The Flat

Writing Group "homework" task: "Write about something you bought..."

I thought I would scream if I heard that comment once more:

“When you see it, you’ll just know it!”

Aye right. What hippy-dippy crap was that. I had no time for it: all I knew was that I was trying to do the virtually impossible. I was trying to find an affordable property in Edinburgh.

I’m not a naïve person generally: I tend to expect the worst and keep my feet on the ground. However, I somehow had believed (or had been led to believe by my friendly financial adviser…) that I could buy a flat in Edinburgh for 60 grand. Yup, I remember thinking: that’ll be enough to get a one bedroom flat.

I was fully aware that Edinburgh property prices were a bit mad – after all, it’s a well-known fact that at every opportunity, young professionals’ conversations meander towards this topic. It simple can’t be helped. Trust me: the next time you’re out with a group of late 20 / 30-somethings, take note of how long before the subject of property prices rears its ugly head. It’s a weird phenomenon of Edinburgh life.

Anyway, in my defence, this was back in 2002, when property prices were fairly mental, but not exactly as freakish as they are now, four years later. And I had been working as a teacher for three years and was earning what I thought to be a fair enough salary. People younger than me do it – they get mortgages – so why shouldn’t I manage it? My lovely little rented flat was being sold from under me – and my landlady was asking just too much for my budget – so I knew I’d have to move at some point: why not to a place that I had bought for myself, instead of lining the pockets of another rental company?

(A little aside here, to explain how ANNOYING it is when someone uses that argument for buying your own flat. “You know, you’re much better off buying than renting. You’re just throwing money down the drain!” The people who share this advice with you (almost without exception being older people who live in bloody Trinity or the New Town or the Grange, and have owned their flat since the year dot when it was actually possible to buy there without selling your first born son and a number of limbs; or rich young types who have a relative who’s delighted to be their mortgage guarantor…) have clearly never had to try and buy in Edinburgh with no savings, no help from relations and a job that pays 20 grand a year. Yes, of COURSE it’s “better” to buy your own flat – but it isn’t always that simple. And people who assume that it is really piss me off…)

So, with my unusual optimism in place, I had emerged from the financial adviser’s office ready to find my dream home. Well, perhaps not dream home: but a one bedroom flat in the Leith area.

The search started well. I loved the first place I saw. Yeah, sure, it was right next to a chippy and the exterior was colourfully decorated with a few patches of graffiti, but look at the kitchen! And all that storage! And I’m sure I’d get used to the bus stop right outside.

I was convinced this was the one. Even after the survey came back that it would cost one and a half grand to damp-proof the place. Undeterred, my offer went in, and I was quietly hopeful.

First rejection phonecall from the lawyer: “You missed it by a few thousand, hen!”

My lawyer. A peculiar woman, who wore a head set – a la Madonna on stage at Wembley Arena, but maybe not quite so apt in a small office on Leith Walk – and referred lovingly to all her clients “hen”, “darlin’” and “sweetheart”. I was hoping that her pet names hid her ruthless attention to detail and unfaltering ability to fight for any property her clients desired. After all, this was just the first set-back, and I was disappointed but undeterred.

Looking back, I know I viewed loads of properties in those three months or so, although most of them were unmemorable. I do recall the miniscule flat at Canonmills that had a small cupboard cunningly disguised as a shower-room and a bedroom in which you could barely fit a single bed if you actually wanted to be able to close the door. I also recall the beautiful top floor flat on Duke Street that had an amazing view of the city and a BOXROOM as well as the large double bedroom (!!) but already had about 14 notes of interest in place. All the others were either far too small, far too smelly, or had gone by the time I decided on asking for a survey. Not that I was being picky, you must understand: by the time I’d been flat-hunting for about 3 months, I was definitely aware that it was not going to be easy to find a flat for 60 grand. In fact, I was thinking it wouldn’t be possible at all.

And then, my hippy-dippy friend’s comment: “When you see it, you’ll just know it! You’ll find the place that’s meant for you!”

Did she have to say this every time I met her? Couldn’t she just help me forget my woes with a good bottle of shiraz? Didn’t she realise how desperate the situation was? I was now looking for ANYTHING that basically wouldn’t fall down: the idea of finding a flat that was “meant” for me, had gone right out of the window a long time back.

It must have been about the 8^th or 9^th of June 2002. I was doing the usual trawl through the ESPC website at work when I saw what looked like a possibility: Easter Road area, one bedroom, good decorative order (although I’d been fooled by that one before…), double glazing etc. The rooms looked to be a fair size. It was the area I wanted. And the clincher: fixed price for a quick sale. Worth a look, I decided.

I arrived at Albion Terrace and climbed the stairs to the third floor. Not the best stairwell I’d seen – a bit grotty and no security entrance. But I liked all the natural light coming into the close from the sky light at the top. So far, ok. The door to 3F2 was opened by a short, blonde, friendly-looking young woman, who told me to have a look around. Living room: good size. No separate kitchen – just a wee alcove thingie – but quite a big room nonetheless. Bathroom – I remember liking the shower rail and noticing again that it was quite a nice size - especially after all the cupboard-sized shower-rooms I’d seen lately. There were quite a few people looking around too: the owner had told me it had only just gone fixed price that day – she needed to sell quickly because she had found her next place. So, I had to wait until the bedroom had cleared a bit to have a look in there. Peach walls – yuck – but wow – how much storage?? And lovely bright sunshine streaming in through the (double glazed) windows. I wouldn’t have the bed there. I would have my bookcase there…

And that’s when it hit me. With all the flats I had viewed, it was the only place that I completely and utterly without a shadow of a doubt could see myself living in. I just knew it. I can’t explain it – I’m not a believer in all that “fate” nonsense - but I just knew. I just knew that this was my home.

I could see all the other people who were viewing the flat, all looking impressed too. I vaguely remember telling the owner it was exactly what I wanted and I would call my lawyer. By this time, it was twenty to six. I dug out my mobile, shaking with excitement, mentally begging her still to be at her desk. She was. I couldn’t believe my luck. I splurged out all of the details and I could picture her, complete with her head set, hammering them into her keyboard.

“I’ll get it to them right now, sweetheart – I’ll be on their desk first thing in the morning!”

When I got the phonecall the next morning – “I’m just calling to say you’ve bought a flat, darlin’!” – I was obviously delighted. More so when I was told that there had been 4 offers on the selling solicitor’s desk that morning – but because mine had been received the evening before, it was at the top of the pile. I have a lot to thank that mad lawyer for.

And now, 4 years on, I know I did the right thing. Yes, I still haven’t redecorated and yes, it’s freezing in the winter cos I can’t afford to put central heating in yet and yes, the football crowds can be a pain in the ass. But, the hippy-dippy in me knows that this place was meant for me. And, best of all, I did it on my own.