Our previous experience with landlords in London largely served as a motivator for us to become homeowners. They left us devoid of a place to stay and exhausted us deeply with the humiliation of being tenants leading us to approach a bank for a mortgage, despite our scepticism thinking they might turn us down. It’s understandable, as financial institutions are not known for eagerly offering loans to authors, especially in the current economy.
The home-owners, a senior couple in their sixties who had various other properties in the lush outskirts where we resided, shockingly gave us a notice to vacate. This abrupt move was on the day it officially became permissible after the cessation of COVID-19 restrictions. They intended, or so they stated, to provide a place for their just-divorced son. Yet, to our surprise, we found the house back on the lease market, listed at a higher rental fee.
Before we left, they planned to deduct from our housing bond in order to cover the expenses of internal re-decorations. They pointed out our supposed scrapes and marks on the walls, alleging they were beyond average wear and tear.
“Legally, I’ve been compelled to stay inside this house for an entire year,” I pointed out, “I exhibit more substantial wear and tear.” An argument arose, which I honestly lacked the stamina to endure.
Our former landlord who owned the somewhat worn-out flat we lodged in, located in a trendy part of the city, was incongruously lamenting his supposed poverty while doing minor repairs himself. As if we middle-aged tenants without backup resources or family wealth were his rescue net. Or at least cease to remind him of the faulty heating system. Interestingly, he was the owner of a larger, costlier house nearby.
Upon moving into the flat, we discovered a used toilet brush in the loo. I immediately discarded it with my gloved hand into a bin and replaced it with a new one before we vacated. Ironically, our landlord then demanded compensation for his so-called “vintage toilet brush” from our security deposit. He was ruled against, unsurprisingly, in that argument. Later, he tried to claim 38 pence for overdue rent using the same deposit. I almost indulged the petty request by mailing him the sum in pennies. So much for his claim of financial hardship.
These indignities are all too familiar to anyone who has ever rented a property.
Eight months ago, we relocated to Australia and temporarily resided in an Airbnb during our search for a long-term rental apartment. Previously, we had the pleasure of residing in an English countryside cottage which we owned to an extent of around 3 per cent although technically, it was largely a bank property due to the mortgage. Regardless, being a homeowner, albeit fractionally, carries an inherent dignity; it provides privacy and a sense of control. One can even boldly hammer a nail into the wall.
The essence of property ownership is not needing to make your existence in the property seem minimal. On returning the keys to a rental property, the ideal situation for the letting agent and the owner would be no signs of your habitation. Your existence should be entirely erased regardless of your duration of stay. In contrast, home ownership comes with the freedom to settle in, let out a sigh of relief, unpack and live freely without the anxiety of the house appearing occupied.
Renting is equally unamusing in Australia. Broadly, the experience of being a tenant here has been more dignified and efficient than what I was accustomed to back in the UK or at my place of origin, not discounting the frustrations that come with it.
Every tenant is exasperated by the trivial conflicts and the customary act of contacting a spruced-up letting agent or a person of their parents’ or grandparents’ age to politely inquire if it’s acceptable to get a puppy or put up their deceased granny’s portrait in the hallway. They’re also tired of parting with their deposit chunks to cover for landlords keen on replacing the carpet in the hallway at their cost. While I admit that I have had fair and decent landlords, most of them have been less than admirable and majority of tenants can attest to this.
In the Australian Capital Territory, notably Canberra, the rental experience is comparatively easier with a uniquely different cultural experience. Rental accommodation here is relatively affordable compared to places like Dublin or London. Many properties are new constructions with a range of communal facilities such as rooftop playgrounds and swimming pools. The property that we currently live in is conveniently located just a short walk away from the city centre, with any maintenance issues promptly tackled.
Renting properties within this area also comes with pet-friendly policies. We are surrounded by congenial neighbours, including a charming golden retriever pup named Cowboy. His owners, our neighbours, aren’t required to meet unwarranted conditions to keep him. It is presumed they pay his share of the rent. Such features are not exceptional here.
In comparison with previous experiences in the UK or back home, the rental procedure here is significantly more respectful and streamlined. However, there is one peculiar aspect here that is a little hard for me to comprehend as an Irish. Every six months, we are subject to rental property inspections. Property agents and landlords favour this procedure for its timely review of the property’s condition, although it subconsciously coerces tenants to keep the evidences of habitation to a minimum. Although a familiar clause in most of the rental agreements I had previously signed in the UK or Ireland, this is my first time giving an actual tour of a rented home. To my knowledge, this isn’t a common procedure outside of university housing.
These inspections come across as rather patronising, with a property agent minutely scrutinising every inch of the property for dust or any slight imperfections. Some regions in Australia even have these inspections every quarter.
This entire ordeal seems outrageous to my friends back at home. They concur that all of us would find this procedure daunting. The idea of standing at the front door, duster in hand, ready to defend our lived-in homes against the judgement of an inspector is a comically bittersweet thought.