The price is right - before the survey

HOUSE HUNTER:When a low offer is accepted everything seems to be going well – until the survey uncovers many snags, writes DON MORGAN

A ‘HEADBAND OF STRESS’ is a physical reaction to extreme stress. Not what Wonderwoman has on her head when under pressure. My wife had one, though. You’ll see why.

We went off into town after our exploration of sexy Kilmacud. I’d stay up, meet friends and hang out with my brother in the evening. My wife headed back to Kildare for some time with her folks.

This was a big step for us. We had to get that house, we told ourselves. But first of all, we had to stop reaching the agent’s voicemail.

Later, like a bad kiss on a first date, the agent called back and I made our offer. He said he’d take it to his client. It might be Monday before we would hear anything, given that we made the offer on a Saturday.

I burbled something incoherent and made for a pint in an old man boozer nearby to calm my nerves. They were shot to pieces from the anxiety of playing with money which was somehow abstract to me. But we would be in debt to move into a new home by September.

We made an offer well below the asking price, so we could take into account roughly what we thought we’d need for renovations, and so on. In the boom time, this unremarkable, slightly pokey house would have fetched the grotesque side of a million, no problem at all, and probably in cash.

Back then everyone was rich, even us ordinary folk on middling incomes. That’s why my friends moved to places like Navan and Carlow to get their foot on the property ladder.

Later that week, we finally got an answer: “You’ll want to take this call. Your offer’s been accepted.”

We couldn’t believe our luck. We got it. Three-bed suburbanness, in need of refurbishment and subject to survey. We paid the initial deposit as quickly as we could.

Additional money for renovations was going to come at a higher interest rate from the bank, so this house had to be in good condition: subject to survey were indeed the watchwords.

We were on a bizarre high. The surveyor went in and put the best face on what was going to cost us a hell of a lot: damp treatment, insulation, heating, plumbing and electrics. We would come out with at least €500,000 spent, a large portion at the higher interest rate, on a house that was as plain as day.

At the dark side of this week, we spent our time doing the type of (mental) gymnastics that Nadia Comaneci would be proud of, trying to make our ever spiralling budget work. We had to cut our offer. We didn’t want to, but we had no choice.

As things turned, so did the mood. The agent and I had a blazing row: were we acting in good faith? Of course we were, but we had to cut our offer in order to make the maths work.

Did we even have the mortgage as we said? We did, but our letter of offer was delayed, which wasn’t our fault. In between, our good faith continued to be questioned. Trust wasn’t on the menu today, only cash.

We were honest and open the whole time. We made a bid we thought that we could stand over until the estimates for essential maintenance began to pile up on us.

In the middle of all of this, my brother-in-law, who works in the building trade, had a look at the house for us again.

Were we sure that this house was what we wanted? It was a lot of money – was there the value in it?

The agent came back offering to take a cut that was half of what we wanted. I said that if he could go a little further, we could afford the house.

The agent returned, the tone getting nasty. “My client is disappointed you didn’t take his offer, he’s reducing his discount, you sign tomorrow and must close the sale by next Thursday.”

We just couldn’t. Our backs, he admitted, were being put to a wall.

I retrieved our deposit the next day. Our letter of offer was in the back of the car.