A feeling of foreboding has been stalking me for the last couple of days. I'm not entirely sure what it is, but I have my suspicions: life's equilibrium. Given how much good luck I've had in the past week or two, I am now expecting the balance to restore itself by slapping me smartly about the face.
Admittedly, there have been some unpleasant events in the same period that I haven't bothered mentioning here - another Psycho financial nightmare and a suicide attempt by a friend, to mention but two - but I don't really see those as balancing the good stuff. Bizarre as it may sound, those are just everyday events in my life.
The 'good' that needs to be balanced is the new apartment and the appearance of 'Cashier Girlie' (as Scary Ross is wont to call her). These are exceptional events with perfect timing and will require some serious shit to hit for things to be centred.
Of course, the first thing I expect to happen is my brutal rejection by Cashier Girlie. She hasn't called, despite my leaving her a couple of messages. Ah, well. Can't say I expected anything different.
¹ Which has little to do with the excellent film of the same name.
As they say, time and tide wait for no man. Since I'm several hundred miles from the nearest visible tidal effects, it's easier to notice time not waiting: five days have passed since my last entry and I hardly noticed them. So what's new?
Well, my house-owning obsession continues unabated: I've now received the duly-signed compromis (promise of sale, basically) from the agency which means both the sellers and myself are now under contract to continue the process. This is good. I also dropped in on the bank yesterday and sorted out the actual mortgage - the interest rate went up by 0.1% in the last two weeks, which is annoying, but the young lady there offered me a good rate anyway, so that's sorted, too.
Admittedly, the loan is going to cost me a touch more than I expected. This is annoying, particularly since I have a large wedge of cash that will be freed up after the sale that I could have used to drop payments a bit. Grrrr. Ah, well: I figure I shall use it for repairs and, assuming there is some left, invest it sensibly so that it earns me enough to pay off a bit of the mortgage later on, or something.
I've also completed the paperwork for the Prêt 1%. I can't remember if I mentioned this before, but it's a special loan that comes from the company: enforced by those lovely income-munching socialist-tax-people, it's a nice chunk of money that is offered at 1% interest (actually 1.9% when it's over 15 years). So I get over 15,000 Euros from them, can pay it back at some stupidly low rate and won't have to touch the shares I have in the US. Love it. The paperwork goes off today.
The next thing to consider is any changes once the place is mine at the end of April. The lounge is nice, but I'm not sure if I like the colour of the walls. It's a bit too blue, although that might be the photo, of course. The wooden floor stays - it's easy to clean and looks nice. Strangely, most places don't have curtains in Paris: personally, I don't really care if people look in my living room. It's not as if I'm doing anything interesting. I shall probably grab some curtains anyway, but will have to decide on colour. Dark blue is possible, or white, I suppose. I'm crap with colours.
The bedroom is in serious need of a floor-change. I don't know what's under that linoleum stuff, but if it isn't a nice wooden floor, I think carpet will be in order. I might do that anyway - it's always nice to step out of bed onto a soft, relatively warm surface rather than a hard, freezing cold thing. Since I'll be tearing down a wall and usurping part of the bedroom to install a bath, that shouldn't be a big problem.
The kitchen's going to need the most planning. It's long and thin (oo-er) and I want to put a large fridge, a washing machine, microwave and a couple of other bits in there. Thankfully, I don't need to use it as an eating space, so a single small table can act as a worktop, although I might put up some kind of wide shelf or folding wall-table-thingummy instead. Cupboard space is limited, but I can always steal a corner of the lounge for that. The floor is OK.
I'm obviously going to need to put my thinking cap on, if I can find it.
In other news, I got the cashier lady's name and phone number this weekend. Unfortunately, her writing is very French (i.e. unreadable) so I'm having trouble deciphering it all, particularly the numbers. Provided I can figure it out, I'm thinking of phoning tomorrow and seeing if she's up for an evening out with a deranged foreigner. That'd be me, by the way.
At last, a good night's sleep. With the stress of house-hunting lifted and the disturbingly large cheque handed over to the estate agent, I have finally been able to sleep normally again. One less thing to worry about, at least for the moment.
I also contacted Psycho's brother yesterday, since he used to run a team of builders and is good at construction stuff himself. He's going to be jolly kind and rebuild the bathroom for me, put in some new electrical sockets and hopefully also plumb in a washing machine. Excellent.
Now all I have to do is sort out the actual funding: of course, the bank wants details of the company 1% loan before they'll finalise anything... and the company wants details of the bank mortgage before they'll finalise details of the loan! Graaaah!
