We do not adore the house – which is very cramped – but the neighbourhood is nice so maybe we should put in an offer, writes DON MORGAN
IF YOU SAY the word property often enough, its onomatopoeic qualities let the blasted ‘p’ word resemble the sound of an overblown beach ball falling down a wooden stairs. Try it, it sounds really silly.
For years I was mocking people involved in property, because it seemed to me such an utterly ridiculous world. Take,for instance,the idea of an apartment complex which claims to embody the ‘spirit of gracious living’. There was me thinking that maybe the Dalai Lama might have claim on something like that, as opposed to flats which are as suited to everyday living in Ireland as a half-completed beach hotel in Fuerteventura.
It was the spirit of gracious living which won us over when considering two houses near Stillorgan. They were both on the same road, and were as southside as you can get, with well-to-do aspirations: an old lady greeted us with an Edwardian “good day” as we shambled past her to view these two houses. We just hoped one of them might give us many such days, without driving across the country like bleary eyed eejits.
The price tags were also appealing. Both, it turned out, were under €500,000. And so, like an economic Ryanair, they were landing at a property airfield only an hour’s bus ride from our destination of Reasonable City.
The first house was in excellent condition. The affable agent told us it was an executor sale and then proceeded to volunteer any and all info he happened to have at his disposal. Refreshingly, the agent had done his homework and knew things about the house. It’s happened more than once that agents haven’t swotted up on the properties they want to pass on to you.
It was bright and breezy and in turnkey condition. Was it quite what we wanted? Mmmmm... maybe, but not quite. You can really like the objective parts of something, but not quite love it. I have that problem with Jarvis Cocker’s solo albums.
It also had a laneway running along the side of it which, although perfectly safe and nice – I had negotiated it many times as a spotty teenager – turned us off a bit. Ultimately, it’s a matter of taste.
House two, in the blue corner was, well, blue. Or a dirty grey at any rate. And it was the house that my father-in-law spied ages ago! After ringing a ridiculous amount of times, we tried to figure out why the For Sale sign refused to budge, despite being sale agreed. I even got friends to find out what the story was in case they might want us to go away and leave them alone.
The call came unexpectedly from the agent of our Blue Phantom. “It’s back on the market, and there’s a deal to be had here,” purred the agent, speaking in a stage whisper, as if he was trying to let you in on a secret that everyone else in the audience should hear as well.
The house had been sale agreed, he admitted, twice in fact. Now, back on the market, it was ready for us to have a gander and see if it met our requirements. Viewing the house, we established a couple of things; this was the reverse Tardis because the exterior of this place led one to believe that there were infinite possibilities of rooms, nooks and crannies crossing time zones. You could imagine enough space to find what’s left of Shergar under the stairs. However, looking around the 1950s construction and its 10 Rillington Place decor, I was disappointed to find no space for a horse, not even a few cans of Pedigree Chum. This was a seriously cramped house.
Nevertheless, the long-term potential was there. And the enormous south-facing back garden was a real find in Dublin, where apparently people don’t need greenery.
I can’t say we loved it. But a short walk around the neighbourhood, skirting the local amenities, revealed a convenient and convivial life in time for the new school year, which was a deal breaker. Why not make an offer? Our heads said we should.
