A Yank Searches for a House in 'Brum

Sunday, 3 June, 2007

2007-07-08T08:56:00.000-07:00

Last Week

Monday
But if you work on a bank holiday, you get double pay, right?
No. This time she gave me an extra day off. So I’ll be off Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday.
That’s handy. You’ll have plenty of time to clean up the old place. I’ll take Friday off too. You know, it’s a tribute to our marriage that we’re still speaking after putting this futon together last night.
It’s great to sleep on, though, isn’t it? This is one of the best things we bought so far.
Well, for a while. But we need to buy a real bed. An Edwardian bed, like a brass bed, only black, for the front bedroom. There’s definitely a certain sameness here. I have all the furniture catalogues memorized, and they all have exactly the same stuff. Blonde wood, silver handles, zzzzzz.
We need a great big table for the dining room so everyone can sit around and have a jaw over a big bowl of spaghetti.
I’ll go pick up the papers from the news agent. Boy, I miss that home delivery, but at least this guy sets them aside for me each day.
Don’t we have enough newspapers?

Willie?
Wha?
I thought we were moving to a house—this is just one room. How come it’s just one room?
They keep going out that door and locking us in here. I think there’s another room.
There’s a big window. Look—birds!

Look at this pissin’ rain. And on a bank holiday Monday. What a day to be moving things in and out in the rain.
Well, after I drop you off at work, I’m going back to Sutton to do some stuff on the computer there. The guys moved the mini-fridge in here yesterday, and I’ll get us a little telly today to use until we move the big one over, once they hook up the cable. Have a good day, honey.

This is pretty good, Willie. There’s another room, and a big long hallway, and another door way down there.
She’s always going down there. To that door. Those must be ‘steps’!
Whoa. Are we allowed down there? She closes that door all the time. I don’t think we’re allowed down there.
Let’s see what happens…
Willie—Don’t! Come back up. Look at this great window. Our litter and food are here. Don’t go down there.

Tuesday
The shower is backwards.
Wha? Are you up?
Yeah, I have to be on campus all day, remember? The shower is backwards compared to the one in Sutton. The window ledge with the soap and shampoo is on my right. In Sutton it was on my left and I held on with that hand while I washed with my right.
Mmmmph….zzzz…mmphs.
But it’s a fabulous shower. That’s the best shower I’ve had in the British Isles My hair feels cleaner. So I won’t be done until at least five today, honey. Honey?
Hmmph? Oh, right. I’ll be over in Sutton all day cleaning. Then the guys will help me tomorrow when we rent the van.
Are you sure you can do that and clean the carpets tomorrow too?
Yeah, now that the cats and most everything is out of there. Once we get those shelves and the wardrobe moved, it will be easier.
This must be how new mothers feel when they have to leave their babies to go to work. I don’t want to sit in an office. I want to be home here. With our house.

I don’t think so, Willie. I’m just going to stay up here.
But she opened the door. We can go down the steps. C’mon, Gussie. There’s even more windows down there.
But our litter’s up here. And food. And treats. Hey, that is a big window.

Wednesday
Well, we knew it would happen eventually. Better sooner than later.
Wha happen?
I fell.
You fell where? What time is it?
It’s 1 am. I fell down the steps.
When?
Just now. Going to the bathroom. I missed the last step. Didn’t you hear the thud?
Are you okay?
I landed flat on my side. Good thing none of those boxes was sitting right there.
Was the light on?
Yeah, I left the stairs light on all night. Maybe it was the wine…

Done with work do u need me to help
Yes going well but you could help
Ok will take train to Sutton pick me up at station luv u

The place looks great. Now that I’m here, do you really need the two guys anymore? I’m cheaper.
They’re okay. They have to leave soon for work. Aaron—Jamie and I are going to take this load over to Oliver Road in the van. You run the carpet cleaning machine while we’re gone, okay?
Roight.
I’m about as useful as tits on a bull, aren’t I, honey? Be careful driving that van.

Got the cleaner back just in time. Let’s take this stuff over to—our house!—and then return the van. Did you lock the cats upstairs so we can come in and out?
Yup. They’re fine.
You look exhausted. If we get any deposit back, it’s because of all your hard work. Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?
I’m sure. Do you want to drive?
No. But I will if you need me to. Really. Honest.
I’ll drive.

Look, Willie. They’re back. I can see them from the window.
They’re outside. How do they get in? I’ll bet there’s a door.

Thursday
Wow, Virgin’s here early. How’s it goin’ guys? You’re actually here at eight.
We want broadband upstairs, cable here in the living room, and the phone in that corner. Lock the cats in the front bedroom, honey. They’ll freak with all this drilling going on.

Now, if we want a second cordless phone upstairs, what do we do?
Just buy the same model and plug it in.
Just plug it in?
Yeah, it will pick up the signal. Do you have a vacuum or brush so we can clean this up?
Oh—no, we don’t. All the cleaning stuff is still at the old place. We’re not dirty—honest! I promise we’ll tell your bosses that you wanted to clean it up but couldn’t.
Okay, then. We’re done. You can call the office and see if they will let you keep your same phone number.
Thanks, guys, you came so early, we can both get to work on time.

Heading home do u want to meet at New Inns pub?
Yes will be there at 7.

I stopped at Marks & Spencer and picked up dinner.
‘This is not just dinner…This is Marks & Spencer special penne pasta with succulent chicken and spicy tomato sauce…’
Is the pub owner here? You could ask him again about picking up some bartending hours.
Haven’t seen him. It would be handy now that we live up the street.
And this is a good place to meet too. Even in bad weather. The bus from town leaves me about a block away and you can pull in and park here.
Cheap wine too. But why are there so many signs about watching out for your valuables and not wearing hoods or caps?
C’mon. Let’s go home to—our house!—and try out the oven.

Friday
So we’ve got the whole day. What’s on our list?
Hmmmph? Can I just sleep in a bit, honey? Just a few more minutes.
Okay—I’ll go make tea. Sheit. I’ve got everything upstairs here for tea except mugs.

The money still isn’t in the account. It’s been a week since ‘completion.’ I’m going to call the solicitor and e-mail Pete the Mortgage Guy too.
I called Virgin. They said we can’t keep the number because we moved to a different area.
About one mile—so Erdington really is a world away from Sutton, isn’t it? Where’s my phone? This is the downside of having two floors.
Call it.
I don’t hear it. Oh boy. I think I left it at the pub last night. Aaah, no. Let’s go there as soon as it opens at 11.

Honey—we got the money.
We did? How? You said it wasn’t in the account.
They mailed us a check.
A check? I don’t believe it.
Just yesterday in the office, we were talking about how we lived without e-mail. And I said that everything took a lot longer. ‘Like buying this house,’ I said. ‘Everyone would be mailing checks and waiting for them to clear.’ And now they send us a check. It’ll be a week before we have the cash to buy furniture.
They did everything else by phone and computer. But us—they send us a check.

Well, I called, and the solicitors said if we bring the check back before two, they’ll do an electronic transfer for £30+VAT. And she was surprised no one gave us that option.
Jaysus. Well, let’s do it.
So we’ll go to New Inns to see if they have my phone, and then to Sutton to take the check back, have lunch at Subway, you get a haircut, we’ll pick up that big vase from the British Heart Foundation charity shop, and get the kitchen stuff we need.

Hi—My Irish Husband is Tony the bartender, and we were here last night…
You left your phone, right? I was cleaning up and I found it. It rang this morning.
That was me calling to find it. Thank you so much! I was so afraid someone would have taken it.

Watch when you’re smoking, honey. If you have that back Dutch door open, keep the kitchen door closed so Willie doesn’t make a break for it.

I can’t believe it, Willie—there are so many rooms! Where did she put our litter now?
There’s a cat out there. She said cats don’t go out. How come there’s a cat out there?
She says that’s a horse. It just looks like a cat.
I thought maybe here we could go out.

Honey—you know why you love me so much?
Yeah…but why?
Because we’re rich!
The money is in the account?
There it is. Wow. That’s a lot of furniture.
That’s great. What’s next?
IKEA!

Saturday
I’ll take the car so I can get things done while you’re at work.
No problem.
I’ll go to that one shopping center we didn’t hit yet and see if they have a bed. And then I’ll get us a cordless phone. And maybe a microwave.

How tired are you?
Not too bad. I had some help today. Oh—you got a microwave. And a chicken from Tesco. Mmmmm—garlic.
I found our bed at Homebase. We’ll stop there on our way home, then we can heat the chicken up when we get to—our house.
Did you get the upstairs phone working?
Yeah, right. Plugged it in. Nothing. The Virgin guys said, ‘Just plug it in.’ The guys at the store said, ‘Just plug it in.’ Plugged it in. Nothing. Why am I not surprised?

That’s king size? That doesn’t look as big as the king size we had back in the States. Measure it.
It’s only a few inches bigger than the double.
Oh—that’s what we call ‘queen size.’ I guess they don’t want to insult the queen by measuring mattresses with her. In that case, let’s go for king.
We need some metal paint for the gate in the front and the one to the back garden. I’ll paint them when I’m off next week.

Listen to this, honey. I was just talkin’ to this woman over the back fence, right? She’s lived here for 27 years with her husband and kids. She’s studying horticulture! I told her I’d help fix her fence if she helps us with our garden.
Look, honey—this came through the mail slot. It’s a welcome card from the neighbors! That is so sweet. They said to stop over. I’ll go tomorrow while you’re at work. I wonder if they could be cat sitters?

He’s got that back door open so he can smoke. I wonder why we’re not allowed back there?
She keeps closing those doors. I don’t know what she’s worried about. All we do is sleep all day anyway.

I hit the charity shops again today.
Did you find anything?
A mug tree for the tea service upstairs. But no big dining room table or chest of drawers. But I’ll tell ya, there are some real characters walkin’ the streets of Erdington. And—guess who I ran into? Nicola.
Nicola who?
Do-you-believe-in-fate-Nicola—the one who almost sold us Upper Holland Road.
Did you tell her that we found this?
Yeah, she was really nice about it. I wanted to say to her, ‘Y’know, Nicola? I do believe in fate. Because if we hadn’t spent all those months pissin’ around with that 1BR one-floor flat in Sutton on Upper Holland Road, this wonderful 3BR, two storey whole house wouldn’t have been ready for us when we needed it.’

Okay, Willie. You go sleep on their legs. I’ll guard them from the window.

Sunday
Good morning, honey. D’ya want tea? We ate the donuts yesterday.
Hmmmpph. [Grumble, grumble. Creak, creak.]
I brought your milk upstairs last night and put it in the cooler bag so you don’t have to go downstairs to get tea.
I have to go downstairs anyway to go to the bathroom.
Be careful.

Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 27 May, 2007

2007-07-08T08:53:00.000-07:00

Exchange, Completion—Move!

Good morning, honey.
D’ya want tea?
Yeah. And there’s jam donuts there for you and a chocolate croissant for me.
[Creak, creak. Grumble, grumble.]
Thanks. Eeewh. Too much sugar.
Sorry.
So this is probably our last Sunday morning here in Sandy Croft drinking tea and eating jam donuts in bed.
Yup. This is the day. I still can’t believe it. It’s been so long since we started this.
And look at it out there. All that beautiful weather a few weeks ago and now, moving day, pissin’ rain. I hope those guys you hired from work show up.
They’ll show up. They’re good kids. They need a lot of direction, tho. Be sure to tell them exactly what to do.
Me? Give directions? Oh come now.
It’s all boxes and suitcases. We hardly have any furniture. We’ll hire a van this week and finish off the big stuff.
After all those months, all of a sudden, it happened so fast. I was standing in the kitchen on Friday afternoon, and I had been checking the e-mails all day, figuring the solicitor would send another e-mail. And I stood there and thought, no, when it finally happens she’ll call. And at that moment the phone rang.
And it was her.
And she said, ‘Done and dusted. Simultaneous exchange and completion.’ And I kept saying, really? Are you sure? And she said, ‘110%.’
So why haven’t the funds shown up in the account yet?
Well, I’m not too worried. That was Friday afternoon at 3. Even if they transferred what was left of the loan after paying for the house and the solicitor, the bank’s computer is asleep. And it’s a bank holiday weekend, so it won’t wake up until Tuesday morning. And when Mr. Happy Seller called he had gotten the same info from his solicitor. They had vans sitting there waiting.
I’d like to get Kerrie over here again to help out.
Well, I’d hate to have her think we only bring her over for heavy lifting. Maybe if she comes after we’ve moved to help with other stuff. We might need some tiling.
True. It’s good to have a tiler in the family.
I was nervous there when their solicitor told you it wouldn’t be until next Friday.
He was a bollocks. I think he was looking at a calendar and got confused. Worried the hell out of me.
And when I found out at the last minute that we had to have the insurance already paid for. Thank God that was easy to take care of. Hey guys, come here. We bought you a house!

