There have been times I've felt annoyed. Other times I've been peeved. Disgruntled. Miffed. But I've never felt this before. Read on...
Two weeks ago, May 31st I was supposed to be getting the keys to my new flat. It was a Friday. I'd swapped my day off with a girlI work to have the entire day to get things done. Collect the keys. Check the radiators. Plan out what I had to do with the place. Late in the afternoon I got a call from my solicitors. To summarise, I wasn't getting my keys. The mortgage offer had the wrong address on it, the bank had released the funds but my solicitors couldn't use them. Being a Friday afternoon, not much could be done. My solicitor advised it could be a few days before we could go ahead. I sighed. A setback. It was inevitable. I phoned my mortgage adviser at the bank. She apologised for everything and assured me she would get on the case would right the wrongs.
The next week went quite quickly. I assumed the bank were hard at work changing that 7 to a 5 on my mortgage offer. (By the way, the incorrect address had been spotted before. My solicitors informed the bank and asked them to change it. The bank have this request on file, they just did nothing about it.) I had the Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday off, I was planning on using the days to paint, get my broadband set up and whatnot. Instead I watched X-Men cartoons, played a videogame about a magic wolf and ate weird cornflakes Sainsburys had on offer.
Friday was the next milestone. On Friday I got a call from a girl in my bank's HQ. She advised the funds now needed to be returned to the bank. They needed four working days to clear at which point a new offer could be drafted and I'd be on my way to my new home with my keys jingling in my pocket. Four working days.
Hoo-FUCKING-ray.
My parents came over that night. It was a flying visit, originally planned so they could get a quick look at their son's first property purchase. We looked at the front. They went home, slightly disappointed.
Four working days. I hate this bank nonsense. They can transfer my deposit of well over ten grand out of my account in nanoseconds but it takes then four working days to make sure my funds had been returned to them. It's not real money. It's digital, imaginary, internet hyperspace money. IT'S NOT LIKE THEY LENT ME IT IN POUND COINS.
The money was returned. That was this day (Friday) last week. On the Sunday, to get some kind of a rise out of me, the bank added a mortgage account to my internet banking. Now I all of a sudden owed well over a hundred thousand pounds for, get this, the flat at the wrong address. I was paying the mortgage for the people who'd be living above me. On the Monday morning they took my first mortgage payment, again for a flat I had never set foot in.
This whole time I remained calm. Anyone I'd spoken on the phone to had remarked on this. I knew things would be sorted. Shit was falling apart but I trusted my solicitor and my mortgage advisor. They both seem genuinely interested in fixing things for me. Also, I'd in some way planned for this kind of thing. I had an overlap of the whole of June to move from my current flat to the next.
Yesterday, Thursday, I talked to the HQ girl again. The funds had cleared. She could push on with reissuing the relevant documents. The wheels were turning. This was good.
Which brings us to today. I was doing a late shift today. I was also due some time back from the company so I wasn't starting until 1.30. I made all this clear with the bank. Everything that was going to happen today had to happen by noon. I left the flat early and hovered around the city in various coffee shops from about ten onwards. At 10.20 my phone rang. I smiled, I'd have my keys by 11.
It was the HQ girl. She explained to me that, for one reason or another, she couldn't reissue the mortgage offer today. The earliest it could be done would now by Monday.
That's when I felt angry. I'd never felt that way before. I couldn't speak for a while. I held the phone to my chest and tried to think about what I wanted to say. I looked around the street, somehow expecting a familiar face to be there for support. There was noone. My free hand did it's own thing. Short of a face to punch, it did a weird action that looked like it was playing an invisible piano. I felt disappointed. I felt confused. This phone call was supposed to be the bank, after leaving me adrift for two weeks, giving me a hand-up. Instead they kicked me in the face. Five, maybe ten seconds passed. I composed myself. I stopped my hand from doing the piano thing but it still shook uncontrollably. I spoke in a low voice, slowly and clearly. I made it very clear to the girl how much of an inconvenience all this had been to myself, to my family and to my solicitors. I explained that I was now coming close the the very real possibility of being homeless. I explained that the girl was to liase with my solicitors on a regular basis until I had my new keys in my pocket and that, the instant anything changed I was to be informed. I explained that, when all this is over, that I would be having an in-depth conversation about compensation. Afterwards I realised I may have came across a little like Liam Neeson. I texted some family and friends with an update and sat on a bench in silence for half an hour before heading to work for an early start.
So Monday is my new date. I'm off that day. I should get my keys early enough, let myself into my new flat and plug in the kettle my parents brought over for me. Then I'll sit down, make a phone call to a girl in an office somewhere and have a long conversation about compensation.
