The last landlords that we had in London were the inspiration behind us buying a house. Largely because they left us with nowhere to live and such a sense of skeleton-deep weariness at the indignity of renting that we went to a bank, despite feeling that surely they’d never give us a mortgage. Nobody is handing out loans to writers in this economy or, arguably, any other. Fair enough.
The landlords – a married couple in their 60s with numerous properties in the leafy suburb where we were living – sent us an eviction notice out of the blue the day that it became legal to do so once the pandemic restrictions lifted. They wanted to move their recently divorced son into the house, they said. Of course, we found it on a rental site weeks later at an increased price.
As a parting gift, they wanted to take the cost of repainting the interior out of our deposit. “The scuffs on the wall here,” they said, “are more than standard wear and tear”.
“We’ve been locked inside the house for over a year by law,” I said. “I’m showing signs of more than standard wear and tear myself.”
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A fight ensued. One for which I did not have the energy.
The landlord before that, who owned the slightly tired flat we lived in near a fashionable part of London, and which was worth millions, would come over to repair things himself and complain of his penury in a doleful voice. As though we, then two twenrysomethings without savings or family money, might be able to save him. Or at least stop telling him the heating was broken. He lived in a larger, more valuable property close by, which he also owned.
There was a used toilet brush in the bathroom on the day we moved into the flat. Disgusted, I pinched it between my gloved fingers and fired it into the bin. I bought our own, replacing it with a brand new one on the day we moved out. The landlord asked where his “antique toilet brush” was and demanded recompense from our deposit. He lost that dispute unsurprisingly. He later pursued us for 38 pence in late rent through the deposit scheme. I seriously considered putting 38 pennies into a jiffy bag and posting it to him. Penury indeed.
Every renter has these stories.
When we moved here to Australia eight months ago, we lived in an Airbnb for a few weeks while we looked for an apartment to rent longer term
Every renter is tired of the petty tug of war and the practice of calling a letting agent in a shiny polyester suit, or a baby boomer their parents’ or grandparents’ age, to ask whether, if they’re very good, they can get a puppy. Or hang a picture of their dead granny in the hall, please. They’re tired of losing chunks of their deposit to someone who feels like recarpeting the hall at someone else’s expense while they have the chance. I’ve had decent, fair landlords. They exist, certainly. But I’ve had more who are anything but, and so have most renters.
When we moved here to Australia eight months ago, we lived in an Airbnb for a few weeks while we looked for an apartment to rent longer term. For a year-and-a-half, we had enjoyed the freedom of living in a cottage in the English countryside that, in reality, we owned about 3 per cent of. It belonged to the bank really, but mortgage or not, owning is inherently more dignified. Among other things, it buys you privacy. It gives you a sense of agency. Hammer a nail into the wall if you please.
You no longer have to interact with the property in a way that seeks to minimise your presence within it.
When you hand back the keys to a rental, the ideal scenario for the agent and landlord is that there be no evidence you ever lived in it. That your presence, for however many months or years, is erased. When you own a house, you are allowed to live in it. Exhale, unpack and simply be, without worrying that the house is starting to look occupied.
Renting is not more fun in Australia.
In general, the experience of renting has so far been a lot more dignified and efficient than the process I’ve experienced at home or in various parts of the UK
It is easier, and the culture is different. Here in Canberra in the Australian Capital Territory (ACT), there is a surplus of affordable (by Dublin and London standards, anyway) rental property. It is mostly relatively newly built. The building in which we live has a communal playground and pool on the roof. It is a five-minute walk from the centre of the city and when the lift breaks, they fix it. Pets are an entitlement in rentals here. Our neighbour is a golden retriever puppy named Cowboy. His people, who did not have to be extra good to be allowed to have him, are also our neighbours. They pay his share of the rent, presumably. None of these features are unusual here.
In general, the experience of renting has so far been a lot more dignified and efficient than the process I’ve experienced at home or in various parts of the UK.
But here is a thing my Irish neck cannot wind itself around. On Friday, we have a rental inspection. Here in ACT, they are standard, conducted like clockwork every six months. Property agents, of course, like anything that justifies their client fees and landlords like them because it’s a check-in to see that all is well in the property but it is also a nice method, psychologically, of reminding a tenant to minimise evidence that they are living in the property. The right to inspect a rental property is a feature of most tenancy agreements I’ve signed in Ireland and the UK, but I’ve never been subject to one. I asked around – I don’t know anyone who has; except for living in university halls.
It felt infantilising then and it feels infantilising now.
So, on Friday, a property agent will come around with a clipboard to inspect the skirting boards for dust and to peer into the cupboards. To squint at the windows for handprints and at the walls for scuff marks. To lift the toilet seat and, presumably, give the bowl a little sniff.
There are parts of Australia where these inspections occur every three months. “Can you imagine?” I ask my friend at home. “I’d be at the front door holding a duster like a cudgel,” she replies. “Wouldn’t we all?” I think.