Willie?
Wha?
What’s a house?
I don’t know. She keeps getting all excited and saying something about a house.

You know, when I was sitting over there all day on Monday with Mrs. Happy Seller, waiting for Homebase to deliver our futon bed, she told me that the first buyer, the one who pulled out, was an ‘investor.’
A buy to let person.

There’s boxes all over the place. And suitcases. We’re not going to have to go on a plane again, are we?
I hope not. And what are ‘steps’? She keeps saying, ‘They’ve never seen steps.’

Yeah, and Mrs. Seller told her husband she didn’t want to sell to someone like that because it was a house that was meant to be lived in by people who love it. I think she’s happy that we are the ones buying it.
I’m happy that we’re the ones buying it. The solicitor said 110% sure, right?
That’s what she said, ‘110%.’ And glad to be done with us, I think.

What about our birds? And the squirrels?
Will there still be treats?

I’m glad to be done with everything. I just want to move in to our house.
Y’know, I’ve always had very memorable Memorial Days. Ah, geesh. Look at that pissin’ rain.
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 20 May, 2007

2007-07-08T08:52:00.000-07:00

Interval

More e-mails.

More phone calls.

More documents flying between solicitors.

Mrs. Happy Seller and I decide there is no reason why we can’t move next Friday.

Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 13 May, 2007

2007-07-08T08:50:00.000-07:00

Moving, Moving…

We spent the Monday bank holiday driving around in circles to find a B&Q—the only DIY home improvement store here we haven’t yet scoured—that had a parking place, to no avail. It was too chilly to go walking through Erdington, so we contented ourselves by driving by our soon-to-be house again.
First thing Tuesday morning, we drove down to our solicitor’s office to sign what had to be signed and ask questions that had to be asked.
When will we have ‘exchange’?
Solicitor: I will get in touch with the seller’s solicitor and we might be able to do it by phone soon.
When will we have ‘completion,’ when all the money moves and we get the keys?
Solicitor: Let’s try to schedule that for the following week.
Do we need to be present for these?
Solicitor: Oh, no. We do it by phone and electronically.
We just picked up your brochure which says we can have ‘24-hour updates on your website.’ No one ever mentioned that before…
Solicitor: Your original solicitor, Shirley, doesn’t use e-mail much. But I do, so I will e-mail you as soon as I hear anything.
I went to campus to get some work done and Tony went home to leave a message for the Happy Seller family telling them that things were moving.
Wednesday I moved between the Open House for our post-graduate programs and ‘board of studies’ meetings about our undergraduate programs.
We e-mailed the solicitor; she e-mailed back. No movement.
Thursday, I took a train and a taxi out to beautiful Worcestershire to meet with an artist I have been assigned to help through the Arts & Business program. In addition to looking over her stained glass studio in a new artists’ colony there, I was drawn to the outrageously expensive hand-made furniture designed by one of her neighbors.
More e-mails; no movement.
Friday, Tony got called in to work, leaving me at home alone to correct papers. By the end of the business day—nothing. All week we felt as though we were working our way through a long novel. We could see the last chapter coming, but we couldn’t skip ahead.
Saturday, we caught the train to Leicester for a leisurely lunch with my office mate and his extended family. Unfortunately, no time to hit the charity shops there.
But when we finally rolled home on Saturday night, tired (but not hungry), there was a message on our voice mail:
‘Hi there, Tony and Kathleen. This is me from Oliver Road.
‘I’m sorry we didn’t get back to you last week. But we’ve been quite busy in between. Things are going along well with the house. We had some problems with the one we’re about to buy, but they seem to be resolved now, which I’m glad to say.
‘So we’re keen to move out as quickly as we can and I know you’re keen to move as well. We were hoping to exchange contracts on Wednesday the 16th—that would be ideal, to exchange on the 16th—and then complete the following week on, the 23rd , that’s a week later.
‘And then if possible, if it’s ok with you, it would be ideal to be moved out by the Friday, the 25th, because that’s the day I’m getting off work to move. We could even start doing it the day before, Thursday evening. But I think we’ll be completely out by Friday the 25th, if that’s acceptable to you.
‘Give me a call if there is anything you’d like to check over or speak about. And speak to you soon. Bye now.’
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 6 May, 2007

2007-07-08T08:47:00.000-07:00

I Finally Got a Date!

Back in high school, the first time I was allowed to have the family car, my best friend Debbie suggested we drive by the house of The Cutest Boy in School. At the time her heart was torn between him and Paul McCartney.
We wove through the identical suburban streets, and finally found his address. At the moment we figured out which house was his, we realized The Cutest Boy in School was outside on a ladder painting or cleaning gutters or something. A perfect vantage point to see who was in the big yellow Buick station wagon cruising the otherwise empty road. Debbie immediately hurled herself to the floor of the car, as I noticed his street was a dead end. I had to execute a three-point turn with Debbie screaming from the floor, ‘Hurry up! Hurry up!’
We drove away as quickly as we could, but the end of the story came months later, on our graduation night. Walking out of the stadium, embarking on our new futures, The Cutest Boy in School came up to me, for the only time in three years, and said, ‘Do you remember that day you and Debbie drove by my house and she threw herself on the floor of your car?’
I think of that incident as I cruise down Oliver Road, past #5. I picture The Happy Seller Family peeking out the curtains saying, ‘There she is again. Do you think we should invite her in?’ And Our Future Neighbors wondering if a new burglary ring, operating out of a green used Vauxhall Vectra, has discovered this newly regenerated part of Erdington.
Mrs. Happy Seller called early this week to tell us that Virgin media has sent more mail to our yet-to-be address. She added that she has been pressuring her solicitor to commit to a date for ‘exchange’ on the vacant property they are buying. They laughed when she suggested 10th May (this week!), but agreed the 17th was possible. Mrs. Seller and I decided we want to finish up this month. ‘No June rent!’ is our rallying cry.
So My Irish Husband Tony and I tag-teamed our solicitor. Tony would call one day and I would call the next. Do we need a drain inspection? Can you send us an updated list of the fees? When can we have exchange? Each person who returned our calls said, ‘I’ll have someone get back to you.’
Finally, on Friday, I ‘pulled an American.’ When yet another receptionist asked me my name, I paused, for effect, and then said calmly:
‘I will give you my name yet again, but I am not happy about giving you my money when nobody there seems to remember who I am. How many Americans call you who are buying a house here?’
‘I’ll have someone get back to you…right away,’ she said.
The understudy for our injured solicitor, Shirley, did indeed get back to us right away. She was apologetic. I pointed out that although we were sympathetic that Shirley had been injured, it struck me that they were a bit too dependent on Shirley to keep things moving down there. The understudy found this free piece of management consulting a bit funny. She apologized profusely again and said she would go through our file and get back to us.
Fifteen minutes later she called, talked to Tony, and set an appointment for us to come in first thing Tuesday morning (Monday is a bank holiday) to ‘sign papers.’
What papers? I thought we had signed all the papers? Could it be that we have a date, for… ‘exchange’?
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 29 April, 2007

2007-07-08T08:43:00.000-07:00

‘Disappointment in Spring’

Years ago, I saw a parody calendar that listed ‘March 21: First day of spring,’ and then March 22nd, my birthday, as ‘Disappointment in spring.’ As a teenager, I assumed it was an omen for the life I faced. As life got better, I forgot about it.
This year, it seemed true.
We have had some gorgeous spring weather, but punctuated by gloomy, chilly, almost wintry days. The neighbor’s wisteria is out early, but shows signs of frostbite as a result.
Everything that moved so fast during our first purchase, now aborted, is taking forever this time. Over Easter, all of the UK shuts down so families can go on holiday for three weeks to Ibiza (pronounced, ‘i-bitz-thah’) while the kids are out of school.
Our solicitor, so efficient before, went on holiday—fair enough—but broke her ankle and is still not back at work. Her assistant went on holiday at the same time. (Is this a good idea?) And the designated understudy doesn’t return phone calls.
The Happy Seller Family graciously agreed that we could have the British Heart Foundation shop deliver the 7-foot long sideboard we bought way back in January. Ever eager for an excuse to visit Oliver Road again, I promised to be there when it arrived. But the overly efficient charity shop van men arrived an hour early, before I had even left home. Mrs. Seller had already told me she had a sick kid and sick husband home with her, so I didn’t think my offer of Cadbury Roses would get me in.
Tony finally got an appointment to get his sore tooth fixed; but it was put off for two weeks.
Then he finally got around to booking our trip to Dublin for his granddaughter’s First Holy Communion this weekend. (Cultural differences: Hard to find a card for this occasion in the UK, but they take up aisles and aisles of the card stores in Republic of Ireland.)
Getting him there and back by Tuesday, including a rental car, wasn’t too difficult. Getting me there and back in time for classes Monday morning—over £400. Sorry. Can’t come. (Okay, I wasn’t toooo disappointed.)
He bought new pants for the occasion; but he spilled soup on them.
I printed out his e-mail ticket at work; but got home and noticed it didn’t include the rental car.
I made a special trip to campus yesterday to print out his full itinerary from the website; but (for the first time) my office building was locked on a Saturday.
I went to the library; but their printer was screwed. Trying to print that file screwed it up more.
I bought a £3 computer printing card; but the student helper was so thrilled when the damn thing finally printed, he didn’t charge me. (I now understand what students go through.)
I went home (driving by our new house—hey, it was on the way); but when I got home I discovered I’d left my memory stick in the library.
I picked Tony up at work last night (again driving by our new house—hey, it was on the way); but on the way to the airport he realized he’d forgotten to pack his medications.
We got to the check-in with time to spare; but we found in front of us 90 young grey-sweat-shirted college girls, who, by the decibel level, we assumed to be American. Turned out they were Irish on a school trip to our local amusement park, Alton Towers (this is a school trip?). The Aer Lingus attendant promised they’d all be seated in the back.
We did have a lovely meal at the airport (well, the garlic bread was a bit chewy), and Tony’s flight took off and landed on time, safely.
Driving home I managed, for the first time, to take the correct turns off the roundabouts to avoid the city centre. But then I couldn’t get the idiot on my right to move over so I could get off at the correct exit for Erdington (to drive by our new house—hey, it was on the way),
So it’s Sunday and I’m at home with cats, looking for anything interesting on telly and wondering what I can do to move this move along. I re-figured our budget—allowing that we will pay rent for May but hoping to God not for June—went shopping at Tesco, recycled all the damn wire hangers. Oh, and ate rare lamb chops and extra spuds, with cake, ice cream and Belgian chocolate sauce later this evening. And wrote my blog.
But there was one bright glimmer of excitement in this disappointing week. I received my certificate of citizenship for Ireland, the country where weather-wise it is always March.
I am now legal to live, work and study in all 25 European Union countries.
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 22 April, 2007

