Keys - 8th May 2009

In August 2008 my partner, Marianna, and I moved to Coventry. That’s not a nice sentence. Twelve years in a high security prison would be a nicer sentence. However, we went to Coventry for really good reasons. After several years of applications, interviews, rejection and disappointment Marianna’s brilliance had finally been recognised and she got a place on a Phd in Clinical Psychology course. In Coventry. I’d only been there once before. In 1999 when working for The Prison Service I’d been to Coventry on a training course, picked up some sort of stomach bug and spent a night with my head down the toilet. That was actually a highlight of a poor course. We were sad to leave Hull after two and half years. It may have a bad reputation but we both grew really fond of the place and it's distinctive character.


Our plan was to rent somewhere to live for six months, get to know the city and then buy somewhere. One day we drove the 140 miles from Hull, viewed four properties; two slums, one just too small and the one we said yes to. 24 hours after moving in, some weeks later, we went on holiday to Egypt for two weeks, leaving the house in complete chaos. After a month or so in Coventry we began house hunting. It became a hobby. That’s what we did with our weekends; house viewings. Dozens of them. After a while we began to specialise in the homes of the recently deceased. They have often left many of the houses original features intact and won’t have ruined it with their idea of good taste. We weren’t befriending particularly ill people or scanning obituary columns but we’d given up on every other type of house. I was also aware that the house was now in the hands of a grieving relative who might be open to a cheeky offer well below the asking price. In the end all of the houses had the same thing wrong with them; they were in Coventry. There isn’t really anything wrong with Coventry. I’ve been to Blackburn, Grimsby, Mansfield and Grays where the locals look like extras from a zombie movie but Coventry just seemed bland and unremarkable. It wasn’t the best band in the world on the main stage at the festival and it wasn’t even using the portaloo. It was queueing for the Portaloo. We narrowed our search to the nicest bit of Coventry; Earlsdon but still found nothing that really excited us although we were becoming less fussy and knew we’d need to plump for something soon. Then we tried looking outside of Coventry and tried Leamington Spa. We looked at three houses and would have happily bought two of them. The one we eventually made an offer on was a 1970’s time capsule but also had mirrors on every wall and some ceilings, carpet on the bathroom walls and many other unique features. We loved it even though the estate agent told us that few people got further than the entrance before deciding it wasn’t for them. We made our offer on February 11th and then began several months of nonsense from the mortgage provider, daughters of the deceased owner and the hopeless estate agents. The mortgage providers queried Marianna not being British and me being self-employed, they wanted a survey and then another one, the owner’s daughters wanted us to pay for furniture in the house they’d previously said they’d dump and the estate agents were hopeless throughout; “We’re trying to keep everyone happy” they said at one point. “You’re not making me remotely happy, so you’re failing on 50% of that” I told them. It was also a bit stressful that we’d never really unpacked from the move from Hull and from the day we made the offer Marianna began to pack those things we were using. I’d take a sip from a glass, put it down and when I returned to it it had been wrapped, labelled and boxed.


But finally it was ours and as arranged at 2pm on the 8th of May I went to the estate agents to collect the keys to the new house. Since the estate agents and owner’s daughters couldn’t have made this purchase more complex and stressful we felt a complaint would be appropriate. Why on earth should it take three months when there’s no chain and one party is dead? I asked the moronic female estate agent if they had a complaints procedure and she referred me to the moronic male estate agent.

Moron: What’s your complaint?

Me: I’d like to put it in writing.

Moron: Why can’t you just tell me?

Me: I’d like to do it formally and put it in writing. To whom should I address it?

Moron: Me. Why don’t you just tell me now?

Me: Is there a professional, governing body for estate agents?

Moron: Not really. You’d have to go through the directors of this company.

Then, as I turned to leave, he laughed and said 'Good luck with that'. I could see him shaking his head reflected in the glass panel of their doorway. Suddenly I empathised with all of the murderers I’ve met over the years. I resisted the overwhelming temptation to vent spleen with him or punch him. He should be pitied for his lack of intellect and because he's an estate agent. He should try spending his time engaging in a more socially acceptable pursuit, perhaps exposing himself in a local park.


I knew I wouldn’t make a complaint. If he was the person I was going to complain to he wouldn’t suddenly become competent and professional. I’m not a natural complainer anyway. If I order the fish and the waiter brings lamb I look on this as an opportunity for a new experience. The need for complaining disappeared because my friend Sorrell rang me just after I left with the keys and I had a good rant and a moan which is always more productive than an actual adult, assertive complaint.


I headed back to Coventry to collect Marianna and then to the van rental depot. Due to an accumulation of points on my licence the van was rented in Marianna’s name. It’s not easy to drive a big van and instantly maneuver a narrow exit. She stopped the van when she was so close to one of their brand new hire cars you could just slide a piece of paper between them. A member of staff re-positioned it so it was easier to get off the premises. We then loaded boxes and boxes and boxes into the van to deliver nine miles up the road.