Today, we are scheduled to pick up the keys for our new flat. We are moving to Holland Park, which, we have been told, is one of the priciest and most exclusive addresses in the city. Our new home is within two blocks of Richard Branson’s primary residence and Bill Gates’ vacation getaway. Ironically, we chose this particular flat because it offered the best value for our rental dollar of any place we saw.
The explanation is fairly simple. Across London, multi-story Victorian single-family townhomes have been generally converted into apartment buildings. On our new block, however, they’ve been mostly left intact; our block of flats is one of the few exceptions. The Richard Bransons and Bill Gates looking for multi-million-dollar, perfectly preserved homes know to look here, driving home prices up, but young couples looking for flats tend to look elsewhere, driving flat prices down.
Or, at least, down for London. For any one of the rental payments we will be making each week to our estate agents, we could pay a month’s mortgage on a mansion in Pittsburgh.
In any case, before I receive the keys, I will have to sign off on an inspection of the apartment. With past apartments, I’ve been too easy-going on sign in, and we’ve ended up having to clean our places top-to-bottom before unpacking our belongings. This time, it’s going to be different. No matter how much pressure the estate agents put on me, I’m not accepting the keys until the place is in perfect condition. It will be a fight, I know, but after moving ten times in two years, we don’t want to have to work to make our home acceptable.
I show up at the flat at the appointed time to meet Larry, the independent inventory agent, who has been hired to make a written record of the state of our flat on move-in. He’s sitting at the kitchen table taking notes, and he invites me to take off my coat and sit down. “A lady is coming from the estate agents,” he explains, “and I’d like her to arrive before I begin.”
I take off my coat, and sit down, steeling myself for any criticisms I will have to make, mentally rehearsing the words, “This is unacceptable.” I may not need to use them, but it’s better to be prepared.
Jenny from the estate agent’s office soon arrives. We shake hands, and Larry takes a deep breath. “I asked you to come,” he tells her, “Because I wanted you to see the sort of things I’m expected to work with. This flat is filthy. It’s completely unacceptable. Look at this.” He runs his finger over the counter, then holds it up to show a thin layer of dust. “And this.” He opens the wall cabinets, revealing stains. “And look at this.” He pulls open a drawer, and pulls out a poorly cleaned fork. “I’m not inventorying this junk.” He throws the fork back into the drawer, petulantly. “There was supposed to be new silverware. This is an insult to me, and to this man here. Let me show you something.” He takes us to the window; on the ledge outside is a flowerpot, with cigarette butts stubbed out in the dirt. “This is supposed to be the most exclusive neighborhood in London. Do you think this man wants to open his window in Holland Park, and see cigarette butts?”
“No, no, this is completely unacceptable-” Jennie starts to say, but Larry is just getting started.
“I want the people who were supposed to clean this flat to come back, and I want them to kneel on the floor–even if we have to put a gun to their heads to get them to do it–and I want to tell them, take your tongue out of your mouth, and run it over these surfaces, and pick up the dirt and taste that delicious lemon scent–”
“Yes, yes,” Jennie says, “We get the idea–”
But Larry is not to be stopped. “–so they can know that some people do their job with duty and with honor and with pride.” He whisks us to the bathroom. “Look at this! They’ve dumped dirt in the toilet! The cleaning people were leaving as I arrived, and one of them asked me to flush the toilet as he was on his way out. I nearly picked him up by the scruff of his neck and cast him down the stairs. Come into the bedroom for a moment.”
We follow him there, and he turns to me, and says, “Kneel down for a moment.” I am afraid that if I do so, he will next insist that I take my tongue out of my mouth and clean the floor, but he kneels down before I can protest. “Come on, join me for a moment.” I kneel down beside him, and he points under the radiator, where a dust bunny lurks. ” When those cleaners come back, I want you to insist that they kneel down with you, and see that dust there, and explain to you exactly why they left it there.” I promise him I will do just that.