2007-07-08T08:38:00.000-07:00

An Interview with Tony Dixon

Gypsy Teacher: Good morning, honey.
Tony Dixon: D’ya want tea?
GT: Yeah. Don’t wake them.
T: [Creak, creak. Grumble, grumble.]
GT: Thanks. Eeewh. Too much sugar.
T: Sorry. Why do you have that pen and paper out?
GT: I’m going to interview you for my blog. So how has it been, having your kids here?
T: Good.
GT: Good why?
T: Because they’ve been civilized. Well, they’ve always been civilized, but now they act it.
GT: Are they all here?
T: No. Just Kerrie and James. Naomi is busy raising Erin and the new baby, Dallan, back in Ballyjamesduff, County Cavan.
GT: Why did they come?
T: We brought them over to clean and paint in anticipation of our great upcoming move. Not sure when it is going to be upcoming, but…
GT: Did they get a lot done?
T: They sure did. We got the grass cut, and the back yard cleaned up and the walls washed down and caulking everywhere.
GT: When did they come?
T: Thursday. When you were away at that training. Good plan.
GT: That’s a nice long weekend. How was the weather?
T: The weather was great.
GT: Did you work them the whole time?
T: No, on Friday afternoon we went down to pick you up in Warwickshire, at the training place, and then we went to Hatton Country Shopping Village—and bought that great big clock for the new dining room—and then the Hatton canal locks. Just to show the kids that part of the country. Gorgeous.
GT: Did you have a good time?
T: Yeah, we had a great time.
GT: When do they leave?
T: Monday morning. Tomorrow. Real early. So we’ll have to get James up.
GT: What do you mean ‘we’? What are you doing today?
T: We’ll finish off the garden. Pack up all the leaves and put them out for the pick up tomorrow morning and then basically chill out.
GT: That’s all?
T: Oh—right! We’re taking them to Villa Park to see Aston Villa play. Well, I’m taking them. We’ll have a pint at the Hare of the Dog pub on your campus, because we can park there and walk over to the match.
GT: So you’ve had a good time with them?
T: We’ve had some good chats about how dysfunctional we all were.
GT: How dysfunctional are you?
T: Not much any more, really.
GT: How come?
T: We all grew up.
GT: Yeah, we did. Thanks, honey.
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 15 April, 2007

2007-07-08T08:35:00.000-07:00

1906

Our house purchase is moving along at the glacial pace common to transactions in these British isles. Drivin’ me fughin’ nuts.
So while agents and solicitors were doing what they have to do, we went back to Oliver Road again, bringing a house gift of champagne and chocolate for The Happy Seller Family, to measure and chat and take pictures (not nearly enough pictures). We still love it.
While we’re waiting, I decided to find out what was going on in 1906 when the houses on Oliver Road were built. I dug out my research on early 20th century writers’ salons and found that it was a momentous year.
In Dublin, William Butler Yeats and Lady Augusta Gregory—the poet and playwright, not our cats—were having problems in their Abbey Theatre. One of the founders, Douglas Hyde, was in Pittsburgh on his American tour to raise money for the Gaelic League. Another founder, John Millington Synge, had read them his new play, The Playboy of the Western World, but the premiere had to be postponed. They revived his Riders to the Sea, but eventually fighting among directors, actors and playwrights led to a splinter group setting up a separate theater company. That summer Yeats and Lady Gregory met at her house in Coole Park in the west of Ireland to restructure their Abbey under a new director.
In London, Virginia Stephen confessed in a letter to a friend, “I went to a dance last night and found a dim corner where I sat and read ‘In Memoriam’!” Later that year, she traveled to Europe with her sister Vanessa and their brother Thoby, recently graduated from Cambridge. On their return Thoby fell ill with typhoid but was misdiagnosed and died. Two days later, Vanessa agreed to marry her persistent suitor Clive Bell. In Ceylon, Thoby’s Cambridge friend, British civil servant Leonard Woolf, was properly diagnosed and treated for typhoid. But his life there had made him so depressed, he wrote in his diary, “I took out my gun the other night, made my will, and prepared to shoot myself.” Fortunately, an affair with another Brit in the ex-pat community soon perked him up.
In Paris, Gertrude Stein was sitting for her portrait. Frustrated with his progress, Picasso painted out the head and went on vacation in Spain. When he returned and finished the painting; their friends commented that it didn’t look like her; Picasso said, “It will.” And it does.
On April 18th, San Francisco was rocked by a major earthquake. Gertrude’s brother and sister-in-law, Michael and Sarah Stein, decided they had to return to their hometown to check on their property. To impress her friends, Sarah brought with her three paintings by their new Paris friend Henri Matisse, who had recently caused a furor at the Salon des Independents. One young San Franciscan, Alice B. Toklas, who came to see the paintings and hear Sarah’s stories, decided that she had to move to Paris. She wrote later in her “autobiography,” “This led to a complete change in my life...The disturbance of the routine of our lives by the fire followed by the coming of Gertrude’s older brother and his wife made the difference.”
In Illinois and Minnesota, Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald were discovering girls. Dorothy Rothschild (later Parker) was sent to Miss Dana’s school in Manhattan; she claimed later she had been expelled from Catholic school for stating that the Immaculate Conception was the result of spontaneous combustion. Her future Algonquin Round Table members were beginning their careers. Robert Benchley was planning to attend Yale; Heywood Hale Broun was already studying writing at Harvard. Harold Ross, future founder of The New Yorker, quit school to become an apprentice reporter at the Salt Lake City Telegraph, and Alexander Woollcott was appearing as “Mabel the Beautiful Shopgirl” with Hamilton College’s Glee Club.
And back in Erdington, UK, the foundation stone was laid for a new library, funded by a Scottish-American industrialist from Pittsburgh, Andrew Carnegie. And construction was completed on a row of houses on Oliver Road.
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 8 April, 2007

2007-07-08T08:30:00.000-07:00

Erdington

It’s time to get to know our new hometown.
This Easter weekend one of our dear friends from our first Semester at Sea voyage, European history professor Marie, visited. She is at the end of a sabbatical trip, and mainly wanted to relax. But the most important item on her ‘Things to See in Birmingham’ list was the house we bought—and the ones we didn’t. (She’s an avid blog reader.)
On Good Friday I picked her up at Sutton Coldfield train station and whisked her down Upper Holland Road. We were able to pull over and contemplate the one that got away. Enough of that.
After we installed Marie in the hotel where Tony works (We get a deal—I’m sleeping with the bartender, y’know), I drove her past a few of the others, listing their prices as we went. Comparing them to property values back in Oklahoma City, she was aghast.
We crossed Chester Road, the infamous boundary between Sutton and Erdington. As we drove down Gravelly Lane, I said, ‘That’s crap over there. And that’s crap over there too.’
‘They don’t look so bad,’ Marie said helpfully.
‘Crap,’ I repeated, as we passed the pub where the yob-os hang out.
But just around the bend, beyond the tacky little council houses (averaging £100,000 each), we came to ‘our corner.’ First she noticed the big red brick Victorian building with the antique shop downstairs.
Insert picture one.
‘Wow, look at that gorgeous building!’ she said.
I pointed out the convenient bus stop as we turned left up Oliver Road, and parked across from Number 5.
‘Do you get the whole thing, or just one floor?’ Marie asked.
‘The whole thing! Three bedrooms! A dining room! A big back yard! Four fireplaces!’ I burbled.
We got out of the car to look around. Tony hates when I do this. He thinks we’re going to be known by the neighbors as stalkers even before we move in.
Sizing up our end-of-the-row house, Marie advised, ‘Get that brick cleaned. And you could put some beautiful stained glass in those transoms.’
‘We’ve already talked to a stained glass guy. But we’re going to measure and see if we can find antique ones in a charity shop.’
She noticed that the garden faces south, which apparently is good for flowers. That’s Tony’s department. I have a black thumb.
We peeked in the bay windows of the vacant identical houses across the street, to give Marie an idea of room size.
Then we drove one block down the road to the train station, where the mid-17th century row houses, restored by the National Trust, sit. I pointed out The New Inns, which Tony just discovered. It is the only pub I have seen, outside of Dublin, that is a real Irish pub.
We spent the next day out in the country, but on our way home I had Tony drive up Erdington High Street to show Marie where all the charity shops and cheap furniture stores cluster. Just to be fair.
That night over dinner I asked our visitor to report on her opinion of Erdington.
‘Erdington gets a bad rap,’ she pronounced. ‘And I am lusting after that grass green couch in the window of the British Heart Foundation shop.’
We sent Marie back down to London this morning, and I spent Easter Sunday searching for the history of Erdington. There has been a village there since the 11th century. The De Erdington family was associated with the area until the last one kicked in 1467. The main manor hall was built in 1600, but torn down in 1912, six years after our house was built.
Like most of the midlands, Erdington turned from rural to industrial with, first, the coming of the canals, and then, the railroad. By the late 19th century the population was almost 10,000. The Urban District Council joined up with the Birmingham conurbation in 1911 (Sutton held out until the 1970s), and in 1940 was the first part of the city bombed by the Germans, er, sorry, now ‘our European partners.’
Irish immigrants over the years clustered in Erdington, and about 25,000 people live within its boundaries now. It is famous for the 1817 ‘Murder of Mary Ashford,’ which was the last time, until 2005, when a defendant in England was tried twice for the same crime (not guilty both times). Some know the town for a recording studio called Mothers which Pink Floyd and Traffic used in the early 1970s. However, this is overshadowed by our most famous rock Brummie, Ozzy Osbourne, who grew up in Aston, the next neighborhood over.
But the most interesting historical fact I learned about Erdington is that the public library, which is still there, was ceremoniously opened by the main benefactor, Pittsburgh’s own Andrew Carnegie, on 2nd July 1907.
So the centenary is this summer—and you are all invited!
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 1 April, 2007

2007-07-08T08:28:00.000-07:00

Time Difference

No April fool. The blogs will continue until we are safely ensconced in our very own home, surrounded by boxes and cats.
Some things have started moving and some are stuck.
I called the new agent, Christy, and pointed out that all parties involved have been through this before so it should move a bit more quickly.
Our new intended, Oliver Road, had already been sold, but the buyer pulled out because they were ‘buying to let’ and found they couldn’t charge enough rent to make it worthwhile.
(If you think ‘buy to let’ is a great concept, try ‘buy to jet.’ Buy a property abroad that you will fly to visit every so often. The new trend in London’s booming market is ‘buy to sit.’ Buy a property destined to go up fast in value, don’t bother to rent it, let it sit until it appreciates, and then sell. While others are clambering to get on the property ladder.)
We’ve been through this process but had to pull out when we learned the truth about our first love’s irresolvable legal issues. So solicitors have been soliciting, surveyors have been surveying, and everyone is ready to commit. What’s the holdup?!
Christie reported that The Happy Seller Family have found their dream home and put in an offer. Even better, it’s vacant! That’s one end of the chain. We’re renting; that’s the other end. Pretty short chain.
‘So, Christie, given all this, if nothing unusual turns up, how many weeks before you think we could maybe, just maybe, have “exchange of contracts”?’
Numbers such as ‘two’ and ‘three’ swirled through my head.
Christie checked with her manager. (Christie is new at this.) ‘Eight to 12 weeks,’ she gleefully reported back.
Eight to 12 weeks! That’s summer! How can we wait that long? How can I blog that long? What on earth do they have to do?
I checked with our worldly, more experienced solicitor. She guessed maybe six to eight weeks. I decided the clock had started when our offer was accepted; we’re down to four weeks.
My Irish Husband Tony and I took advantage of his days off for more packing and painting. We spent a weekend in the country, looking at furniture, inspecting antique stained glass windows, buying baskets.
The Happy Seller Family is nervous that we are going to pull out like their last suitor did. I told Christie to assure them that we are not going back. We have found our new love and have no interest in returning to our ex.
We have all just come through bad break ups. Like recently spurned lovers, we are wary of a new relationship that might fail, yet eager to take the risk. To experience once more the heady, giggly days of moving in with a new love.
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 25 March, 2007

