Tuesday 6 March 2018
Sun and showers 15 degrees
As a brief follow up to my previous post, neither the American nor Mr C made a real offer and neither are now replying to my emails or phone calls. How often does this happen, you may wonder. A lot is the reply. However, and to my great joy and surprise, I got a call from some 'real' people, with cash in the bank and knowing exactly what they want. Class A clients and ones to get excited about.
I made a teeny bad start by telling them the wrong exit number to leave the autoroute but, finally, we got together and the sun came out and we rolled off to see the first house. It was not one which they had chosen but they had come a long way and if they didnt like their choice, it was a good idea to get another iron in the fire. Unfortunately, the minute we got out of my car, I could tell they didnt like it. Although, for France, the house is in great condition, it is not in UK perfect condition. 'Hmmm' said the lady; doing the nervous chicken movement. What is this, you ask? Stand at the entrance to a room, dont actually put your feet into it, and crane your neck around the door. We were not there very long and the sun had already started to drop behind the horizon. I suggested an apéro. They relaxed considerably, we had a long chat, and tomorrow was another day.
The house they had chosen is in a high valley and surrounded by rolling hills and, in theory, wonderful views of the Pyrénées. How often do the mountains appear and thrill my buyers, I hear you ask? Never. I have yet, in 14 years of real estate, to sell a house with wonderful views, when you can actually see the dratted things. As per usual, they were hiding behind a heat haze. The people were enchanted by the house and then left to view with other agents. I said if they were really serious about it and DEFINITELY going to offer, I would come back with them on Sunday. They said yes and I left and felt rather excited.
On Sunday it was another three hours but, later on that day, they offered and I got them and the owner signed up hasta pronto and all papers off to the notaire within a day. Just as well, because another agent had someone interested and ready to offer. My buyers didnt say a lot about the other houses they had seen, other than one of them was so bad, they would need counselling to get the images out of their heads. Poor, S, she had taken them right down into the mountains. She must have done nearly 200k with them.
Another case has been grinding on since last Summer. The owner lives in the USA and is very advanced in years and also in fragile health and if he dies before we complete, it will be an administrative nightmare. The notaires never ring one another up but rely on email and waiting about a week before replying. The buyer is very frustrated. First off, he was promised a loan by a French bank who then said, actually.... no, after four months so he then had to get a loan back in the country where he lives and Christmas and New Year got in the way and, for a country which is supposed to be very efficient and well organised, it has taken a LONG time and now he has decided to buy via a company so that is another baton in the proverbial wheel. I am sick of it. I just want to get paid and file this one.
And, speaking of administrative treacle....
When we came to France, we thought that it was difficult to get things done but France has nothing on Spain. OH has been cracking on with great speed on the renovation of our house and so I relented and agreed that we could have a little weekend break. He works better with the thought of time off to motivate him. Yes, I know we had six weeks off over Christmas and he has been doing the renovation for the last 18 months, but the end is finally in sight. So we rolled off to Asturias and to Gijon, which is a city on the sea and most enjoyable.
It was on the journey over that he realised that he hadnt sent his brother a birthday card. It became my job to obtain said card and a stamp. There was a huge post office opposite the hotel so I 'popped' in for a stamp.
The marble steps led to a door which wouldnt open til I had taken a ticket - the sort you take when waiting for an appointment. Having obtained entrance into the vast marble hall, I was confronted by a semi-circular room with double height ceiling and eight booths, only three of which were occupied. A number bonged and it corresponded to my ticket. I approached the booth and asked for a 'timbre pour Inglaterra'. This caused great consternation and I was sent to another booth. 'Un sello pour Inglaterra? Un solo?'. 'Si'. The woman got out a book of stamps and found that the stamps for the Uk were only sold in groups of four and I would have to pay 5.40 euros. 'Un sello' I insisted 'un solo, y no quatro. No me necessita quatro'. The woman frowned in such a way as to show she was greatly painted at what I was doing to her language. She sent me to another booth. The man took one of the stamps out of the packet and sold it to me. The women tutted. 'Revuelta' I shouted happily, thinking it meant I would be back but actually is a scrambled egg dish.
The card was easier to find in a shop called Tiger which is Danish and just stuffed full of unnecessary plastic objects which you never knew you just had to have. Two cards for a euro. My normal strategy is to buy the most bizarre card possible. I chose one with a yellow fox saying 'baaamm!!' and wrote and addressed it and stuck on the stamp. Alas, the massive post office had no post box in sight, so it was back up the marble steps. I threw caution to the winds and ran in with another client on his ticket. The man who had sold me the ticket looked surprised to see me again. I showed him my envelope and he weighed it. I was momentarily traumatised. What if it were too heavy? How on earth would they manage to sell me a stamp to make up the difference. Fortunately it was under 20 grams.
The man studied the envelope SHEE FEH ELD? He bellowed? Sheffield, I affirmed. INGLATERRA. Si!! He shrugged and shoved it in a box. Will it ever arrive in the North? A suivre....
We had a rest and then OH went out to 'discover' good bars whilst I enjoyed a deep bath and lots of bubbles. I then had to go out and find him. This often takes a long time because he is dyslexic and I have no sense of direction. It can take up to an hour for us to find a place he can spell and one I can find. I got to the appointed bar and lurked outside. Couples were walking past and the rain was lashing down. OH rang and said he was in a bar where the owner was being hypnotised and the hypnotist was also bending spoons like Yuri Geller and could I come there instead. He couldnt tell me where it was and rang off. I tried to ring back and got number unobtainable. He rang back
'what is wrong with your phone? I cant get through'
'I accidentally put it on emergency mode so it wouldnt ring when the guy was being hypnotised, and now I cant switch it off. Come to this bar, I will ask the lady where it is'. Mad cackling and the line went dead. I went into the bar and ordered a G and T. The phone rang again. 'Get a taxi' I bellowed over the din ' tell them the Taj Mahal'. The gin was very nice and I had just about finished it when OH turned up. He was hoarse. He had a gin too and then we went out to refind the bar with the Yuri Geller hypnotist. He had absolutely no idea where it was but suddenly, it appeared and we went in.
It was heaving and a party was in full swing and we were there til three am during which time we agreed to go and see the owners in Minorca and no one frowned at our terrible Spanish and we drank a lot of wine. I am not quite sure how we got back to the hotel but I suspect, many brain cells died that night. My Samsung told me that I had done 26000 steps which is nearly 18 kms.
The next day we took it easier and strolled around the prom and found a wonderful seafood restaurant serving chipirones (baby squid) which were absolutely to die for. My shins were killing me. Felt I needed to go home and sit down for a week.