And that will be quite the interesting phone call indeed.
Two weeks ago, May 31st I was supposed to be getting the keys to my new flat. It was a Friday. I'd swapped my day off with a girlI work to have the entire day to get things done. Collect the keys. Check the radiators. Plan out what I had to do with the place. Late in the afternoon I got a call from my solicitors. To summarise, I wasn't getting my keys. The mortgage offer had the wrong address on it, the bank had released the funds but my solicitors couldn't use them. Being a Friday afternoon, not much could be done. My solicitor advised it could be a few days before we could go ahead. I sighed. A setback. It was inevitable. I phoned my mortgage adviser at the bank. She apologised for everything and assured me she would get on the case would right the wrongs.
The next week went quite quickly. I assumed the bank were hard at work changing that 7 to a 5 on my mortgage offer. (By the way, the incorrect address had been spotted before. My solicitors informed the bank and asked them to change it. The bank have this request on file, they just did nothing about it.) I had the Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday off, I was planning on using the days to paint, get my broadband set up and whatnot. Instead I watched X-Men cartoons, played a videogame about a magic wolf and ate weird cornflakes Sainsburys had on offer.
Friday was the next milestone. On Friday I got a call from a girl in my bank's HQ. She advised the funds now needed to be returned to the bank. They needed four working days to clear at which point a new offer could be drafted and I'd be on my way to my new home with my keys jingling in my pocket. Four working days.
Hoo-FUCKING-ray.
My parents came over that night. It was a flying visit, originally planned so they could get a quick look at their son's first property purchase. We looked at the front. They went home, slightly disappointed.
Four working days. I hate this bank nonsense. They can transfer my deposit of well over ten grand out of my account in nanoseconds but it takes then four working days to make sure my funds had been returned to them. It's not real money. It's digital, imaginary, internet hyperspace money. IT'S NOT LIKE THEY LENT ME IT IN POUND COINS.
The money was returned. That was this day (Friday) last week. On the Sunday, to get some kind of a rise out of me, the bank added a mortgage account to my internet banking. Now I all of a sudden owed well over a hundred thousand pounds for, get this, the flat at the wrong address. I was paying the mortgage for the people who'd be living above me. On the Monday morning they took my first mortgage payment, again for a flat I had never set foot in.
This whole time I remained calm. Anyone I'd spoken on the phone to had remarked on this. I knew things would be sorted. Shit was falling apart but I trusted my solicitor and my mortgage advisor. They both seem genuinely interested in fixing things for me. Also, I'd in some way planned for this kind of thing. I had an overlap of the whole of June to move from my current flat to the next.
Yesterday, Thursday, I talked to the HQ girl again. The funds had cleared. She could push on with reissuing the relevant documents. The wheels were turning. This was good.
Which brings us to today. I was doing a late shift today. I was also due some time back from the company so I wasn't starting until 1.30. I made all this clear with the bank. Everything that was going to happen today had to happen by noon. I left the flat early and hovered around the city in various coffee shops from about ten onwards. At 10.20 my phone rang. I smiled, I'd have my keys by 11.
It was the HQ girl. She explained to me that, for one reason or another, she couldn't reissue the mortgage offer today. The earliest it could be done would now by Monday.
That's when I felt angry. I'd never felt that way before. I couldn't speak for a while. I held the phone to my chest and tried to think about what I wanted to say. I looked around the street, somehow expecting a familiar face to be there for support. There was noone. My free hand did it's own thing. Short of a face to punch, it did a weird action that looked like it was playing an invisible piano. I felt disappointed. I felt confused. This phone call was supposed to be the bank, after leaving me adrift for two weeks, giving me a hand-up. Instead they kicked me in the face. Five, maybe ten seconds passed. I composed myself. I stopped my hand from doing the piano thing but it still shook uncontrollably. I spoke in a low voice, slowly and clearly. I made it very clear to the girl how much of an inconvenience all this had been to myself, to my family and to my solicitors. I explained that I was now coming close the the very real possibility of being homeless. I explained that the girl was to liase with my solicitors on a regular basis until I had my new keys in my pocket and that, the instant anything changed I was to be informed. I explained that, when all this is over, that I would be having an in-depth conversation about compensation. Afterwards I realised I may have came across a little like Liam Neeson. I texted some family and friends with an update and sat on a bench in silence for half an hour before heading to work for an early start.
So Monday is my new date. I'm off that day. I should get my keys early enough, let myself into my new flat and plug in the kettle my parents brought over for me. Then I'll sit down, make a phone call to a girl in an office somewhere and have a long conversation about compensation.
And that will be quite the interesting phone call indeed.