2007-07-08T08:26:00.000-07:00

In Which We Finally Make a Decision

We walked.
We walked away from our first love, in Sutton. We walked right down Boldmere Road, crossed over Chester Road, and walked into Erdington.
Despite our friends' votes, by Sunday night My Irish Husband Tony and I had eliminated Mere Green. Beautiful town, but way far away and that place would probably need a lot more work. It wasn’t loveable.
We went back to see Oliver Road, in tacky Erdington, with the express idea of finding something major that would help us eliminate it. Instead, we fell in love.
Back home we were severely conflicted. Torn between two lovers, we would be disappointed and elated at the same time, no matter how it went.
‘There’ll be a sign,’ I told Tony. ‘Something will happen.’
By Wednesday morning we were tired of waiting for solicitors to get back to us with information about the Mysterious Other Owner with whom we would share the freehold, i.e. ownership, and therefore responsibility for maintenance of Upper Holland Road. He became the deciding factor.
So we did it the American way. I picked up the damn phone and called him.
Talked to his wife. Lovely woman. Apparently they own lots of properties, and he’s a builder. (So why didn’t he fix the roof?) ‘Oh, I’ll have him call you as soon as he gets in,’ Lovely Wife promised.
Of course he didn’t call. ''Men''.
That afternoon I did a dry run to see what it would be like to get the train from campus home to Erdington. Took about 20 minutes, including transferring at Aston. As long as there isn’t a match at Villa Park, home of Aston Villa Football Club, it wouldn’t be hard.
Wednesday night I said to Tony, ‘What we want is for the Mysterious Other Owner to call and say, “I’m so sorry we haven’t been in touch. We’ll fix that roof right away. Perhaps we should meet for tea.” What are the chances?’
Reluctant to walk away unless we knew for sure that this guy was a jerk, we brought in the big guns.
We googled him.
And there it was. His Lovely Wife had her nursing home closed because she hadn’t complied with government health and safety regulations. Together they had been sued by a tenant who wanted to buy the freehold from them (it’s a British thing) for £5000. They claimed it was worth £82,000—because the unconverted loft space was really a ‘fourth bedroom.’ The court agreed with the tenant. Duh. They both have unusual names so there was no question.
Are these the kind of people you want to own property with?
(To be fair, I googled myself. Did you know I’m a lawyer in London? And thin and blonde to boot!)
The feeling was exhilarating. We had our sign. There was no way we would buy Upper Holland Road. Our true love was the row house on Oliver Road.
Three bedrooms! A big dining room! A full back yard! Fireplaces! You can all come visit—and have a place to sleep.
So the next morning, my birthday, Tony called Lisa to break the bad news and I called the Erdington agent to make an offer.
Accepted. Under the stamp tax level. They’ll sell us the washer, the great big wardrobe and the beautiful ‘cooker’ (stove and oven). We called Peter the Mortgage Guy.
Our solicitor called their solicitor.
Everything started moving.
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 18 March, 2007

2007-07-08T08:21:00.000-07:00

Spoilt for Choice

Tuesday. ‘Hi, this is Lisa. Just wanted to let you know that the roofer is out at Upper Holland Road and will give the seller an estimate later today or tomorrow.’
Wednesday. ‘Hello. Lisa again. I have left messages for the seller and her solicitor and expect hear back soon.’
Thursday. ‘Just wanted to let you know. I spoke to the seller. She’s on the roofer to get an estimate. We should hear soon.’
So on Friday, we cheated. We had until now extended our search only south, closer to the city centre, into supremely tacky Erdington. Now we headed north, out to the suburbs.
Just past Sutton town center is Four Oaks; very nice. Keep going, another five minutes, and you reach Mere Green. Very posh.
We drove through the lovely town center, up a hill, then down a road lined with red brick ‘double duplexes,’ as Americans would say. The last on the block was a red-brick, in your face, two-story block set in a large yard.
£124,950 for the ground floor. Almost the same layout as our place, but about 50% bigger. It’s ready-to-move-in, but Tony wanted to re-do the wiring and see if there were real wood floors under the laminate. To me, it seemed quite a bit of a walk to get to the shops, but there’s a bus stop right outside the door. A longer commute for both of us, but in addition to the trendy wine shops and upscale pubs, Mere Green had one other advantage. It sure as heck wasn’t Erdington.
Emboldened, Saturday we cheated again, but back to our old stomping grounds. One more try in the neighborhood of desirable 19th century row houses in un-desirable Erdington. Turns out, Oliver Road is the gem of the lot. Refurbished just enough, 3BR (2 plus a study in our case), large back garden and the possibility of a safe, enclosed outdoor space for kitties and their litter box. Asking £127,950. The same as our accepted offer for 1BR Upper Holland, so we could probably get it a bit lower.
Now we had three possibilities: (1) Upper Holland, smaller, but in our desired location, Sutton. (2) Gibbons Road, bigger and cheaper, but a bit beyond posh Mere Green. (3) Oliver Road, bigger and probably a bit cheaper, in the nice part of not-so-nice Erdington. Choosing either 2 or 3 would mean shelling out £800 for yet more surveys, but at least neither of these has ownership issues. We checked.
After our flirtation with infidelity in Erdington, we hopped a train for Wales. My Irish Husband Tony and I had decided to take a day trip to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day/our fifth wedding anniversary by walking on the windy coast of the Irish Sea. I suggested, ‘Let’s find a good spot, take out paper, and make lists. For each property we’ll list the pluses and minuses, and then give them each a ranking by points…’
Tony suggested, ‘Let’s spend a day not talking about houses.’
Secret of a good marriage: We went with his idea.
By the time we got back late last night, I had begun to feel badly treated by Upper Holland Road.
Get over your issues. It’s time to commit. Roofer shmoofer. How long do you think we’re going to sit around waiting for YOU to call?! We have other possibilities, you know. We don’t have to live in Sutton. We could live in Mere Green. We could have THREE bedrooms in Erdington.
Now that we are spoiled for choice, we need your votes again.
Our first love, ground floor of Upper Holland Road. Right in Sutton town center, beautifully refurbished, 1 large BR with a bad roof and shared ownership with the Mysterious Other Owner who won’t even double glaze. £128,000 offer accepted.
Mere Green, ground floor of Gibbons Road. 2BR, but we’d use one as a dining room. Enclosed back garden. With a bit of work, could sell in a year or two for a lot more. A hill-walk away from the darling town center; across the street from a bus stop. £124,950, just under the 1% stamp tax, but could probably get it for £122,000.
Erdington. In a lovely pocket surrounded by rather tacky Erdington. A whole house in perfect shape. Near shops and train, but a couple of buses for me to get to work; maybe a £5 taxi back some nights. £127,950. Could probably get it for under the stamp tax and offer to buy their appliances.
You’ll have to do the thinking for both of us. Let us know, because we don’t want to pay April rent.
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 11 March, 2007

2007-07-08T08:18:00.000-07:00

Circling Back

‘You must be psychic,’ said Lisa when I called her at the agent’s on Thursday. ‘I was just going to ring you.’
Psychic, Lisa? We haven’t heard from you in two days and I’m an impatient American.
‘I just spoke to the seller and she’s getting an estimate on the roof early next week. To see if it does need repair.’
‘”If”? The home buyer’s survey said it urgently needs repair,’ I told her. You can see the damaged part from the street.
‘Well, she wonders why it didn’t come up when she bought it three years ago. But she’s aware that it’s a problem.’
‘And there are also the legal questions,’ I reminded her.
‘Yes, her solicitor will get back to us. I will keep on them,’ Lisa promised.
‘It’s still our first choice, but we are looking around,’ I said. ‘Just in case.’
So Saturday My Irish Husband Tony and I looked at more 19th century row houses back in Erdington. We’d liked the one on Dean Road, which sold right away. A crop are coming up for sale. All have the same layout, converted to one of two variations —2BR and 1 bath up, breakfast room down; or 3BR up and 1 bath down. The quality of the conversion determines the price between £125,000 (needs work) to £129,950 (House Beautiful).
The same houses in Sutton would be 10 to 40% higher.
Before Tony went to work, we treated ourselves to croissants and tea at Drucker’s pastry shop in Sutton to list our options:
(1) Negotiate to get what we want with Upper Holland Road, no matter how long it takes.
(2) Give up on Sutton and buy a row house in that not-horrible part of Erdington; figure out how to get me to work and back without feeling as though I have to look over my shoulder for hoodies.
(3) Give in and buy a 2BR maisonette in a soulless three-story building in Sutton.
(4) Go up in price by using some of our US dollars to buy something else in
Sutton.
This week’s Sutton Coldfield Observer listed a 2BR for £136,000—just over the top of our budget—right in the business district. One in a row of 19th century houses that survived the successive 20th century regenerations of Sutton town center, it looked quaint. But the agent was the same office which found us Upper Holland Road, so I was hesitant. Was it ethical to keep looking with an offer on the table? Was it ethical for them to show it to us? Did anyone care?
Tony convinced me to call. A new agent answered; I asked if I could see Lower Queen Street, and she scheduled me for noon that day. That was easy.
Not five minutes later, my mobile rang. The screen flashed, ‘Nicola.’ Do-you-believe-in-fate? Nicola, who had matched us with Upper Holland.
‘Kathleen,’ she almost shrieked. ‘I understand you’re going to look at Lower Queen Street. Is there a problem with Upper Holland Road?’
‘Well, yeah. There are a lot of legal problems. And it needs a new roof.’ Do keep up, Nicola.
‘I’ve been on holiday for a week, so I didn’t know. Lower Queen Street won’t come down in price. He’s turned down offers.’
‘I understand. Lisa is trying to resolve the issues, but we feel we need a backup. Actually,’ I said, ready to drop the big one, ‘our solicitor even suggested that we walk away.’
‘Oh.’
‘But Upper Holland is still our first choice. We hope it will work out.’
So now I had Nicola worried too. Good. To be a fly on the wall when she talks to Lisa on Monday.
Agents don’t hold open houses here. Instead they stagger appointments so the popular properties have a steady stream of gawkers on a sunny Saturday.
I waited across the street until my scheduled time, watching the young marrieds, the Afro-Caribbean sisters, and the WASP-y woman and her mother go in.
Stepping through the narrow doorway, I had a revelation.
Despite the trendy orange paint, the recently refitted kitchen, the hippy beads dripping from the doorway to the stairs—this was a duplicate of the house the Gallaghers or Donnellys would have moved to in Pittsburgh, when they emigrated from Ireland.
The 19th century working class status symbol, on either continent. Two down, three up; no bathrooms then. A smaller version of those we’d seen in Erdington, all built in the 1880s and 90s.
Our little group slithered out the back door and into the ‘garden,’ long as a city block, but not half as wide as a lane of traffic. I turned and looked back at the house. They had extended the tiny kitchen by tacking on a one-story red brick triangle. That’s all that would fit.
So here we were, immigrants backwards, from America, from Ireland, from the Caribbean. Jostling to crawl on to the property ladder with the same house our forebears had considered the height of status. But now for £136,000—at current rates, $262,480. Two centuries on, the main differences were modern conveniences and only one couple sharing, instead of an outhouse and a Catholic family continually adding children.
Was my great grandmother looking down, laughing? ‘We worked hard so you wouldn’t have to live like that!’
They sure knew how to build in those days. A lot of row houses are still around. Those in Sutton were probably inhabited by domestics and other workers, serving the wealthy families who lived or kept second homes here, where the air was clean. They would be grateful to be out of sooty Birmingham, where the industrial revolution had just been born.
120 years later, their descendants are circling back. To double glaze the windows, cover the hardwood floors with laminate, and flip them for a 20% profit.
I texted Tony. ‘Smallest one yet not worth going over budget for stick with upper holland.’
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 3 March, 2007

