It seems the path to the dream home has many hurdles to cross, with descriptions ranging from the optimistic to downright invention.
IN popularity surveys of those most trusted, journalists are pretty much near the bottom of the pile.
They alternate with the real estate agents and car dealers for the top position in the most hated list by the general public.
Considering I work with, work for and am advertised with by a fair few of the people in these categories I feel I have to tread carefully in the next 500 or so words.
Cars are always highly sought after if you are buying them, or not in much demand if you are selling. It’s the way of the world.
If a journo phones you, there’s no story if all is going well, he or she wants to find the ‘angle’ which will excite the reader, and real estate agents... well they fit into a world of their own.
To be fair vendors seem to have an unrealistic view of the beauty of their home. The value can raise by $100,000 if you can see a glimpse of a mountain or the ocean.
Believe me, I reckon I am a bit of an expert in the property hunting field.
Been seriously looking for years.
I just won’t part with the hard earned for other people’s junk.
I fit into the lifestyle block category. You can read into this that the farmer thinks: “Here comes a mug from Melbourne, I’ll carve off my worst 40 hectares and sell it full of weeds.”
One recent block had five types of noxious weeds I could identify. No grass.
The sales agent just agreed, saying one person viewing had liked the pretty mauve flowers.
This flower is better known as Paterson’s Curse (Echium plantagineum) and is toxic to most grazing animals. Kind of rules out the idea of a few cattle and sheep.
That and lack of a fence on the road boundary made this out of the question.
One game real estate agent showed me a “farmhouse in original condition” recently. Luckily the long-suffering Mrs Kendall had the happy retort: “Is petrol included?”
This same property offered a sandstone cellar under the original sandstone building.
I’d already decided the place was not for me, but looked anyway.
The cellar was full to ground level with water. Not a puddle, but a pool.
Needless to say, it didn’t take my fancy.
One property we looked as was lived in by a single man.
As we entered, the real estate salesmen mentioned it needed minor improvements, quick as a flash Mrs K suggested a match.
Her return to the all-cleansing idea of fire could have been prompted by the pair of dirty jocks on the bedroom floor.
The real estate agents who know Mrs K best don’t give her the soft sell approach.
They say it how it is.
Her honesty has me cringing in embarrassment on house visits.
I walk from room to room waiting for the next comment.
Perhaps our most outstanding visit to a property was one of omission rather than exaggeration.
The house was fine, if a little tatty, the vintage buildings were fixable, the new shed was large and very useful and there was electricity to all buildings.
The real estate agent had forgotten to mention the high tension electricity pylons stepping across the land. One-hundred metre high monoliths carrying 22,000 volts within metres of the shed.
“Is that buzzing the pylons?” Mrs K asked.
“No, No,” the agent replied. “It’s the shed lights.”
As we left the building we turned off the lights, the buzzing, of course, continued, bringing a whole new meaning to power on the property.
Meanwhile, my search continues...
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