Then there were the grilles on the ground floor, which just made it seem like an industrial structure rather than housing – which, given the popularity of ageing satanic mills as yuppie flats, was probably the intention (also the reason for the cheap red brick, I suspect, although that looked like a bit of shallow dressing on a concrete frame), but combined with the dead flowers left for the suicide it all looked decidedly inhospitable. More than that, though, I remember that bit in the middle. Not really a square or a plaza, not a garden, just this odd bit of greenery that thought it was a feature of some sort. I can only wonder what it all looked like in the drawings…”

I agree with everything Owen says, except for one point. I don’t believe that Dovecot Towers was intended to reflect any style at all. It was – in more ways than one – thrown up. Architects speak of buildings having a dialogue with the surrounding area. In which case, what was Dovecot Towers trying to say? Then I saw the wilted bouquet. No green shots, just some half-dead lilies propped up and dwarfed by a shoddy, bleak and shabby buy-to-let disaster.

I’ve since learned that Davey might not have intended to die that night: he was threatening to jump, possibly to scare Sarah in the heat of the moment, and may have fallen, which for me makes his death all the more tragic. Coroners only record a verdict of suicide if there is conclusive evidence, like a note, so there was an open verdict. I heard from Sarah a while back. She’s determined not to be bitter and miserable (her words.) I also understand she’s doing voluntary work abroad.

As for William, my former landlord – well, I never did find out what happened to him.

http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2008/09/death-in-dovecot.html

http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2008/09/flowers-in-dovecot.html

http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2008/11/i-dreamed-i-dwelt-in-dovecot-towers.html

http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2007/07/knowing-too-much.html

http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/2008/10/battered-by-butterflies.html

From http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/

The other night I saw a storm like no other. Javelins of rain pierced the sky, while an astonishing display of lightening flashed between shower curtains of water.

Newbuilds (and Nice Heights is one) all have flat roofs. From what I’ve seen all flat roofs leak, and this one was no exception. It was as if the world was ending; the lights went out, the water was shut off and the lifts stopped working (presumably war, famine, pestilence and disease headed straight for Dovecot Towers.) The penthouses above me were deluged, as apart from being huge and expensive, they are directly under any leak (more of a Niagara, actually.)

The management company and concierge do their jobs properly, so cleaning and repairs began immediately – carpets were sorted with massive hair-driers. In Dovecot Towers, there was also a leak (the only disaster in that doom-laden block which didn’t affect me) but the management company’s impassioned response, was basically: “…tough.”

A friend lived in another jerry-built newbuild so bad he’s earned time off from purgatory. It had a sieve for a roof, but repairs were botched and piecemeal. There were constant leaks – well, more of a water feature, actually, but an evil one. He came home to find water bubbling through light-fittings, rotting the carpet and drenching his belongings. The people in the flat below had some much loved possessions destroyed.

Tired of spending his days wearing one of those zany umbrella hats, he consulted the letting agency (how sweet; I wonder if he also believes in fairies?) and asked for help. They did nothing. Exasperated and damp, he was forced to evacuate (in one of those inflatable emergency boats, I believe) ending up homeless and – ironically it must be said – sofa-surfing. The agency sternly insisted he was obliged to pay full rent, and unbelievably tried to keep his deposit.

Now, if I was building a structure with an eye its long-term future, I’d make sure the roof had an incline. Architecture follows fashion, and oddly enough, the current vogue is for a wedge-shaped outline, which looks odd (as if a giant has lopped off the top, like a boiled egg) but at least the torrents can flow safely away.

Could any architects reading (and I know you do) explain this affection for flatness? No matter how grand or humble the development, sooner or later, flat roofs leak – that’s just how it is, so why do we have them? Or perhaps we should ask builders about the porous roof thing. (Now there’s a lively can of worms – would you please be so kind as to pass the tin-opener?)

One fine clear night, from a vantage point high above the city, I could see the moon reflected in countless muddy puddles shimmering on a multitude of rooftops. It was beautiful, unexpected and eerie, but does it count as a plus side?

(NB: Another thing I like about Nice Heights. The response to the recent burglaries was to start a Neighbourhood Watch scheme. It just feels so grown-up.)

From http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/

It was an intensely hot, super sunny day three years ago and flat-hunting had driven me to the brink of madness. After several fruitless weeks of openly disdainful letting-agents asking ridiculous rents for nasty little boxes, one agent actually seemed pleased to hear from me. He could show me a flat immediately (adding, when he remembered himself: “…I’ve had a cancellation, so I can squeeze you in for a quick viewing…let’s see… right now, actually.”)

How odd – he didn’t sneer. Stranger still, he listened to me and didn’t claim that the price had risen over night. Either he was being nice (don’t be silly) or could it be that he was desperate, too?

The agent arrived in the cliché branded Smart car, and ignored me to grandly shuffle some papers. His old-fashioned spiel was complimented by a rapidly dating wide-boy hair-style, erect with gel. He was in a hurry to show me the building which would cast a shadow over my life, a nondescript oblong block of orange brick, set back from the main road.
“They’re going fast, better make up your mind!” he insisted, gamely sticking to his script. My reticence clearly unnerved him.

“I suppose I could show you another one… ooh, you’ll get me in trouble…” he joked in a feeble attempt to get me onside.
The building was mostly empty, so I could take my pick. He seemed to be reading aloud from his own advert:
“You will enjoy a magnificent vista…” Then correcting himself, he continued, “I mean, there’s a view. If you like that sort of thing.”

I smiled vaguely. I was homeless and trying not to appear needy. I mentioned the other flats I’d inspected, all identical, bleak and eerily devoid of tenants, but he pretended not to hear. Louder this time, I said:
“No really; I’ve seen a lot of flats. Too many. Must be making your life quite hard.”

He looked unsettled. I don’t enjoy messing with people’s heads, but I had to make my point. I wonder if at that morning’s team meeting, somebody had suddenly noticed a pile of unlet newbuilds, and he’d been ordered to reach a target.

My phone rang, and I took a call from a landlady who – to my surprise – couldn’t conceal her eagerness to have me move in. I’d left a message answering her ad for a below-par flat well outside my chosen area. Politely, I asked for a discount. She admitted the price was steep and agreed to go lower.

Gel-boy was rattled. The flat I was standing in was already fifty quid cheaper than the original ad, for no clear reason. I decided to look again at the foyer, and then ask for a further reduction. Bartering in tourist markets makes me feel uncomfortable, but rents had been ramped-up by landlords, developers and letting-agents – the usual suspect ingredients in a layer cake of greed.

“Look,” I said, studying that ‘vista.’ “You don’t really need a quick decision, do you? There are plenty more flats just like this one…”

I moved in and spent summer nights on my balcony gazing across at cranes and the twinkling half-lit checkerboard of empty newbuilds in the distance, listening as Dovecot Towers came alive, only for it to die a lingering death.

And now, on another sultry summers evening, I can’t help but wonder if the moment a letting-agent condescended to haggle coincided with the precise time, perhaps the exact second that everything changed, when the rollercoaster property market ride began its perilous descent, careering downwards, out of control.

From http://rentergirl.blogspot.com/