2007-07-08T08:15:00.000-07:00

As Sure as I Know My Own Name

My Irish Husband Tony is in Dublin until Tuesday for his first grandson’s christening. I had to teach my professional students yesterday, so couldn’t join him for the seven-hours-one-way car and ferry trip to spend two days with Irish relatives. What a shame.
He has been replaced by three Cadbury Crème Eggs, fish and chips at the Horse and Jockey, and rare, rare, rare filet, asparagus, and creamy mash with mustard and caramelized onions from Tesco.
Before he left there was a flurry of activity.
On Thursday morning I received an e-mail from a favorite former student warning us about the estate (read: ‘projects’) near Dean Road, which had become our Plan B after we visited it on Sunday night.
A few minutes later, the agent called to say that it had been sold. She offered to keep us posted about similar properties.
‘We understand that area is close to the Lyndhurst Estate,’ I told her.
‘Well, not close, but nearby. You can’t see it from there.’
I’m not worried about the view, honey. I’m worried about walking two blocks home from the train at night.
Next, Homebase called and asked where they should deliver our new sofa.
‘Funny thing about that,’ I said. ‘Can you check back next week?’
Next, Lisa from the agent’s office called.
Lisa’s full-time job, God bless her, is to keep our solicitor and the seller’s solicitor moving. She has an amazingly high tolerance for frustration.
Lisa had talked to our solicitor about her questions related to this ‘shared freehold’ situation. Lisa had talked to the seller’s solicitor about our solicitor’s concerns. Lisa would talk to the seller about the Mysterious Other Owner in the shared freehold. Lisa assured me that the owner and the owner’s solicitor will come back to us with answers to these questions. Lisa described other deals she is working on that are much more complicated and time-consuming than this.
I pointed out that there are properties out there that would be much less complicated and we are in the process of looking at them. (I didn’t mention that the ones we can afford are near the Lyndhurst Estate.)
Although we had spoken before, this time I heard something different in Lisa’s voice. Lisa sounded nervous. Just a little bit nervous. As in, I have a hot buyer here, all packed up, with money ready to drop, and I’m going to lose her because of this Mysterious Other Owner. And I won’t be able to find another hot buyer if these issues aren’t cleared up now.
Lisa agreed to hack on the seller’s solicitor again. She said she would get back to me, but I could call her anytime to see how things were moving because that is her job. I said I’d call Monday.
Tony and I went off to work. We paid the March rent on Sandy Croft. We ruled out any place in Erdington within spitting distance of the Lyndhurst estates.
And I smiled all afternoon.
Because I know, deep down in my kishkas.
As sure as I knew that Tony was The One.
As sure as I knew that getting married five years ago was a good idea.
As sure as I knew that this job at UCE would be a good move for us.
As sure as I knew those things, I know that we are going to get Upper Holland Road.
On our terms.
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 25 February, 2007

2007-07-08T08:08:00.000-07:00

What Could Go Wrong?

When you hear the words, ‘What could go wrong?’, even in your own head, you know you are in trouble.
Our solicitor, Shirley, called us after she got all the paperwork from the seller’s solicitor.
She used the word ‘minefield.’
To quote her letter to us, one of the law partners ‘had expressed concern that there is a possibility that you may experience difficulties in the future with the co-freeholders of the above property and this could be a potential minefield.’
She included copies of the documents; the parts we could understand made for interesting reading. We still don’t know how old the house is, but the first sale was in 1916 and we’re not allowed to keep ‘on the demised premises or any part thereof any chickens ducks geese or other live poultry.’
We told Shirley to go ahead to the next step. With more information can we find a way to avoid the minefield? She wrote a letter to the seller’s solicitors, which included:
‘3. Our clients’ Surveyors report raised concerned about ‘Inadequate maintenance’ [Translation: Well worth the £400 for that independent survey]…
‘(a) Has your client ever made contact with [the other owner] concerning repairs required at the property? [Translation: Kathleen and Tony snuck around and contacted the upstairs tenant who said that the other owner wouldn’t repair the leaking roof.]
‘(b) Is there a Reserve Fund sufficient to cover the cost of the works set out? [Translation: We ain’t payin’ for no roof.]…
‘8. When communicating with [the other owner] could we ask you to please to enquire whether they would consider the sale of their interest in the property? [Translation: Could we buy this guy out?]…’
My Irish Husband Tony said he thought I would be more upset. But having gone through 50+ years of businesses and relationships, you really believe, ‘Nothing is sure until the check clears the bank.’
We’re too old and wise to give up easily, but not stupid enough to say, ‘We want this one no matter what.’
It feels as though we found out that our dream lover has a dysfunctional family and we will have to live with them. We’re still in love, but is Upper Holland worth the excess baggage? Will they rehabilitate? Or just promise to, like they have so many times before?
On the other hand, do we want them to decide where we live?
So, as you do when a relationship may be doomed, I tested the market. I gathered together the Birmingham A to Z, the ads in the Sutton Coldfield Observer, and www.rightmove.co.uk. I came down: Down to one bedroom. Down to £110,000 (‘in need of complete refurbishment’). And down as far as the #11 bus route in Erdington. A few good lookin’ prospects. Take that Upper Holland Road.
Yesterday, a rainy, grey, English Saturday, I walked to the too-cheap fixer upper around the corner. My late realtor Dad would call it, ‘Good for handyman.’ Could be a smart investment, but on one of the busiest, noisiest corners in Sutton.
Then I rode the bus across the Sutton border to track down four possibilities in a not-bad part of Erdington. Cute little side streets; nice news agent a block away; handy bus stop to get to the main business district and transfer to the incredibly frequent #11 bus that passes near my office. A couple of ‘projects’ a few blocks away.
It was worth a stop in the agent’s office. I told my tale of lost love, and she understood. She’d been there. I asked to be introduced to some new suitors. She handed me flyers and promised to call. I stepped back out into the streets of Erdington, home of sleazy chippers and charity shops. But today I didn’t feel like trolling for furniture or buying more baskets.
Just how hard would it be to get the #11 bus to work from here? As predicted, one came by in about 5 minutes, and I was on campus about 20 minutes later. As I sat in the cold waiting for the Damn #107 back to Sutton, I decided moving to another bus line might not be such a bad idea.
So tonight Tony and I have a date. With Dean Road.
We’re packed. We’ve got a mortgage. We’re ready to commit.
Maybe Upper Holland will shape up. Maybe the upstairs owner will see the error of his ways. Maybe he can rehabilitate.
But we’ll have a Plan B just in case. Maybe even a Plan C. And D.
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 18 February, 2007

2007-07-02T10:24:00.000-07:00

Yet Another Week—Reprise

Monday
Tomorrow’s your day off. You should call Lisa at the agent. She’s the one who has to keep hacking on the solicitors. I talked to her last Thursday, so tomorrow is a good day to get on her.

Tuesday
Did u call lisa luv u
Not 2day will do 2morrow luv u

Wednesday
Did you call Lisa?
I did. She said she’d call me back today.

Thursday
Lisa didn’t call back. I don’t have any time to call her today.
Me either.

Friday
0800 Call Lisa this morning. Let me know if you can’t get her, and I’ll try this afternoon.
1000 Dont forget to call lisa dont forget to take ur phone with u luv u
1130 Lisa said she wld call back luv u
1200 This message is for Mrs. Donnelly or Mr. Dixon. This is Lisa at the agent’s.
I got your garble garble garble so give me a garble at the garble. Bye.
1400 Is Lisa there?
She’s here but she’s with someone. Who is this?
This is Kathleen, but I’m going in to teach a class. Tell her I’ll call her at
my break, in about an hour.
1600 C’mon in. Let me just make this one call. If I don’t talk to this woman now,
we won’t know anything until Monday.
Is Lisa there?
She is but she’s busy. Who is this?
This is Kathleen. She can call me at my office number. I’d like to talk to her
before she leaves today.
1445 Is Kathleen there?
Lisa!
Yes, are y’oiright? Sorry for not getting back to you. I have been
chasing your solicitor all week, but I finally spoke to her today.
That’s great. What is going on?
Your solicitor did get the information from the seller’s solicitor, and so she has begun the searches and inquiries. I’m not sure if she’s using our search service but if she is tracking blah blah easier to keep in blah blah.
So when she does get all this information back, then what happens?
If there are no problems with it, because there might be blah blah or some
blah blah. But if there are no problems, then she will call you to come in and look at the contract and sign the contract. If you find nothing wrong with the contract.
And then what happens?
And then you sign the contract and then she contacts the seller’s solicitors
and then you set a date to exchange contracts. But I have to be honest I doubt that you will have exchange next week.
That’s okay. Just so we know. So if we sign a contract next week with our
solicitor, then we might have exchange the week after?
Well, if the searches and inquiries are blah blah and if she finds no
problems then you could blah blah and blah blah. I don’t think there will be problems but blah blah leasehold.blah blah freehold but I have worked with her before and I never have to push her. She is very good and will blah blah the blah blah.
So if we have exchange week after next, the last week in February, we
know we can’t have completion, when all the money changes hands, until the first week in March. But maybe we could start moving in after exchange, in two weeks?
Well, yes, but you don’t know because there is blah blah and blah blah.
But everything is moving; it just takes time. So I will call her next week to see if she got the searches and inquiries.
Roight. It’s just that the place we want to buy, and we have the money to buy, is sitting there empty. And My Irish Husband Tony is packing up boxes so our little maisonette is filling up with boxes. And we’d really like to move things in so we can clean up and air out…
I know. It’s just a few weeks. It will go fast.
Not fast enough.
Roight. Well, we’ll talk next week. Boiy.
Thanks for all your help. Boiy.
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 11 February, 2007

2007-07-02T10:21:00.002-07:00

Yet Another Week

It was a quiet week in Sutton Coldfield. Mark papers, take a break. Mark papers, take a break. Classes started again last week, so, teach a class, mark last term’s papers, take a break.
No Malaysia, but I will be an Innovation Mentor. But not until April.
Then I got the call from the BBC. Really. To be on my favorite program, the long-running news panel, Question Time. Well, in the audience, in Birmingham. But, what the hey! I said yes.
So all day I marked papers, and then I crawled through the snow down our path, through the snow down our cul de sac, through the snow down the hill, to meet the taxi. Which didn’t show. And because I was already half way to the bus stop by then, I cancelled the taxi and took the bus to city centre. And then a taxi. To the bus-station-part-of-town. To be on Question Time.
On our fantasy list this year, for me, was ‘to be a panelist on Question Time.’ So this was close, considering the panelists are MPs, city councilors and novelists. I sure hope this is worth it, I thought, as I crawled on the icy path where the taxi driver had let me out, knee-threatening blocks from the venue.
Finally, inside. Warm and dry. Searched by security, get a cup of bad tea, hope to chat with someone from Sutton Coldfield so I can get a lift home. Mill around with the crowd.
‘I didn’t know they let Americans in here!’
I know this guy. I know this face. Who is he? He’s white and British. They all are!
‘How are things going on your house buying?’
Oh my God. We’re buying a house. I’d forgotten. It’s Peter the Mortgage Guy! He’s a fan of Question Time too!
I tell him: We got the Home Buyer’s Report from the surveyor. We called our solicitor. Then we called the agent, who had already called our solicitor, who told her she can’t do anything because she hasn’t heard from the seller’s solicitor. The agent said she’d call the seller’s solicitor again.
So Peter and I sat together through Question Time, watching the host David Dimbleby, and the panel—a Liberal Democrat MP, our Muslim Birmingham councilor, a Tory former Home Minister, novelist Frederick Forsyth, and this week’s sacrificial lamb from the Labour Party—answer questions from the audience. And neither Peter nor I got to ask a question. [Tip: When you sit in the middle of the audience, you are nowhere near any of the cameras so only your loving husband will be able to pick you out of the crowd.]
Then Peter the Mortgage Guy drove me to the taxi rank, and the taxi took me to Sutton Coldfield. Tony met me at the bottom of the hill so we could walk through the snow up the hill, up our cul-de-sac, up our path, to watch the previously recorded Question Time.
And then another six inches of snow fell on Birmingham and everything stopped.
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 4 February, 2007

2007-07-02T10:21:00.001-07:00

Another Week

Well, we didn’t hear back from the agent whether the seller will let us move in early. Why don’t you give her a call?