Have I attained house-buying obsession level yet?
I think I've found my new home. Yesterday afternoon, Psycho and I went to look at a couple of apartments in the area, with the director of an agency I visited at the end of last week.
The two places were the same size (27m² living space) and in the same price range. The first was a deux pièces (two rooms, plus bathroom and kitchen) while the second was a studio (one room, plus bathroom and kitchen). Both are in the right area, so I wouldn't be leaving this lovely little community.
I'll start with the second one, which I totally forgot to photograph (slapped wrists for that!). First impressions of the building were that it's a bit flaky: occasional crumbly bits on walls, but nothing drastic. The entry and staircase were really cool, as it had those 'overview' spots where you can stand leaning on a little wall and look down the stairs. Pointless, yes, but pretty. Walking up to the second floor, I was amused to see the 'studenty' nature of the place: one door with a Tiananmen Square poster stuck on it, another with surf bum stickers and so on.
The apartment itself had a really crappy door that would need replacing. The entry was neat and the kitchen gorgeous, complete with fitted cupboards, worktop and everything. Nicely lit through a big window, too. Unfortunately, both the loo and the shower were extremely small: the shower was literally cupboard-sized. This place cost more than the first, because the French consider a kitchen more important than a bathroom. Not I.
The main room was lovely, it has to be said, if a little dark. The small window looked out onto greenery and it was quiet enough. Plenty of shelf-space built in and, of course, a nice big area to put a sofa-bed in and use as a living room.
On the downside, I'd want to rip out the kitchen - which would be a shame since it was so nice - and put that into the corner of the kitchen/bathroom area (or even in the main room). I'd knock down the little wall dividing that area from the bathroom and expand that to hold a bath and so on. That's a lot of work and could be quite expensive, in addition to the already-more-expensive flat.
The first, the deux pièces, on the other hand was beautiful. It's on a fairly quiet road next to the same main road as where I am now. It's nicely arranged, too, so there's no space wasted. Looking at the numbered plan that I threw together this morning, the main living room (photo from point 1) has two windows (plenty of light) that face the street, is spacious and even has a fireplace!
The kitchen (photo taken from point 2) is presumably what drops the price for this place: it's pretty small and useless for most people, but fine for me. It looks very much like a converted entryway, to be honest. The bedroom is also pretty large and has a single window facing nosy neighbours. Curtains are in order, I think.
For this one, I'd want to make the bathroom larger by knocking down part of the wall between there and the bedroom, expanding the shower area to make it big enough to put a bath in. That's about all that would need changing, apart from potential kitchen upgrades. Easy peasy!
Consequently, last night, I contacted the agency and put in an offer on the place. The guy had suggested that the owners might take a slightly lower price than advertised, so I made an appropriate cut and sent in my official bid.
This morning I have nearly drowned in a flood of good news: the 1% loan I was hoping would pay a part of the legal fees turned out to be more than twice as big as I expected, my offer on the apartment was accepted and it turns out the agency fees are already included in that price! Amazing!
I sign the papers to set everything in motion tomorrow... wooooo!
I haven't slept properly for about a week. With the additional stress of house-hunting, I've been waking up every day before the alarm goes off, sleeping badly in general and having weird dreams (last night's involved sleeping in a bed in a car park, for instance). This morning, I am about as awake as a hedgehog in winter.
The situation is exacerbated by yesterday evening's trip out to a very nice restaurant. February 15th is, you see, the anniversary of the day Psycho and I first met, so we 'celebrate' it. I put that in quotes because, sometimes, I wonder if it's a celebration of our meeting or a moratorium for my life as an expression of free will.
Anyway, whatever else it is, it remains a good excuse to go and spend disproportionately large quantities of cash on remarkably well-prepared food. We always go back to our favourite posh restaurant for this anniversary - Le Bistrot de Papa, a stone's throw from the Eiffel Tower. Of course, this means that I ate far too much and got to bed late.
As I said: a hedgehog in winter.
Yesterday was interesting. Having spoken to Psycho in the morning, as you could probably tell from the post, I was in a bad mood throughout the day. Even so, I furthered my research into plans for getting free or cheap money for the apartment. Here in France, there are lots of additional aids for house-buyers and particularly for those planning on buying a résidence principale: the socialist government that was in office until the last election ensured that all those taxes go to some neat plans to help out. Amongst these are low-interest loans, a fund via the company, reduced taxes and so on. Things are looking hopeful for the deposit and personal part of the overall payment! Next visit is on Saturday, to a place that looks and sounds nice from the plans.
