Buying houses: what’s that about? Providing American stand-up comedians with the subject for a tediously inevitable rhetorical question? Middle-class angst alert! The baker and me have been trying to buy a house for a while: a humble little 2-bed Victorian terrace in Reigate, with an airy vibe (rising damp) and charming period features (a broken roof). Six months and a few thousand pounds later, we’ve downgraded our ambitions to the purchase of a secluded molecule of shit under a north-facing pebble in Blackpool. Well, not Blackpool – actually, the exact opposite of Blackpool; we’re trying to buy a flat in, erm, Guildford. I’ll probably write something about Guildford at some point; I don’t want to blow my bilious load just yet. Suffice to say I know, I know, I know.
I read a book once (I think it was Steven Shapin’s Social History of Truth, but I might be wrong) which had a bit about how trust is the cornerstone of any properly functioning society: in fact, it’s what our scientific knowledge of everything is based on. If I remember rightly, one of the arguments was that for us to successfully interact with the world around us, we have to put faith in what other people tell us. Whether it’s that a mechanic has fixed the brakes on our car, or that the car is actually a car and not a giant cake running on liquorice, we have to use what we’ve been told about the world to make assumptions and get things done.
A rather lovely implication is that we need other people to survive. Togetherness defines our humanity. We need to have some faith that other human beings have the capacity for honest decency in order for everything to function. Of course, you always need to assess the credentials of your information source: only an idiot would trust anything I ever say, for example.
But when you buy a house, the opposite is true. Assume other people are acting decently at your peril. In all likelihood, they’re not. House purchasing is like driving – it’s one of those few situations in life where it seems acceptable, and almost expected, that people will act like dementedly selfish fuck knuckles.
Imagine: you go into a grocers and buy, say, a big juicy-looking watermelon. You know it’s a watermelon – it says so on the sign, and also, it looks like a watermelon. You get it home; mmm, watermelon you’re thinking. Hubba-hubba. I like watermelon. Then you crack it open. Disappointment awaits. Instead of that nice juicy pink flesh bit, the inside is made of hypodermic needles and some grit. Not quite what you were expecting; understandably, you’re a bit irritated. Still, you take it back to the shop and the grocer kindly agrees to swap it for another one, apologising for the inconvenience in the meantime.
Now, say the watermelon is a house. The following is more likely: you see a nice watermelon on the internet and ring up to say you’re interested in buying it. They ask you what your financial predicament is. You lie and tell them it’s tight – you’ll struggle to pay the full price of the watermelon, but you’d like to see it anyway. The fruit and vegetable specialist drives you to the grocers. Once there, you’re shown a small rotting turnip. This is the only thing they have left. You tell the fruit and veg specialist that it isn’t quite what you were looking for. They tell you that the turnip is actually a watermelon and, anyway, it’s a good price for the area. You say you’re not sure. They tell you that with things the way they are, it’s either this or you starve. You cave in. You tell them you’ll take it, but for less than the advertised price. The fruit and veg specialist tells you this is out of the question: the price of turnips will only increase over the next year because there’s a national turnip shortage (even though turnips are actually selling for less and less). You cave in. You say you’ll pay the full price for the turnip. Then they tell you that somebody else has expressed interest in the turnip. You’ll need to pay over the asking price, otherwise you’ll miss out. You cave in. Whatever it takes, you just want the turnip. They say you can have the turnip. On one condition: you have to get a turnip specialist to assess the quality of the turnip. You pay the turnip specialist, who tells you the turnip is riddled with aphids. But you should still buy the turnip. You buy the turnip. It gives you food poisoning and you die.
On the plus side, your children get to keep what’s left of the turnip. They put it on the internet. The fruit and veg specialist rings up – some people are interested in buying a watermelon…
Buying houses. What’s that about? Grrrr. Sometimes I think we’d be better off handing over our life savings to the KLF*.
vdofisdpofi! 