I called the agent. She says she asked and the seller is checking with her lawyer.
Okay. We’ll wait another day.

Did the agent call?
No. But the surveyor called. He got the check and will go look at the property. We should have a home buyer’s report early next week.
Maybe we should call the agent again.

I called the agent. She says that the seller got mixed advice from her lawyer. She may still let us move in early and pay rent, though. But it won’t be the 14th of February; probably not before the 21st.
But even an extra week gives us time to air out this place and move into the other.
She said it would take at least until the 21st to get ‘exchange’ of contracts. So we could move in after exchange. But before ‘completion’ on 5th March, when all the money changes hands.
Well, that’s something.

Oh, hell. Let’s go buy a couch.
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 28 January, 2007

2007-07-02T10:13:00.000-07:00

The Rhythm of Life

In my previous blog, A Yank in ‘Brum, in August of 2005, I wrote:
‘For the last 20 months we have been either traveling or planning to…20 months is a long time to be saying, “After this trip…” So, for the first time in a while, “We are experiencing a lull…” ‘
Soon after I announced that lull, I was asked to go back on Semester at Sea™. Within the next 12 months we had visited nine countries—seven of which we had never been to before—and added a Wonderful New Boss, lots of friends and another grandchild to our cast of characters.
When we hit the next post-Semester at Sea lull, this past August, 2006, we said, ‘We’ve got nothing on our plate. No big projects. No planned trips. Let’s buy a house!’
As loyal readers know, that process has been inching us along to Upper Holland Road (Plan A), with all the stops and starts inimical to big decisions, large purchases, and English solicitors. We call, they call us back. My Irish Husband Tony packs a few boxes. They call someone, who calls us back. Tony packs a few more boxes. We make copies of passports and licenses and certificates and mail them. We buy a few baskets. They send e-mails and copy us.
There is a certain rhythm to it. Not a tango, not a flamenco. More like a waltz.
But this week I got an e-mail reminding me of the InnovationMentors program that I wanted to apply for and I had to get that application filled out and ask MyWonderfulNewBoss if he would give me one half day release time a week for the next year to counsel small business owners because it’s right up my alley even though it will mean going away to God knows where for three days of training right when we’re getting ready to move…
He said yes. I sent that off in time to meet the deadline.
Then I got another e-mail that was bouncing around the BusinessSchool from a university in Wales and they’re looking for someone to be an external to go to Malaysia to validate (accredit) a program they run there I mean Malaysia it’s just a few days and we have it on our fantasy list as a place we want to go back to but I’ll bet airfares are outrageous no wait only £500 return for Tony to come too but would they want me I never was an external before but the woman in Wales says she is really glad I called because they know it is last minute and could I get my CV (resume) to them ASAP and MyWonderfulNewBoss says go ahead just so it doesn’t interfere with your work even though it means almost a whole week away right when we’re getting ready to move….
But what the heck—Malaysia! So I sent that one off too.
Then Tony called our solicitor who said there would be no problem if the seller said we could move in early and so he called the agent who said she would check with the seller and we might be able to move in the middle of February instead of the beginning of March but we will have to arrange to get Tony’s son James to come over and help and get the bed from Dublin that Tony’s sister Liz promised us and rent a truck and it would be right between my training and Malaysia if I’m even going on training or even going to Malaysia…
But. It would give us two weeks to move in to the new place and out of the old.
Then Tony’s daughter Naomi called to say they finally have a date for Dallan’s christening 4th of March and are we coming and if so where will we stay because her partner Neil’s parents will be there and you know how they are but I won’t be able to leave until late on the 3rd of March because I am teaching and I’ll have to be back early the 5th which might be our closing date but it is the grandchild and Tony has no vacation days left but maybe they would let him off right when we’re moving…
We’ll have to wait to book that one.
Then ConnietheCatSitter e-mailed to see if we could drive Steve from upstairs over on Sunday to where she lives on the other side of Birmingham to help her move all her boxes into her new place which is here in Sutton and by a miracle two blocks from our new house so we will still have ConnietheCatSitter right nearby when we need her and we said of course we would help but Kathleen has to write up her paper for her PostGradDiplomainHigherEducation that is almost done but it is due right when she gets back from Malaysia if she is going to Malaysia which we really won’t know until next week but better to have it all done and as much packed up as possible…
So that is what we did today.
And then ConnietheCatSitter’s WonderfulNewLandlord Seth invited everyone who helped Connie move for a pint at what will be our new local The Outer Edge so of course I had to quit working on the PostGradDiploma paper and go and Seth is a great guy Connie is landing in a pile of honey but then Tony had to go to work tonight by 6 pm which we both hate so we had to leave the pub and I cooked broiled salmon pesto pasta corn and crunchy fresh baguette in just 15minutes.
And now I have a whole evening by myself with nothing to do.
Too early to start cleaning anything.
Nothing we can pack up.
Don’t feel like working.
Bollocks.
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 21 January, 2007

2007-07-02T10:10:00.000-07:00

Stuff

We have stuff. Too much stuff. Americans always have way too much stuff. Brits are a close second.
But I point out to My Irish Husband Tony that, compared to most Baby Boomers, we hardly have any stuff. Here. We have more stuff in Florida.
Handmade Amish furniture. Souvenirs from the eras of our lives. An original Robert Qualters drawing of David Stock. Wedding presents. All safely locked up and protected by Storage USA for $110/month, direct debit. (If you know anyone reliable who is looking to furnish an apartment in South Florida, get in touch.)
We got rid of stuff, but we brought stuff with us. And we shipped stuff. Boxes of stuff. Precious stuff. (I still think one box was lost, but we didn’t count.)
In two years and four months we’ve managed to accumulate more stuff. Mostly from charity shops. Our Wonderful Landlord supplied most of the furniture. We’ve added some shelves/cabinets (to store our stuff). End tables. A TV. A new computer. Another wardrobe. Complete kitchen ware, including kettle, toaster and huge bright red colander, a Christmas present from Kerrie. Many, many champagne glasses. Extra chairs for Thanksgiving dinner. A picnic table, lounge chair and umbrella for the garden. Two cats. One litter box. A gorgeous table with a hand-drawn, varnished peacock on top (Reduced to £12, Resettlement Shop).
And things. Little things. On the floor, on the table, behind the door. Where do we put them? In the second room, reeking of cats? In the bedroom cabinets? Or wardrobes? In the ONLY closet? In the garden shed, to mold?
I sort. I’m good at sorting. The Irish don’t sort. They pile stuff up in a corner, then they throw stuff out. Irish-Americans like my mother (OK, me too) hoard. Then their husbands worry about them. Then they hide stuff under the bed. Then they sort.
I have a creative solution.
One word: Baskets.
Large baskets, small baskets. Blue plastic baskets. Wicker baskets. Hemp-like baskets. Baskets with lids and without. Baskets with handles and without.
No bows. The British like bows. I don’t think so.
Leave a basket unattended and a cat crawls in. The picnic basket from the wine selection my brother and sister-in-law sent is perfect for tax receipts. The one with the handle will hang from a new hook.
Why baskets? Why not shelves and drawers?
Baskets feel right. They fit anywhere. On shelves; in drawers. In the bottom of wardrobes. On top of wardrobes. Or a refrigerator. Or under a bed.
Without lids, they are more receptive than drawers.
Put it here. Whatever it is, it will be embraced. It will be gathered with like objects, its natural companions. No need to pull anything open or lift anything up. Just slip it in. Look down and you can see what’s there. If it’s embarrassing, hide it behind a door. If it’s attractive, let it sit out. Boldly. Assertively. Here’s our stuff. We’re proud.
I’m experimenting. Different sizes, materials and colors. Too many little ones just create more clutter. Great big ones can’t be chosen until we fit everything else into the new space.
Discount stores, grocery stores. Charity shops! They all have baskets. They are arriving empty in our current maisonette. They will be moved, filled, to our new flat. They will nest in nooks and crannies. They will not have labels, because we will know, instinctively, what each holds. And if not, we’ll peek.
A few to sit next to the computer. Some on top of the wardrobe and under the bed. Really nice ones to sit out on shelves and fit into the long IKEA sideboard in the hallway. Big round ones around the kitchen. Brimming with fresh onions and garlic.
Ready to make big bowls of spaghetti for our guests—you!
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 14 January, 2007

2007-07-02T10:08:00.000-07:00

It’s a Process; Work With It

You’re right! Plan A is the 1BR ground floor flat right in Sutton that involves, as our friend Melanie puts it, ‘freehold/leasehold/household/handhold/stranglehold.’ Plan B is the 2BR whole house way over on Buxton Road.
So this is the process for buying a house/flat/apartment in the UK:
1. Gaze longingly at pictures in estate agents’ windows.
2. Find mortgage broker who can get you pre-approved for a 100%+ mortgage to wipe out your current debt and cover all costs plus new furniture; i.e., Peter the Mortgage Guy.
3. Look at properties and decide what is wrong with each of them.
4. Put in an offer on the refurbished Victorian/Edwardian house with the bay window right in the best neighborhood (Plan A). Rejected.
5. Put in much higher offer. Accepted (could have gone lower).
6. Determine the freehold/leasehold arrangement (Plan A) won’t fit the mortgage.
7. Settle for the gorgeous one with the smaller rooms too far down the road (Plan B).
8. Determine the freehold/leasehold arrangement (Plan A) will fit the mortgage.
9. Look at others just to make sure (Plans C, D and E). Re-visit the one too far down the road (Plan B) to see if the rooms are as small as you remember. Re-visit your first love and fall in love again (Plan A).
10. Throw caution to the wind and buy the 7-foot long wood sideboard—which would fit perfectly in the bay window in Plan A, with pillows on top for comfy sitting—for only £10 ($19.50) at the charity shop. Beg them to not deliver it until you know where it’s going.
11. Stroll around IKEA with a measuring tape. Avoid Swedish meatballs. (Tony says, ‘Maybe we should wait to shop until we move in.’ Yeah, right. Men.)
12. Tell Peter the Mortgage Guy to proceed with Plan A.
13. Awaken the next morning to find out that (1) £455 (you do the math) for the mortgage company’s valuator (‘appraiser’ in US) has been automatically deducted from your bank account and (2) the mortgage company is calling you at 9 am to sell you buildings, contents and mortgage payment protection insurance.
14. Search the internet for a sofa bed—the focal point for the living room as well as a bed for guests in Plan A—for less than £400. Meet husband at Home Base to try out the only long one that has sidearms (and drawers!) temporarily 50% off. Wonder how it would fit in Plan B, just in case.
15. Watch episodes of To Buy Or Not to Buy and The 200-Year-Old House, even though that one is in Bristol and twice as old as Plan A. Try to buy DVD of ‘The 1900 House’ documentary. Buy a copy of The History of Sutton Coldfield instead.
16. Convince husband not to pack up ALL the plates and cutlery just yet.
17. Drive by Plan A again to make sure it is still there.
18. Dig out, make copies and mail more documentation to the mortgage company to prove who you are.
19. Ask Peter the Mortgage Guy what happens next. Advises waiting for the ‘mortgage offer’ before telling your landlord that you are leaving. Probably two weeks.
20. Cross fingers.