After work, I was still in a bad mood. As usual, I headed over to Psycho's place, but with the intention of thrashing things out. It struck me as odd that I was still angry: that's very unlike me and very unusual for our relationship. We talk, we discuss, we understand... we always have. To be in a bad mood for things I cannot express is wrong, so I figured on talking it out and seeing why the situation had degenerated so far.
Taking the tack that it was purely for discussion and swallowing my anger for the time being, I broached the subject with her. The fact that she treats me like a slave, that she won't get off her (very attractive) arse, that she'll guilt-trip me into doing everything for her and so on - everything. The result is both surprising and, at the same time, entirely what I expected: it's sorted out.
What it comes down to is that I have difficulty in saying 'no' to requests for help. This has always been a problem and is something I'm trying to change without becoming a totally self-serving bastard. Anger ensues when I am trapped by the guilt-trips (my father was very religious, so you can see where that comes from!). Upon hearing her side of things, I had a sudden epiphany...
It's just as hard to have someone answer 'no' to your request as it is to do the answering. I'd never thought of it like that. All is well with the world because I finally understand.
That's what Psycho needs. I'm starting to really get pissed off with the way she treats me. Depression or no depression, I deserve better than this.
So there.
P.S. No apartment visits yet... photos as and when.
Another two-day period that flies by almost unnoticed. Why are weekends so short? I mean, during the week I look at the time and it's, for example, 2 p.m. When I look again, it's 3:30. At the weekend, I look once and it's Saturday morning. I look again and it's Sunday evening. That's just not fair.
After the spate of agency visits, I intended to bum around for the rest of the weekend. I had a whole load of TV series and things to watch, an excellent game to play˚ and very few obligations to fulfill.
Saturday afternoon, however, is also food-shopping-time. Since Psycho has an anomaly in her back that prevents her from carrying too much, I pick up the heavy shopping for her - bottles of fruit juice, cat litter and tinned food are all on my list. It's a pain in the arse, to be honest, but since I'm usually headed down to her place for a game of Listen To The Depressive™, I figure I might as well do it as add another thing to her list of official whines¹.
My local FranPrix is large: it's a supermarket chain that's well known here and carries just about everything. It's not as huge as an out-of-town place, of course, but for a shop in the middle of a busy area, it's excellent. Since I'm a regular there, I know most of the people now: the lady who sells L'Itinérant², all the cashiers, the guy who runs the place and the chaps who run the obligatory shoe-repair-and-key-cutting stand at the entrance.
At the moment, there's a young lady working there who's very pleasant. She seems smart, is attractive and has a lovely smile. Obviously, I gravitate towards her queue when it comes to check-out, and chat a little as she shoves boxes of cat food at me. She's at university, studying political science, working and just had her mid-term exams. So we're chatting and she mentions that she gets to study a language next term: German, Spanish or English. She thinks she might take English. Obviously, I suggested that, should she have any problems in my native tongue, she would know who to ask.
And that's where things got a little weird. After I had signed the cheque and packaged everything up, she asked me for my phone number. That's never happened to me before.
So, the way I figure it, this is either not what I'm hoping it is³ or Ragnarok is upon us. Prepare yourselves for the end of the world. Exits are to the front and rear. Please follow the floor-lights to the nearest doorway, where a crew member will throw you into the Abyss. Thank you for your cooperation.
˚ Dominions 2, a strategy game. It looks a bit outdated and has a difficult learning curve, but it's massively underrated by far too many people. My friend in Australia very generously bought it for me... thanks, Andy!
¹ Although some would call me a cynic, I am certain that Psycho actually does maintain a list of official whines. Items are added once the list becomes too small for her to complain at least 80% of the time and are only removed once someone else has been manipulated into taking responsibility for - and dealing with - the situation in her stead. Said list, by the way, is as long as both my arms put end to end, with a few (thousand) centimetres added for good measure.
² L'Itinérant is the magazine of the homeless here in Paris. Much like The Big Issue in the UK, it's intended to help provide a little extra income for people and help motivate them back into becoming an active part of society. My local saleslady is Romanian and very pleasant. She has a pretty daughter, too. Not that I notice these things, of course. Nope, not at all.
³ I'm not entirely sure what I'm hoping for. On the one hand, it'd be nice to hang out with someone, to have a smart, attractive young lady around who thinks I'm the cat's pyjamas. On the other hand, it scares the willies out of me and seems incredibly unlikely.
