Project Peppercorn: May 2014

Friday, 9 May 2014

Member of Legal Profession in Doing Something Shock

Right – lots of things have happened. To whit:

We had originally engaged a conveyancer to shuffle our bits of paper on the initial move which fell through. They were utter rubbish – not a single phone call or email, and they managed to ‘lose’ the signed and witnessed documentation we sent them via recorded delivery. Fuckwits.

Fearful that we’d end up on Watchdog or something, I decided to switch to a conveyancer that’s actually another department of the company brokering our mortgage. I spent an enjoyable 20 minutes yesterday morning really leaning into the first conveyancer, in a spectacular telephonic takedown of which my mother would have been proud. So, we now have a new one. It’s telling that in the last 24 hours, we’ve been able to progress further with the new conveyancer than we did with the old one in two months. My god, they were awful. I was promised a phone call from their head conveyancer yesterday, but as of yet I’ve not received it. I am not surprised by this.

Despite this, our mortgage application is on track, and we just need to send the lender original copies of every important document we have ever owned (passports, driving licenses, bank statements, payslips, locks of hair, cheek swabs, stool samples etc) and then pray they get returned. Otherwise though, all’s well, and we’re on target to exchange before the end of June, when our tenancy runs out.

On the inheritance front – STRIKE UP THE MARCHING BAND! SEND IN THE CLOWNS! ARRANGE THE RED ARROWS! FIREWORKS ON STANDBY! CHILL THE CHAMPAGNE! – John Smart has ACTUALLY DONE SOMETHING OF NOTE!

What a man John Smart is. I’ve never doubted him – he has the elegantly disinterested, old-money air of a man unfamiliar with the vaguaries of mortgages. When phoning him, I like to imagine that my unexpected phone call has caused him to fluff a two-footer on the 18^th green at Barton Links. I have phoned him in relation to grandma’s estate on no fewer than 14 occasions in the last two months (I know this because I resorted to minuting them after his caddy Stephen Wheatley buggered off two months ago).

I have merely requested a bit of paper that states the extent of the estate and my legal claim to it on no fewer than six occasions, the last of which was an email on Tuesday of this week. I phoned him today and he said ‘I’ve got two of your cheques in front of me, just waiting on the third.’ A momentous breakthrough, but my 15^th phone call notwithstanding, not one he was going to inform me of.

He is ‘surprised’ the last cheque’s not arrived yet. I am not. He is also confident that everything should be with me ‘this time next week.’ Encouraging as this sounds, I will still expect a windfall sometime in September 2015 if current form’s any guide, bless him.

So, we’re nearly there. I told John to email me with ‘something appropriately official-looking explaining where the money’s coming from’, as without this we can’t progress our mortgage, and he promised to do so ASAP. This is also a breakthrough, and evidence that my new ‘JFDI’ approach is paying early dividends, even if my inheritance money isn’t.

This process has been exhausting so far. We have at times been enmeshed in the kind of self-interested, institutionalised incompetence that only prevails when an entire industry is based on both hourly rate and bonuses. The only exception is our surveyor, who is as keen as a famished spaniel and would happily take a squiz your roofline and soffits you if you stood still for any more than eight seconds. That he’s an ex-Balfour Beatty employee who knew my old boss is beside the point.

We will get there, and we will love it when we do.

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Wednesday, 7 May 2014

OIEO?

Buying a house is an utter, utter fucker. Estate agents are basically scum. Everything is more expensive than it rightfully should be. Even though I’ve been waiting for this moment for 10 years, I can’t actually enjoy it, because of arseholes. Even though the house I want to buy is probably worth what I’m going to pay for it, I feel cheated.

Nobody does what they need to do when they need to do it unless you talk to them like a child and threaten non-payment of their scarcely-earned fees. They are all playing you off against other people, and needlessly obfuscating. Even as someone who hasn’t had to scrimp up a few thousand and has everything he’ll ever have riding on this, I’m by turns disappointed and actually upset by the attitude of sellers, agents, conveyancers, solicitors... it just goes on. Even the vendor, who was nice enough initially, has turned hard-nosed and pushy.

I’ve got no help in this either, as Mike can’t even be bothered to pick up the phone, and Tam’s parents are more interested in (a) minimising the amount that we spend because they have no perspective on the matter and (b) borrowing from me so they can effect their own move. Despite the fact that I haven’t got the money yet, for God’s sake.

It’s still better than renting. It’s still better than renting. It’s still better than renting.

Friday, 2 May 2014

Jack Kerouac Had It Pretty Much Spot-On

“Some's bastards, some's ain't.
That's the score.”
― Jack Kerouac, On the Road

“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.”
― Jack Kerouac,

“Live, travel, adventure, bless, and don't be sorry.”
― Jack Kerouac

“Happiness consists in realizing it is all a great strange dream”
― Jack Kerouac

Generally Negative

In a funny mood for the last couple of days. Still no sign of the inheritance, and time marches on, effectively meaning that our collapsed house move and subsequent fuckery could potentially lead to rental in Exeter, and manifold disappointments therein. Hey, that is, as they say, how fucking life goes. I feel hard done by, I think it’s fair to say.

I am also entering a grand old funk about injustices in the workplace – either perceived or real. It dawns on me that in six years I’ve had two days of training, and would like some new skills in order to reignite interest levels that are basically on the floor. Meanwhile newcomers are being given hundreds of pounds’-worth of training and letters after their names that will mean increased employment opportunities. Meanwhile my manager sits on his arse doing nothing, but mainly because I can’t ask him for anything, as I have no goals to hit that I can’t already hit. I could volunteer to become an in-house videographer, spend six months and thousands of pounds on equipment, but there’s no drive for anything like this from the top, so why bother? Just rebrand fucking case studies and shut up, Jones. My career is effectively over, unless I radically change it.

So, what do I want to do? In the long-term, property management. In the short term, something creative and visual enough for people to be impressed by? Maybe. I envied Nick’s abilities on that video shoot, but most of his business is in London, and I don’t want to be based here, because (fanfare please) it’s a fucking shithole. Meanwhile Tam’s doing well, and is really respected and ensconced at the management level of the business, with all the attendant kudos that brings. Tony’s sitting at the end of these desks chortling to Chris about nothing whatsoever and I can’t fucking to listen to it anymore without wanting to walk out and never come back to any of this. It is, and always has been, utter bollocks.

I think a sabbatical might be in order.