You are currently browsing the monthly archive for November 2006.
Realising I shouldn’t have left you hanging in cyberspace waiting for the next instalment I’ve tried to find some time for an update but the last week has happened so fast that I’ve barely had time to put my feet up.
This week should see me sign a tenancy agreement for a humble abode in the Sutherland Shire of south Sydney. At last after all the traipsing about my rental application was accepted and we have a house, although I have no idea what swayed it for us this time after having missed some of the others, nor do I much care, main thing is we have a house. There is, however a fly in the ointment, so what’s new I hear you mutter into your coffee and Hob-Nobs.
The house won’t be available for us to commandeer until the middle of December, a mere week before Christmas actually and that means three weeks of temporary accommodation once the troops arrive here in just a few days time.
It just couldn’t have been straight forward could it?
Unfortunately my current sheltering arrangements do not lend themselves easily to further invasion of a good mates’ house by my lot. The lads have been great in putting up with me, leaving extra dinners in the fridge, collecting me from the station before my acquisition of a car and generally keeping a tidy house in the presence of one of their Dad’s old mates (they may have perceived me to be a spy but I’m not as old as their Dad and don’t remember any of their childish foolishness anyway!) as they house-sit for him while he is away in foreign lands.
So, I have to look for something suitable to base ourselves while we sort out things like schools, furniture, medical and the general foundations of starting a new life. And after my preliminary enquiries it’s not going to be as easy as booking a semi-permanent canvas bungalow as we did when starting another new life in France a couple of years ago.
There are, as ever, several reasons for this, main one being the fact that summer has arrived here and so all types of holiday accommodation in the form of cabins and units are taken by long and short term tenants moving around the globe in their search for holiday bliss. The second reason beyond my control is the economy and the likelihood that the recent hikes in interest rates here have scared would-be first time buyers, or indeed any old property buyers into taking temporary refuge in the rental market, while they wait for the situation to stabilize, or reverse. Some hope.
There is also one further possible reason to explain the lack of short term places to stay and it has to do with sport on an almost religious scale. Cricket bloody cricket and the Ashes, due to bat-off here in just a couple of days; every hotel, motel, B&B and pub is happy to tell me they’re full.
Hence we wait for news of possible short term housing from the real estate agent handling our rental property and find ourselves again on a sticky wicket.
After three weeks of hard walking round this wonderful city I’ve finally managed to get my hands on a set of wheels, with great thanks to a total stranger. Whilst trekking back from one of my numerous house viewings a chance encounter with the grandfather of the driver of an elderly Mercedes led to a turn of good fortune. The driver was a small four year old by the name of Dean, his grandfather, Con, the owner of Mercedes Classic Star, which is a family run outfit specializing in – you guessed it, Mercedes cars. You see grandad was giving the little heir a driving lesson when I happened upon them. My very first sight was of the little boy peering over the steering wheel driving towards me and when they stopped this naturally led to conversation, during which I hinted heavily that I was looking for transport in order to make these viewings less of a workout. The company specializes in repairs, servicing and restorations but he could never know that he’d just hit upon a certified Mercomaniac. It then transpired he happened to have a pristine W108 for sale, with Cognac leather trim, the silky 3.5 V8 and auto transmission, almost exactly the same as the one I’d heart-breakingly had to part with in
France. Oh God, this was getting dangerous, I could hear the shouting of the red devil and the white angel on my shoulders… Fortunately as the little guys on the shoulders piped up the white angel won and I pursued the cheaper, more practical avenue. Besides, a beautiful W108 for the price he was asking would be too good to leave at the station and transport diving and surfing gear (for the kids of course). So he was easily persuaded to consider parting with this particular example, his own personal work hack. A ruby red estate that was not in a state, as most cars of this age are. We agreed quickly on a price for I knew exactly where to aim my ‘funds available’, which has turned out to be very reasonable as the car now has a full twelve months ‘reggo’ on it to boot. In true Australian fashion ‘reggo’ is the proper version of registration, sort of like the UK vehicle licencing, due and payable every twelve months, based on such things as car type, usage and so on. In short a number plate.
Following this chance meeting it was agreed to do a proper test drive and take it from there. So, the following week I was collected from the station close to MB Classic Star whereupon we took the car back to the workshops for a full checkover, after which I drove it home through the traffic, where it performed faultlessly. With this kind of assistance for a second hand car that wasn’t actually for sale there has to be a level of trust and so the deal was done, but it doesn’t end there. Although I had committed to the deal and planted some cash in to the guy’s account so he could register the car, my full funds had not cleared the account by the weekend I was due to collect. Forlornly I called up to inform him that I couldn’t collect just yet and would do so when the money was in. A short while later I got a call from the guy expressing his angst that I was still wheel-less and still trekking round looking at houses, so I should just come and collect it and pay him when the money was in! There you are, still some remarkable level of trust and generosity in this world. And that’s how I came to be the owner of a 1985 230TE. If only it were that easy to get my hands on a tenancy agreement.
Anybody who has been following the progress of Papa Bear on the migration south to the Great Australasian Continent will be aware of the stages reached so far. From the initial frenzy of activity as the motor of transition screamed into 1st Gear arranging all manner of paperwork, through to the 2nd Gear commotion of actually getting here. All the while the valves have been bouncing off their seats, the pistons slapping away and the turbo hissing and squealing like some demeted banshee. I can’t yet change to third and bring some respite as my current dilemma is a worryingly complex one indeed. I’m trying to find a house to lease and make into our home. The pressure is huge. I cannot fail as Ted has been telling everyone that daddy has gone to ‘Stralia to find a house for us to live in. Well, Tiger – it aint easy!
Apart from the intricate details of what, where and how much there is the stunningly primitive process to get to grips with, once that is, you’ve started to work it out for yourself. Basically it goes like this; you arrange to view something that is still available, arrive with up to a dozen other hopefuls and invade the place, known as a viewing. You decide yes and then fill out an ‘application’. Said application is then your only hope of reaching tenant status, nothing else. Duly collected the amassed applications are presented to the owner of the property. They will then pore over the collected plea bargains, sometimes with the expertise of the agent, usually not for good houses rent themselves with the final decision resting in the owners hands anyway, and come to a conclusion based solely on who appears to be the best tenant. Of course they may cross check references but basically the whole process is all down to a beauty contest. And wait and see for the prospective tenants. No first come, first to be assessed, no pay your money and take your choice, just a simple assessment of what’s on the application. Good salary, can they pay, is about all they can realistically deduce from the given information, whether they prefer locals, what they make of your name, where you’re from, what they think of your referees is pure speculation for you waiting on the end of a phone. And you never actually get to know for what reason you may have been knocked back, which happens a lot as there is no restriction on the number of applications that can be submitted on a property.
Currently due to interest rate hikes and the economic status quo rental properties are not necessarily like hen’s teeth to find but good ones certainly don’t sit on the availability list for long. Unless of course you don’t mind broken fixtures, dirty cupboards and carpets, dingy rooms, suspect DIY, bad smells and the occasional dog turd left on the carpet. I kid you not.
Added to the lottery style process and the rapidly disappearing supply of turdless houses there is the ever present question of time. As desperately as Papa Bear misses his cubs and wants them back in the den, wishing each day pass as quickly as possible, the clock is ticking. Finding temporary accommodation for six of us will be neither easy nor fun. Then of course there are those intricate details mentioned earlier. ‘What’ has to be big enough for us all, ‘where’ should ideally be near transport and the beach, not the bush and ‘how much’ just seems to go up and up.
As you can see third gear is still a way off because finding and actually signing for the right place is not the least of my problems.