This morning, I went out visiting estate agencies. I'm now registered with half a dozen, each of which is very different. It still amazes me how, in France, companies can be so different - nice, mean, distracted... no two are the same. Let me recount...
Firstly there was Era Immobilier¹. They're only a few moments' walk from where I live and the agency is run by two guys. Utter crap. The person I spoke to was disinterested and unhelpful. He took my details but couldn't even be bothered to give me a business card. I don't foresee much coming from them. Their loss.
Next, I dropped in on S.T.I., which was much better. The young lady took my details and walked through several variations on the theme: how the officially measured size can be a little misleading, whether I was prepared for some repair work and so on. They have my details and I have theirs. This one sounds more helpful.
Thirdly, I went over to the 'other side of the tracks': I live next to a main road which separates two areas of what one might call different classes. That is, where I am people are relatively normal. They have small businesses, they're pleasant and have a sense of community. It's rare for me to walk the length of the road without saying hello to at least three or four people. Over the other side things are more bourgeois.
I dropped in on two agencies over there: Clair and Aubigny. The first was run by a lady who was quite cold at first, but soon warmed up once we got chatting. She took a lot of details about the sort of place I'm looking for and we exchanged contact information. Another hopeful.
Finally, Aubigny agency was the one for which I held the least hope. The window display contained almost exclusively apartments worth several hundreds of thousands of Euros/dollars and the lady who runs the place with her husband came across as a serious snob. However, I was in for a very pleasant surprise once all the discussion of details was finished. She chuckled to herself when I asked specifically for flats on my side of the main road. Apparently, she was very pleased that I'm not "one of those snobby types who wants a beautiful apartment in the right area with stupid criteria"! Excellent.
Once again, I am also proving to be a good client. The mortgage is agreed at the bank, I know what I'm looking for and where, I know the process and have the money ready for legal fees, I will accept places that need work and repairs, I don't have stupid criteria and I'll look at any place once.
I also picked up my digital camera from Psycho's place last night. Jackie had the excellent idea of taking photos of the places I visit (unless the current inhabitants have a problem with that, of course!) and posting them. That'll make for an excellent visual record for later reference! Thanks, milady.
So now it's a case of waiting and visiting. Fingers crossed.
¹ Immobilier is basically 'real estate' in French.
Yesterday was a pretty big day for me, all things considered: with an appointment at the bank in the morning and some agencies to chat to in the afternoon, I was hoping real-life matters would be a lot clearer. In addition, Thursday is "my" day: I don't see Psycho, I have pizza delivered and sit watching bad films or playing silly games all evening.
The lady at the bank was excellent. Thankfully she was quite young - no offense to older financial advisors, but they tend not to have a clue where I'm coming from - and took the time to explain everything in detail. I now have a much better grip on the whole process of buying an apartment than I did two days ago! She also ran through a bunch of simulations to show how much money I can borrow: by changing lower and upper limits, varying amounts per month and so on, she gave me a very good idea of the size of place for which I can go hunting.
It looks like it'll be me that moves, too. The more I think about it, the more I'd rather move into my own place that actually belongs to me than have Psycho in there and be her landlord. She seems happy about that, too, since she'd get my old place (big) and leave behind her current apartment (small and shoddy).
Speaking of Psycho, she continues to try to throw a spanner in the works without realising it. Her questioning goes on (and on) and she persists in inquiring in areas for which I have no detail and no answer: it's quite enlightening to watch the way her brain desperately seeks worries, switching away from the places where there is reassuring information as soon as it arrives. Last night, she once again raised the question of going back to university, presumably since this would cause more concern.
Anyway, I decided I should sit down and budget for some of this upcoming change. The first thing to do was, of course, to catch up on my accounts - entering six months of statement info is no fun, but at least the program (Quicken 2004) can produce an automatic analysis and budget once the data is there. That resulted in both good and bad news...
The good news is that I could afford to continue living as I am, should I need to: that is, I could still pay Psycho's rent and the mortgage on a new place, afford to eat and not be too worried about matters. OK, so it'd cut things very close and rely on my yearly bonus to work properly, but it's possible.
The bad news is manifold. Firstly, I don't really want to continue living like that. I was, to be honest, shocked to see how much money I have given to Psycho in the last year. Without even counting the rent and food, I've effectively paid her a part-time salary. That's just scary. Secondly, I can't afford to pay for her to go back to university. That is, of course, only bad news for her: there's absolutely no reason why I should pay. Thirdly and most importantly - and as a direct result of the previous two items - I will have to tell her that I can no longer afford to support her like that and that she needs to get a job or cut down on her Pointless Frivolity™ spending. Fast.
