An Inspector Calls
This week we had the home inspection on our new house. Once again it was a much more, well, homespun experience than in England.
When you buy a home in England, unless you are either a crook, insane, or both, you have to have a survey of the house you intend to buy. This involves finding a surveyor, sending him into your new home alone, then waiting for over a week to read a report which usually reads like Nightmare on Elm Street.
Over here it can be more of a party, or at least it was for us. Everything in this country seems to start early, thus is was we all turned up at our new address at 8 a.m. on sunny spring morning.
Here's the guest list. Most important, of course, was the home inspector, a jolly man called Bill. He zipped round the place running up ladders, photographing nooks and crannies, crawling down under the house, tapping windows and switching on appliances. He had a walkie talkie, over which he reported to his assistant, a bulky lass with a laptop strapped to her front. She typed as he spoke, which meant at the end of his three hour visit he was able to present us with a full report, with pictures, in a ring binder.
Naturally, we weren't idling whilst all this was going on. Ross and I were joined by our realtor Jay, our first visitor Jack, and Matt - the man I hope will make my dreams come true. Matt, let me explain, is a contractor. So while the inspector was telling us all the things that needed fixing on the house, Matt was telling us how we could rip the place apart and improve it.
Having bought a wreck of a house in England 12 years ago, you would have thought I would have learnt my lesson. I really had intended to pick something problem free this time.
But the house that chose us was so desperate for some tlc, it was like picking the crying puppy in the corner of the pen. Perhaps it's us who need to be house trained...
When you buy a home in England, unless you are either a crook, insane, or both, you have to have a survey of the house you intend to buy. This involves finding a surveyor, sending him into your new home alone, then waiting for over a week to read a report which usually reads like Nightmare on Elm Street.
Over here it can be more of a party, or at least it was for us. Everything in this country seems to start early, thus is was we all turned up at our new address at 8 a.m. on sunny spring morning.
Here's the guest list. Most important, of course, was the home inspector, a jolly man called Bill. He zipped round the place running up ladders, photographing nooks and crannies, crawling down under the house, tapping windows and switching on appliances. He had a walkie talkie, over which he reported to his assistant, a bulky lass with a laptop strapped to her front. She typed as he spoke, which meant at the end of his three hour visit he was able to present us with a full report, with pictures, in a ring binder.
Naturally, we weren't idling whilst all this was going on. Ross and I were joined by our realtor Jay, our first visitor Jack, and Matt - the man I hope will make my dreams come true. Matt, let me explain, is a contractor. So while the inspector was telling us all the things that needed fixing on the house, Matt was telling us how we could rip the place apart and improve it.
Having bought a wreck of a house in England 12 years ago, you would have thought I would have learnt my lesson. I really had intended to pick something problem free this time.
But the house that chose us was so desperate for some tlc, it was like picking the crying puppy in the corner of the pen. Perhaps it's us who need to be house trained...
posted by Hilary at
3:45 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home