Flathunting (or 'Dealbreakers' updated)

In the past week we've viewed over a dozen flats for rent, including that one with the roof terrace accessible only by ladder, and a very dark but rather chic place where Roland Gift used to live. None have so far had a laundry chute but most have satisfied our basic needs. One particular flat captured our imagination for a few days: a bright and well planned duplex with a nice little roof terrace. What I liked most of all about it is the handpainted sign at the bottom of the road:

Even if you don't love Parliament Hill Fields - and I do - who wouldn't love to live where that nice bus conductor's hand is pointing? I think it's the hand of a bus conductor. Possibly it's a Victorian Bobby. Or a stationmaster. Regardless, it's clearly an old fashioned man in charge of directions. And I like the sign a lot.

But the roof terrace wasn't super friendly for Jack, the cat I hope to reclaim (he's been sofa surfing at an old friend's since I left). After a while I suspect our neighbours might get tired of him pooing on their roof terraces. Although it was a very good flat, and we could definitely live there for a while, I didn't really get excited about it.

Then we saw a different flat a few streets away. This street has two handpainted signs at the end. Although neither of them say Parliament Hill Fields, one does, crucially, have the pointing hand I like so much.

Also, crucially (yes, I'm using the word loosely), it has a kiwi tree and apple trees in the garden. Yes, okay, NW5 kiwi fruit is more decorative than edible. Still. It has a cellar. No, I don't know what we'd use the cellar for but I like it. Apparently foxes lived there for a while when the flat was empty. The thought of that makes me shudder, but then I remember the kiwi tree and feel better. It has a lovely, cosy, exposed brick living room with lots of shelves for all our books. There's plenty of garden for Jack to roam in, and space for bikes by the (rather burglar-friendly) back gate. And a nice new shower room. More to the point, did I mention, it has a kiwi tree? And the handpainted sign at the end of the road?

As you can probably tell, I fell a little bit in love with this flat. The more practical concerns I should probably harbour have flown out of the window. Perhaps it was the very same window I first glimpsed the kiwi tree through. I did a halfhearted google for back gate security solutions but within moments was eyeing up recipes for kiwi jam.

Fortunately for us both, TLOML's sentimental side is balanced by the steely mind of a lawyer with a nose for damp, security concerns, and peculiar break clauses in contracts. So he will be making some enquiries and doing some negotiating.

The jury's still out on whether we take this flat. But my heart has already moved in. And if the flathunt continues, you can consider a kiwi tree the new dealbreaker.

The hunt for a little outside space

This is not the garden of my dreams

Convenient though our temporary accommodation is, one cannot live with cardboard boxes as a coffee table for ever. So the flat hunt continues. Fortunately the agents who told us, fairly uniformly, that 'there's nothing on the market' were dead wrong. We've seen ten flats in the last few days.

We haven't yet found the perfect place though. Most of them tick most of the boxes but none tick all. We are learning quickly that the key here is to define those boxes extremely tightly. Give an estate agent some wiggle room and he'll bust out a war dance all over your boundaries.

Take, for example, our request for outside space. I soon learned that I had to explain that we wanted direct access to that outside space. If I have to put shoes on and take my keys, it doesn't fit the bill. So that patch of grass outside the building's front door does not qualify.

This would do

What we mean by 'direct access to outside space' is somewhere we can step out onto with a cup of coffee and enjoy the fresh air. Somewhere to dry laundry. Somewhere to entertain. Allow me to illustrate:

This is the ideal

Clearly what we don't want is a garden off the bathroom. Yesterday I had to explain to an estate agent why I didn't think that was ideal for entertaining. Or even for just the two of us. I just can't see us trooping through the bathroom with playing cards, and a couple of beers, whenever we want to chill out in the great outdoors.
Furthest from meeting our outside space needs was the flat TLOML and I saw a couple of days ago. It was a pretty grotty flat but we were intrigued by the promised roof terrace with stunning views, so we asked to see it anyway.

The landlord, without a trace of embarrassment, hoisted a ladder out from behind the sofa, propped it up to a hatch in the 15' ceiling, and ushered us up. The views were indeed stunning. But I can't quite see me casually erecting a ladder everytime I want to drink my coffee outside.

To be fair, it does tick the box: it was outside space, and we had direct access. So now that box is being redefined. We want outside space, with direct access, and no ladders required. Wish us luck...

Slim pickings

Apologies to regular readers for the extended absence. Big Corp UK welcomed me back to the country with open arms, a number of face-to-face meetings, and a lot of time consuming urgent pieces of work. It was not quite the soft landing I was hoping for. Dentist appointments were cancelled, alarm clocks were set for rude o'clock, and my plans to spend my days mooching around North London looking at flats - and my evenings writing jolly posts about it - were shattered.

TLOML and I did at least make a bit of a start on our flat hunt. We started with the estate agents in Kentish Town, who cover Dartmouth Park, where I most want to live. The red dots on this map show our route, from one end of the high street to the other:

We visited 8 estate agents, with our very reasonable set of requirements (2-3 bedrooms, outside space) and what we have been told is a good budget. There are, apparently, only two flats in all of Kentish Town that meet our spec. Just two. Imagine if I'd told them about TLOML's dreams of two bathrooms and a wine cellar: we'd have been laughed out of town.

Apparently 'when people move into this area, they never leave'. As a long standing fan of NW5 I can understand that inclination. But at the same time, it just can't actually be true, surely? Literally, no one ever moves? No young family ever decides to stop renting 3 bedrooms in NW5 and buy 4 bedrooms in N19? No old lady decides to give up her period garden flat for a new build with a balcony? No one ever dies? (Not that I'm wishing anyone dead. But give it time... I could go there).

Welcome to the neighbourhood where no-one ever moves. Which rather begs the question: if no-one ever moves how come there are so many estate agents?