After five months of humming and hawing, we've finally decided that in order to keep our collective sanity intact, we really do need to move out of our tiny treehouse. It has served it's purpose well; we have settled into our little community (by which I mean I know three people), the children are happy in their school, and the beautiful surroundings have provided a dramatic backdrop for our introduction to life in Australia.
However, the truth is that pretty as it is, the house is really not much more than a glorified apartment, something which really doesn't work for a family of seven (albeit with the largest member absent two thirds of the time). It offers so little privacy that when I shower the children tend to gather in the bathroom to ask me questions through the misty glass (the bathroom door doesn't close) and our living room also serves as a kitchen/dining/dressing/occasional-conjugal-quickie-before-the-children-notice-room (there's no privacy in our bedroom, which is located off their TV area).
It's a bit like when the family in Angela's Ashes move into the upstairs because the downstairs has been flooded by the unyielding Limerick rain. Well, if you exclude the typhoid, bleak poverty, head-lice and feckless alcoholic father. But you get my gist.
And so we are once more obliged to dip a reluctant toe into the murky waters of the Perth rental market, a cold, unfriendly and disheartening place.
In Ireland, finding a house to rent is relatively straightforward. You phone the local estate agent, identify a house you fancy viewing, then you go and have a look at it. If you like it -- and presuming you don't rock up to the viewing in a large white transit van, with 12 children and a roll of carpet hanging out the back -- then in all probability the landlord will agree to rent it to you, often for less than the asking price. Job done.
Here in Perth the cycle is radically different. After scouring the internet for something you don't hate, you phone the estate agent -- who is totally indifferent towards you, they really don't need your business -- and arrange to attend a 'viewing'. A viewing means the house is open to the public for 15 minutes or so, and is often an unhappy experience spent wandering through dark, dingy and ugly rooms -- which often smell of feet or cabbages -- while fellow 'viewers' furiously open and close kitchen cupboards, as if the particular swing of a door might help make the decision for them. And as the musty air fills with the feverish desperation to secure a home, all aesthetical merits -- or lack thereof -- are put aside.
The application process involves filling out a lengthy form, divulging information such as your bank details, car registration, passport number, employement details, PAST employment details (jeez!), as well as supplying either a urine or blood sample. Sometimes both. (I made that last bit up).
You are also often obliged to pay a weeks rent as a deposit, just to prove that you are serious, which will be forfeited should you change your mind. It is also advisable to offer more than the asking price, often significantly more, in order to push your application up the list.
Now think of it; if you were renting out a property, and had ten couples interested, would you rent it to the couple with five small children?
No, me neither.
So you see our predicament. Yes of course there are landlords who might possibly accept us, but like Groucho Marx's doubts about wanting to belong to any club which would have him as a member, any house that is willing to allow us to live in it, is unlikely to be a place I actually want to rent. Take a look at this little gem below for example, which is on the market for the bargain basement price of $400 a week. Yes, you didn't misread that - A WEEK (which is cheap, $650 per week is a more realistic average around here), and were it in Ireland would in all likelihood be bulldozed in favour of a nice dormer bungalow...
I mentioned a while back that I was yet to spot the postman, having no idea how my post found its way into the redback-infested post-box at the bottom of the drive each morning, so I'm pleased to report that I have finally laid eyes on him. Actually on reflection, I now realise I spied him months ago, but the moped and little flag threw me a little, and I was convinced that my invisible neighbours were regularly ordering Domino's pizza for breakfast. It's an easy mistake to make.
We have a different postman for the delivery of parcels, and since I began my little Boden online spree a couple of months back, have had reason to come face to face with the fluorescent-jacketed postie (yes, Australenglish for Postman) many times across the baby gate at the top of our wooden steps. To be honest I'm a little embarrassed at this stage, and feel the sharp sting of his judgement every time he hands over yet another delicious pink and grey spotted package. In fact only he, myself and Boden know the extent of my recent purchasing-frenzy, and at times even I've been surprised at the appearance of a new parcel, having totally forgotten I'd ordered it, on a late and lonely night a week earlier -- unhinged on Chablis and loneliness -- unwilling and unable to talk myself into heading to the cold, lonely bed of a FIFO-widow...*
*A bit of artistic license there -- there are actually three small boys in my bed most nights...but you know what I mean...