Sunday, 7 January, 2007

2007-07-02T10:05:00.000-07:00

Our First Week of the New Year

Here’s how we spent our first week of 2007:

Sunday: Write blog. Drive Tony’s Daughter Kerrie and Granddaughter Erin to see both properties. Kerrie votes for Upper Holland Road (1BR, first floor, in Sutton); Erin votes for both. But thinks the cats will like Buxton Road (2BR, whole house, not in Sutton). Erin keeps us awake until midnight to bring in the new year.
Monday: Put Kerrie and Erin on plane to Dublin. Walk over to Upper Holland Road and leave a friendly note for the upstairs neighbor, asking him/her/them to call. Have a lovely phone conversation with Sandra who has lived there for 20 years. Yes, the other owner is a piss face; yes, Sandra has a cat.
Tuesday: Ask Peter the Mortgage Guy if we can extend our mortgage enough to buy the whole darn place, thereby no longer sharing the freehold. Peter does the research and texts back, ‘Can’t do. Sorry folks.’ Take ourselves out for carvery pub lunch to write our annual Fantasy List. Eliminate Upper Holland Road. Fall asleep with the IKEA catalogue. Dream of cats looking out at birds from conservatory on Buxton Road.
Wednesday: Estate agent calls. Owner’s solicitor says Upper Holland Road is definitely a leasehold. We would already own the freehold with the piss face who won’t double glaze.
Thursday: Call our solicitor and Peter the Mortgage Guy with the wording* from the other solicitor’s letter. Both agree it sounds like leasehold to them. Me to solicitor: ‘But who is the £10/annum leasehold paid to?’ Solicitor: ‘Well, no one, actually.’ What a country. Fall asleep with the IKEA catalogue. Dream of cats looking out at birds from big bay window on Upper Holland Road.
Friday morning: Look at Upper Holland Road again. Measure to see how new wardrobe would fit in bedroom, how new sofa bed would fit in living room, how old litter box would fit in hallway. Then look at previously overlooked 2BR down the street from our current maisonette. Would eat up our whole-budget-plus to finish off the real wood floors someone thought it was okay to just slap varnish on.
Friday afternoon: Meet with Peter the Mortgage guy. Sort out life, health and income protection insurance. Give him the details he needs to put in official mortgage application (pre-approved!) on Monday, whichever property we choose. Look through new ads in Sutton Coldfield Observer to see if another dream house has appeared. As before, everything else in our price range in Sutton looks like ‘the projects.’
Saturday morning: Look at Buxton Road again. Measure to see if computer table will fit in living room, if dining table will fit in conservatory. Could our indoor-cats’ litter box be attached to that outdoor-cats’ door?
Saturday afternoon: One of us looks at furniture at Homebase while one of us watches footie on telly. (Guess which one is which.)
Both of us are comfortable with our Plan A/Plan B decision.
Guess which one is which. We’ll let you know next week.
Fingers crossed.
*This is the text from the owner’s solicitor which makes Upper Holland Road acceptable to lenders:
‘I confirm that [the seller] owns a leasehold interest in the above property for a term of 125 years from 13th March 1989 at a rent of £10 per annum. She also jointly owns the freehold interest in the whole of 41 Upper Holland Road with the Lessee of the first floor flat. On completion of her sale [the seller] and the owner of the first floor flat will have to transfer the freehold interest from their joint names to the joint names of the purchaser and the owner of the first floor flat.

Hopefully this does clarify the situation.’**

** This is my first blog to require a footnote.

Sunday, 31 December, 2006

2007-07-02T10:01:00.000-07:00

The Votes Are In

This past week, while you were voting, one or both of us:

Got up at 6 am to drive three hours in the dark on windy roads through the mountains of Wales to get on a ferry, eat crap breakfast, and get off in Dublin to drive to Tony’s daughter Kerrie.
Hung out in Kerrie’s fabulous apartment in Ashbourne, County Meath, north of Dublin, and ate all the fabulous food she cooked.
Drove in bright daylight on windy roads to the middle of nowhere, otherwise known as County Cavan, to Tony’s daughter Naomi’s brand new house in a development that looks exactly like where my brother lived in Pittsburgh.
Left at 11 pm to drive four hours in the dark on windy roads, wrapped in fog, through the mountains of northern Ireland and Northern Ireland, to Belfast to get on a ferry, eat sandwiches we brought with us, and get off in Stranraer to drive four hours in the dark on windy roads, wrapped in fog, through the mountains of Scotland, stopping for a break until the sun came up, after 8 am.
Spent two fabulous days in Edinburgh in a 2BR apartment (gorgeous—we almost put in an offer. Force of habit.) with Kerrie and 8-year-old granddaughter Erin who is still trying to decide if she likes Edinburgh as much or better than Paris.
Left at a civilized time to drive eight hours in bright daylight on windy roads through the mountains of Scotland, and then (by 4 pm) in the dark and rain on wide motorways through England, back home to Birmingham.
Told the other one to forget about it each time she mentioned the two house choices or showed people the pictures and asked them to vote.

While we were driving and eating, you guys were hard at work. So many of you sent us e-mails with your advice!
And the winner is—Wait.
Geesh, you’re a conservative bunch. ‘Wait’ got twice as many votes as Buxton Road. Upper Holland Road got none; well, no confident votes. Maybe none of you want to have to sleep on a sofa bed in the living room?
As David in Seattle, who is going through the same process there, asked, ‘How often do you think you would have visitors, and how much do you WANT visitors?’
Dick in Florida advised waiting until the snow falls—but we don’t really get much snow in Birmingham. Renee in Pittsburgh said you can’t have too much closet space—but we don’t really have ANY closet space in the whole UK. It’s bring your own; you buy a ‘wardrobe.’
And Janie B in New York pointed out, ‘If the Queen demands her rights it would be a good idea to have a guest bedroom where you can stay while she reigns over yourdomicile. Do corgis like cats? Do cats tolerate corgis?’
Probably the best advice came from, no surprise, real estate agent Mary in Iowa, who said, ‘You’ll know the house when you see it. And when the deal starts to go south, that's a sign too—let it go.’
So today, while Tony is at work, I’m going to drive (Yes, I CAN drive over here. I’m just not very good at it.) Kerrie and Erin to both properties and let them vote before we all ring in 2007 tonight, once again in our rented 2BR maisonette.
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 24 December, 2006

2007-07-02T09:49:00.000-07:00

Your Chance to Vote!

This is what we have learned so far in this journey:
1. The Queen owns all the land in the kingdom. That’s why she’s the queen. When you buy something, you are really just renting it from Her Majesty.
2. ‘Leasehold’ means you own the building, but not the land. The Queen owns the land. You are merely living on it.
3. ‘Freehold’ means you own the building and the land. Freeholds are usually granted for 99 years, and if you buy one that has less than 60 years left, it’s bad news. You pay some small amount every month to the company or person who really owns the freehold (probably a front for the Queen), and eventually you can own it. Or extend the lease for 990 years, which is the same as owning it. Except the Queen still owns the land.
4. ‘Shared freehold’ means you’re screwed.
And guess which applies to Upper Holland Road? The freehold is shared with the person who owns the upstairs and rents it out to someone with an elderly cat and possibly a red Rover. He or she hasn’t bothered to fix up the front doorway or even get double-glazed windows (a minimum improvement here).
Peter the Mortgage Guy called back to tell us that lenders don’t want to give mortgages like ours to shared freehold properties. Leasehold, no problem; freehold, not really a problem. Shared freehold. Houston, we’ve got a problem.
Nicola who believes in fate asked us to meet with the mortgage broker connected to her agency. Why not? We would be as honest with him as we were with Pete the Mortgage Guy.
Are you a fan of Frasier? Do you remember Donnie, the lawyer Daphne almost married? That’s who would play this mortgage guy in a movie.
So we met with ‘Donnie’ and put our cards on the table. We told him the deal Pete the Mortgage Guy got us. He searched the internet, he called on his mobile, he called on his office phone. He answered his mobile and then he answered his office phone. He printed out a deal that would cover a shared freehold, but we would have to put in some of our own dollars from the States. Which we were expecting to do anyway when we started all this.
We told Donnie we would have to think. We left the car parked in Sutton and got the bus to Erdington to look at furniture. We chatted and we thought and we tried out the sofa bed in the British Heart Foundation store (no mattress; that’s why it was only £149).
I said, ‘Let’s be creative. Buy the whole house. Maybe the upstairs owner will sell.’
Tony said, ‘Let’s be smart. Buy the one on Buxton Road that costs less and Pete the Mortgage Guy will finance it all tomorrow.’
We called Pete and told him the deal ‘Donnie’ had found. He searched and called and finally threw up his hands, saying he couldn’t get the same deal.
We told everybody to have a nice holiday and we would get back to them in January.
Today we’re driving to Dublin for Christmas, and then to Scotland with Tony’s daughter and granddaughter, and then back to Birmingham for New Year’s Eve. So we need to stop thinking about this for a while, and we would like you to do the thinking for both of us.
You get to vote. Here are your choices.
Upper Holland Road
Good news: Beautifully refurbished. Good cat views from front bay window. Huge kitchen with room for all invited Thanksgiving guests. Right in Sutton. Short walk to all buses. Old house with character. Possibility of some day buying the upstairs and refurbishing it. Big rooms (relatively speaking).
Bad news: Only three rooms (Kitchen, BR, LR). No extra room for possessions acquired on travels or visiting guests who want privacy. Tricky getting in and out of driveway. Requires using dollars to pay in pounds to share ownership with someone who can’t even be bothered to double glaze.
Buxton Road
Good news: Beautifully refurbished. Good cat views from back conservatory. Close to the only bus that goes to my campus. Totally financed with plenty leftover to pay off bills and buy furniture. Lots of gorgeous wood, including conservatory looking out on beautiful garden. Walk-in closet. TWO bedrooms.
Bad news: Small bedrooms, small living room, not a sit-down kitchen. Staircase. Conservatory would serve as the dining room and wouldn’t hold all invited Thanksgiving guests. Not in Sutton. No way to improve it to raise property value.
Or…Wait
Lots of properties will be advertised on the first Friday in January. Something else will turn up.
Vote now! We will appreciate your words of wisdom.
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 17 December, 2006

2007-07-02T09:45:00.000-07:00

The Phone Call

The phone call came when I was standing at the fish market, contemplating a cod. The name ‘Nicola’ flashed on the screen and I instantly decided there was no way I would be able to hear a word she said. I let it ring.
It rang again. Her name appeared again. I let it ring, again. I didn’t want to get either good news or bad news while vacillating between a cod and a halibut for tonight’s dinner, surrounded by shouting vendors and screaming Brummies.
On Wednesday I had received a text from Peter the Mortgage Guy announcing that we were approved. He really is a miracle worker. Thanks to my unbreakable rule, ‘Always keep a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator because you might have something to celebrate,’ Tony and I were able to finish off dinner with Tesco’s finest £2.98/bottle cava.
The next morning Tony called the agent to see if the beautifully refurbished first floor right-in-Sutton was still available. ‘Yes. She hasn’t had any offers,’ he was told by not-Nicola who answered the phone.
Miraculously, when I called back a few hours later to put in our offer of £124,950—right under the stamp tax level—she had had many offers, some higher than that, and had rejected them.
‘I thought it just came on the market last week,’ I asked not-Nicola.
‘She had it with another agency before,’ she explained. ‘Nicola will be in tomorrow.’
Our Nicola believes in fate. So we decided to ask her for more information about the mysterious upstairs neighbor as well as a second viewing before we upped the ante.
Friday afternoon I took a walk over and peeked in windows, fully expecting someone to ask me what the heck I was doing. It looked as good as I remembered, but the front door and the upstairs windows hadn’t been given the same loving makeover.
Saturday morning I gave up my Amblers’ Walk through Bournville (home of Cadbury) so Nicola could meet us at Upper Holland Road before Tony had to be at work. We poked in every corner. We looked for signs of mold. I measured walls and windows with my feet. [Note to self: buy a tape measure.]
We asked questions. Who owns the upstairs? The same person who owns that red Rover? Can that bush be cut back so you can drive down the side to the garage? What about that brand new door, all wrapped up and sitting in the entranceway? Will that be put on the front? And what about the planks which lead from the back garden to the first-level roof, up to the cat-door cut in the second floor window next to the Whiskas supply? That’s one old cat if he/she can’t climb up there.
Is it freehold or leasehold? Would they include the light and window fittings? And what about that gorgeous old table that goes perfectly in the kitchen?
I had empowered Tony to make an offer of £128,000 if he didn’t see anything wrong with it. He chatted with Nicola while I poked. I mentioned the other beautifully refurbished house with TWO bedrooms (I left out that it wasn’t in Sutton), that we could get under the £125,000 threshold.
Tony said 128. ‘Well, I can always ask her,’ Nicola said. Did a small smile leak out?
Tony went to work and I went shopping.
I bought the cod, and the halibut, and some salmon pieces to use with pesto pasta. I stepped out from the noise of the markets into the relative quiet of Birmingham.
I called Nicola.
‘Are you sitting down?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ I lied.
‘You’re homeowners!’
‘Well—you mean our offer has been accepted?’
I instantly knew we could have had it for 127. ‘That’s fabulous!,’ I told her.
‘And even better, she’s going to include all the fittings, lighting, everything.’
‘What about that door sitting in the front hallway?’
‘She says that’s been there since she moved in.’
‘Oh. What about the table?’
‘It belonged to her husband’s aunt—but we’ll ask. Maybe he didn’t like his aunt. So call your solicitor on Monday morning and we’ll get everything moving!’
I texted Tony. But because he had let his message box fill up, he still hadn’t heard the news when he got off work. We had another bottle of £2.98 Cava after dinner.
Peter the Mortgage Guy told me we could be in by end of January. Tony laughed. ‘March,’ he said.
I’m aiming for January.
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 10 December, 2006

2007-07-02T09:42:00.000-07:00

Do You Believe in Fate?

