This month our resident columnist Jane Moore searches for a piece of paradise in her next house move. Piece of cake, right?
Now the last of my children has flown the nest, I plan to downsize to a smaller property in the same area of South West London where I’ve lived for the past 35 years.
I have many friends here, there’s a wonderful common nearby, and I like the local shops and cafés, and the close proximity to all the cinemas, galleries and museums that our capital city has to offer. So my dilemma is not where my next home will be, but what? A smaller Victorian house than the family-sized one we’re selling, or a state-of-the-art, modern flat overlooking the Thames?
In my dreams, I’m going to buy a manageable, two-bed apartment in a well-maintained block where everything works and I don’t have to spend 50 per cent of my waking hours with workmen who pull a “this is going to cost you” face as they inspect the latest problem that needs fixing.
LIVING THE DREAM…
I will enjoy a morning coffee whilst watching life on the river go by from my small balcony, and a “concierge” will take in parcels for me at the reception desk, so no more of those irritating little cards saying “while you were in, we didn’t bother to ring the doorbell and have taken your package to the sorting office where you will queue for two hours to retrieve it”.
But a friend who hankered after, and went for, this exact setup reckons it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Yes, her block is “well maintained” and has a smiley porter, but it comes with an ever-escalating service charge that now runs into thousands a year. And any time the building needs repairing, it involves an arduous process of getting everyone’s approval.
Then there are the renters or, worse, the Airbnb weekenders who don’t treat the building as well as the owners. Consequently, there are noisy balcony gatherings and music long into the night, bicycles clogging up the hallways, doors slamming, and loud chats in the corridors at all hours.
Meanwhile, in Victorian conversions, that gorgeous garden flat with the huge windows may seem like your own personal paradise when you view it during the day. But then you move in and discover that, by night, a Riverdance fan lives upstairs and spends all night thumping across the wooden floorboards whilst you grit your teeth in despair.
WHAT PRICE FOR PEACE?
Recently, I read that a family in West London is suing the