Why is that bad news? Because I'll have to put up with her instant mutation into Princess Whiny.
If any of you out there are role-playing geeks, that title will make you think of Dungeons & Dragons. If you had been me on Sunday night, the title has an entirely different meaning: I actually set fire to myself by accident. While refilling a Zippo lighter, I managed to get my hands pretty much soaked in fluid and, although I'm usually careful about that, I didn't notice. So, when I lit up to check that there was enough fluid in the lighter... my hands went up in flames.
Thankfully, lighter fluid burns fast and hot and evaporates at the same time (sort of like ether, in a way), so unless there's a lot of it, it'll burn off before doing any serious damage. Fire is not something that panics me, either, so I was able to deal with the problem quickly: one thumb and one finger were lightly burnt, but that's all. I left them bandaged for a day and they're fine now... and that's why I've been away for a wee while.
So what else has been going on? Quite a lot, actually.
When not setting myself on fire, I've mostly been concerned with the whole flat-hunting thing. I've booked a meeting with the bank tomorrow morning at 10:00, after which I should know how much money I have available and, consequently, how big a place I can look for. Let's hope that the bank is as cool with me as they usually are: I've been a good client, never let them down (well, not too badly) and earn a regular salary. The advisor I'll be meeting is female, so I could also use my devastating charm on her... or not, if I actually want them to lend me money!
Psycho's also been busy. She's spoken to a couple of agencies and we went to look at a place on Monday night. It was about the right size and only a little overpriced, but the main problems were the bathroom being the size of a closet and the fact that all the windows faced a brick wall. The guy showing us around was also a laugh and very helpful - if a little anal - when it came to answering my questions.
Mostly, I wanted to get some idea of how much a place like that would cost per month on a mortgage. He said that it's not possible to know: the bank starts with how much one earns and how much one wishes to borrow, then works back to the sum per month. No matter how many times I tried to get some idea of the price, he was adamant that the calculation doesn't work that way round. One-way maths. Now, there's something I've never heard of before. D'oh.
The different options open to me are also becoming clearer. A bit of research on the web on Monday evening provided a better idea of the amount I should be able to borrow (despite there being a distinct lack of detail on the rates of interest everywhere I looked!) and how long I would need to borrow it for. No surprises there: more than I thought, for longer than expected. At least it's a relatively solid investment.
I'm also considering the option of buying a smaller place and moving into it myself. There's a lot to be said for living somewhere that belongs to you, as opposed to squatting in someone else's space. Psycho and I discussed the different variations yesterday, in fact: where I am right now is a great place, but I can't afford to buy it¹. The rent is incredibly low, considering the size of the place. Psycho's place is also lovely, but not worth buying² and expensive to rent: she has about half the space I do and costs more than two thirds as much as mine.
If I were to buy a place and move in myself, things might actually be easier. I hardly use any of my apartment: the bath, the bed, the loo, the fridge and microwave and a corner of the lounge where my computers are set up. I don't need much light (I'm a geek) and I don't care if it's calm or noisy.³ All I need is a bath (prefer them to showers), room for the PCs and a place to lay my head. Psycho, on the other hand, uses everything in her place: every last centimetre of the apartment is used for something, even if it's just walking through. She needs light and calm. She doesn't need a big bathroom.
So we also discussed the possibility of me moving into a new place and her taking my old one: I'd get a place of my own that actually belonged to me (well, the bank, but whatever) and she'd get the space she loves in familiar surroundings. My landlord is absolutely brilliant when it comes to being flexible, so he'd have no problem with her moving in. The rent would be the same as before and I'd feel like I'd actually be getting my money's worth instead of paying for the current festering hole with a crap agency who don't do anything, won't pay for any repairs and generally just take the money and run.
Hmmm. That may be the way to go.
¹ I asked the guy from the estate agency: his estimate without seeing it was in the region of 190,000€. That's about $360,000 or £200,000. Yipes.
² Despite having a balcony, good neighbours on both sides and enough room to live in, the crumbly walls, dodgy water works and schizophrenic living downstairs do not inspire confidence.
³ The exceptions to this are children and babies: I can't stand living next to people with sprogs running around screaming. It annoys the crap out of me and I would be likely to smash the wall down and slaughter the offenders.