As I predicted, the Buxton Road house, right off the bus route to my campus, was absolutely fantastic and they had added the all-wood conservatory on the back because the rooms were so small. That much we expected from the photos and the specifications.
What we didn’t expect was the real wood floors (not laminate). And the kitchen-right-out-of-a-remodeling advert. And the walk-in bedroom closet—rare in this land of stand-alone wardrobes. And the quiet street right near shops.
But those rooms are small. Tony developed a plan to build a double bed over the wasted space where the stairway forces itself up in to the bedroom. But…
As Buxton Road moved to the top of our list—far as it is from Sutton—I decided to follow up on every property we had in mind. This meant calling the real estate office I had been lured into by a description in their window. They had said that house was temporarily on hold, but I called back to check.
‘Still on hold. But could I take your details so we can get in touch with you?’ asked Nicola. I liked Nicola. She wasn’t going to let us get away.
I gave her our contact details and Tony and I bundled into the car so he could drive me and my laptop with the dead hard drive (I pounded on it. Don’t ask.) to school.
Within minutes, Nicola called back. ‘You won’t believe this. The other agent here passed me a new description of a property that has just come up. It’s £129,950 and right in Sutton.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘One bedroom.’
‘Oh.’
‘But you have to see this. Trust me.’
I trusted Nicola. We waved at her as we drove by her office.
Friday morning I set out down Holland Road, just a few blocks away from where we live now. Halfway down I realized that, in the British way, Upper Holland Road, was way at the other end. But it was a nice day and I was wearing my walking shoes, so I chalked it up as good exercise.
I passed Kathleen Street (really) and then greeted Nicola in front of the Edwardian bay window of #41.
‘Well, you win on location,’ I told her instantly. Right down the hill from buses that go straight in to Sutton center if you’re not up for the 10 minute walk.
We went in through the back door, from the large garden with the finished patio.
‘Do you believe in fate?’ Nicola said as we stood on the blue-gray slate floors in the big kitchen—big enough for a table for six, rare in this land of postage-stamp rooms—and wandered down the wide hallway with the original Minton (I’m learning the terminology), into the spacious living room with wood-laminate floors, looking out the wide bay window to the lovely street outside. Passing the one, the only, but large, bedroom.
Well. It certainly has a lot of wood. It certainly is old. It certainly is beautifully refurbished.
‘I’m not sure about fate,’ I told her. ‘But I do believe in getting a feeling in your stomach when you first walk into a place.’
Like I did when we first walked into our current apartment. And our apartment in Hollywood, Florida. And our apartment in Squirrel Hill, Pennsylvania.
And like my mother did when she first walked into the house in Pittsburgh we lived in for the next 35 years.
So I texted Tony to see if he could come look before he goes to work on Saturday and. I tried not to oversell when describing it to him. We got on-line with our new desktop PC (don’t ask) to see the pictures, but it didn’t photograph as well as it felt.
When we went through with Nicola on Saturday, I’m sure she thought that Tony wasn’t impressed. But I know the Irish. He loved it.
For £129,950 (at current rates, 1.96 to the dollar) right near beautiful downtown Sutton, you get one floor of a house. Three rooms, large bathroom, a back garden with a small patio and a garage. But each room is bigger than others we’ve seen, so the feeling is much less cramped than the flat over the hill or the refurbished Buxton Street.
I looked at wardrobes in Home Base and took their catalogue home. I measured the long, low sideboard in the British Heart Foundation furniture store to see if it would fit in the big bay window with pillows on top. I figured out where we would put the cat litter.
We called Peter the Mortgage Guy. He has applied for us to get an ‘agreement in principle.’ He thinks this company will be stupid enough to give us a mortgage.
Maybe not so stupid. Maybe we are good enough to live in Sutton.
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 3 December, 2006

2007-07-02T09:37:00.000-07:00

Location, Location, Location

Of course, the flat we had written off before visiting it turned out to be gorgeous.
So Julie arranged for me to take Tony to see it on Tuesday night.
He sees what I don’t. He sees a nick in the baseboard and I see sun streaming through windows. He sees a bit of mold in the corner and I see a deep window sill for cat sitting. We both saw that you could take the door off the tiny kitchen to give it a bit more room. And that there was no yard.
Nice entranceway, big airy living room, small #1 bedroom, even smaller #2 bedroom. However—right in Sutton. Convenient, bustling, desirable, over-priced Sutton. A block away from buses going either direction.
When we moved from two-cars-to-a-household South Florida, to public-transportation-mad Europe, we thought we would rent a place near shops and wouldn’t need a car. Doesn’t England have news agents and pubs on every corner?
We survived car-less for a year. Last Christmas we broke down and bought one so Tony wouldn’t have to wait in the cold for the two buses that get him to work.
Our Vauxhall Vectra is reliable, but husbands take cars with them to work at night. What if you’re at home and you need something and you can’t walk to the shops, or something happens and you have to go out and…
Okay. I’m paranoid. My mother never learned to drive and I live in fear of being trapped in a house where I can’t go anywhere. We need shops. And buses.
Based on our own wanderings, and suggestions from friends, we decided to expand our search to include ‘the posh part of Erdington.’
This concept is hard to explain to someone unfamiliar with ’Brum. For Pittsburghers, think ‘something nice near East Liberty.’ For South Floridians, ‘the nice part of Hallandale.’ For Dubliners...well, everything in Dublin that was rubbish is now overpriced, so there’s no comparison.
I invested in a ‘Birmingham A to Zed.’ I sat down with the weekly newspaper real estate ads and a pen. I put the ads in two piles: one with a cat on them and one without. I looked at each listing in our price range and eliminated everything that was more than two stories or looked like ‘the projects.’
In the A to Zed, we live on page 69, and the flat with the cramped bedrooms and no yard is just over the page edge. The £125-130,000 range gets you over to pages 84 and 85 in Erdington. Real houses. Two bedrooms—sometimes three if you’re way on the bottom of page 85. Two floors, big ‘bay’ windows, even a conservatory! (A typical Midlands addition. For Pittsburgh, think deck. For South Florida, think pool. For Dublin, think…conservatory.) A lot more house for the money.
This morning Tony and I packed up juice and turkey sandwiches for our three-hour drive to Leeds where I have to visit a student tomorrow. We took our A to Zed and my coded, scribbled, circled newspapers. We drove through Boldmere, across the Sutton border of Chester Road. Julie had shown me a nice modern flat there. Very busy road. More cars than buses and—no shops. Down College Road, the route my bus takes me to school. Little side streets that look better than we thought.
Then through the crap area with grey houses and old cars. We had to loop around twice to find my ‘wild card’: Built in 1655 and restored by the National Trust. But, 1 BR and right on a busy, dirty street. Down through Erdington High Street, the home of charity shops and cheap furniture. As we drove closer to the infamous Birmingham landmark, Spaghetti Junction, the prices stayed the same and the houses got bigger.
But so far from Sutton. Our lovely Sutton. Are we not good enough to live there?
We still haven’t found out if someone will be stupid enough to give us a mortgage, but Peter the Mortgage Guy is working on it.
He’s hopeful.
Fingers crossed.

Sunday, 26 November, 2006

2007-07-02T09:34:00.000-07:00

The Search Begins

Who would be stupid enough to give us a mortgage?

That is the question that came to mind whenever we gazed longingly at the pictures of the houses and flats in the estate agents’ windows.
Some day, honey. Look at that one. Gawd, that’s gorgeous. £500,000! That’s a million dollars. We sure live in a good neighborhood.
A ‘For Sale’ sign appeared three identical buildings away in our cul de sac. A mirror image of our 2BR ground floor maisonette, but with all real wood trim. Just roll our belongings down the short slope from #7 to #10.
She had recently come down to £143,000. At $1.90 to the pound and rising, over a quarter of a million dollars in ‘real’ (American) money. For a 2BR flat with a small garden, a tiny kitchen, and a wimpy synchronous shower. Which would fit inside the living room of our former Florida apartment. Welcome to the UK real estate market.
London just topped Tokyo for land prices. And we are 100 miles away in Birmingham.
Bur rent is sucker’s pay. My father sold real estate. (He’d clean up here: Not only are ‘estate agents’ not licensed, they don’t even come with you to look at the property if it is occupied.)
So we looked at that mirror-image maisonette two doors away. We decided where the TV would go and how the cats would like the view. We crunched the numbers based on using our every available asset as a down payment and mortgaging the rest. If someone was stupid enough to give us a mortgage.
About this time, we also decided that because all of our ‘After this, then we’ll…’ events were behind us, it was time to grow up and get life insurance. Think about death. Old age. Ill health. Widowhood.
The only way to approach this happy stage of life was through networking. I asked my mentor at work who passed us on to his financial adviser who passed us on to his company’s mortgage broker.
So that is why I spent this weekend looking at 2BR flats in Sutton Coldfield instead of at the writer’s conference in Norwich.
I liked Julie. After finding an exact description of our current apartment in our price range in her company’s window, I called her office. 4:30 on a Friday afternoon and Julie was there. 9:01 on Saturday morning she called back with more details. I liked Julie.
My Irish Husband Tony and I decided to take advantage of having a joint day off to drive around looking for the addresses the estate agents had supplied.
Off Boldmere Road. Good. Close to buses. But—yucch.
Wilkinson’s Close. Near to train, but not anything else. Yucch.
We made an appointment and went to see Addendock Drive. Aaah. ‘First floor’ is what Americans call the second floor, i.e., upstairs. That means you have responsibility for the roof. On the ‘ground floor’ you get direct access to the garden (read ‘yard’) and are responsible for landscaping instead.
Mr. Jones is moving in with his girlfriend and will have to give up his flat with the Star Wars games shoved into the shelving and closets. He did an admirable job of cleaning up for us. Tony hated the painted-over wallpaper. Neighborhood a bit tacky. Sorry, Mr. Jones.
I scoured the local weekly paper. Another candidate in our price range. Because it was vacant the agent arranged to meet us there. Way, way, over there. Nice neighborhood; closer to where Tony works. But…so far away from our lives. It’s easier to move from Miami to Birmingham than from Maney Hill Sutton to Walmley Sutton. Window seats; fake fireplace. Nice garden. Big living room. Crap carpet in the main bedroom. Too far from bus. Sorry, Walmley Sutton.
Yesterday we drove by the one we are scheduled to view today. Near Sutton town centre, that’s good. Near buses. Three-story building, communal entrance—feels more like an apartment than something we OWN. Street is a bit cluttered with parked cars.
This whole country is way too small for all the cars they have.
We told Julie we would look at that one at 2 pm on Sunday, today. Tony’s working, but I’ll go anyway. You never know. “Nothing is totally worthless. It can always serve as a bad example,” says my friend Mary Lou.
Fingers crossed.