However, the truth is that pretty as it is, the house is really not much more than a glorified apartment, something which really doesn't work for a family of seven (albeit with the largest member absent two thirds of the time). It offers so little privacy that when I shower the children tend to gather in the bathroom to ask me questions through the misty glass (the bathroom door doesn't close) and our living room also serves as a kitchen/dining/dressing/occasional-conjugal-quickie-before-the-children-notice-room (there's no privacy in our bedroom, which is located off their TV area).
It's a bit like when the family in Angela's Ashes move into the upstairs because the downstairs has been flooded by the unyielding Limerick rain. Well, if you exclude the typhoid, bleak poverty, head-lice and feckless alcoholic father. But you get my gist.
And so we are once more obliged to dip a reluctant toe into the murky waters of the Perth rental market, a cold, unfriendly and disheartening place.
In Ireland, finding a house to rent is relatively straightforward. You phone the local estate agent, identify a house you fancy viewing, then you go and have a look at it. If you like it -- and presuming you don't rock up to the viewing in a large white transit van, with 12 children and a roll of carpet hanging out the back -- then in all probability the landlord will agree to rent it to you, often for less than the asking price. Job done.
Here in Perth the cycle is radically different. After scouring the internet for something you don't hate, you phone the estate agent -- who is totally indifferent towards you, they really don't need your business -- and arrange to attend a 'viewing'. A viewing means the house is open to the public for 15 minutes or so, and is often an unhappy experience spent wandering through dark, dingy and ugly rooms -- which often smell of feet or cabbages -- while fellow 'viewers' furiously open and close kitchen cupboards, as if the particular swing of a door might help make the decision for them. And as the musty air fills with the feverish desperation to secure a home, all aesthetical merits -- or lack thereof -- are put aside.
The application process involves filling out a lengthy form, divulging information such as your bank details, car registration, passport number, employement details, PAST employment details (jeez!), as well as supplying either a urine or blood sample. Sometimes both. (I made that last bit up).
You are also often obliged to pay a weeks rent as a deposit, just to prove that you are serious, which will be forfeited should you change your mind. It is also advisable to offer more than the asking price, often significantly more, in order to push your application up the list.
Now think of it; if you were renting out a property, and had ten couples interested, would you rent it to the couple with five small children?
No, me neither.
So you see our predicament. Yes of course there are landlords who might possibly accept us, but like Groucho Marx's doubts about wanting to belong to any club which would have him as a member, any house that is willing to allow us to live in it, is unlikely to be a place I actually want to rent. Take a look at this little gem below for example, which is on the market for the bargain basement price of $400 a week. Yes, you didn't misread that - A WEEK (which is cheap, $650 per week is a more realistic average around here), and were it in Ireland would in all likelihood be bulldozed in favour of a nice dormer bungalow...
  'Lovely spacious family home with traditional retro features' according to the unintentionally hilarious brochure.  |
| And it continues: 'comes with a Gourmet kitchen'.... |
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| 'Recently renovated'? Laurence Llewelyn-Bowan would turn in his laquered four-poster baroque bed! |
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| Somebody actually went to the trouble of putting this picture into the brochure |
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| A dream 'garden', I'm sure you'll agree... |
The Postman
We have a different postman for the delivery of parcels, and since I began my little Boden online spree a couple of months back, have had reason to come face to face with the fluorescent-jacketed postie (yes, Australenglish for Postman) many times across the baby gate at the top of our wooden steps. To be honest I'm a little embarrassed at this stage, and feel the sharp sting of his judgement every time he hands over yet another delicious pink and grey spotted package. In fact only he, myself and Boden know the extent of my recent purchasing-frenzy, and at times even I've been surprised at the appearance of a new parcel, having totally forgotten I'd ordered it, on a late and lonely night a week earlier -- unhinged on Chablis and loneliness -- unwilling and unable to talk myself into heading to the cold, lonely bed of a FIFO-widow...*
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| Empty bed syndrome? Not quite... |
*A bit of artistic license there -- there are actually three small boys in my bed most nights...but you know what I mean...
