Renovating A House
Without Prejudice
In the economic climes we are in at the moment, it's better to renovate than move. I love renovating, making something new and fresh from something old and ugly. Older style houses are better built with better materials and they were built to last. Something post war can be picked up for a song at the moment and if renovated carefully in keeping with the style can be sold on or lived in very successfully.
I bought a few and renovated them. It's a good idea to pick something on the cusp of a popular suburb. I bought in Clayton, and 2 in Noble Park, one before it was reclassified as Noble Park North. The house in Clayton was only $130,000, a dry neat weatherboard, within walking distance to train station and shops. My old Boss at John Sands, Paul, brought in the local paper one day and suggested I have a look. I went in my lunch time that day to look at three.
The first had a " feeling " to it. And was the one I eventually bought. I did buy it with a partner and I wouldn't do that again. He didnt share my vision of renovating and whinged and whinged about the house until we split and sold.
He whinged and whinged until we had settlement, ringing every day for his money. I was so disappointed as I had found it and bought it with my deposit money. He paid me back half of the deposit within twelve months, but when it came time to sell he turned into a feral nightmare.
Even then I didn't learn the lesson as I ended up buying on my own, and he came to stay with me, was caught for drink driving and went to Ireland for twelve months. I missed him, Gid knows why, I can only say I thought at that time I needed someone in my life. I was diagnosed with depression at that time and took off for pastures new, the Gold Coast.
I let the house to family members who let me down badly, another mistake I learned from and won't be doing that again. They didnt pay the rent, trashed the place badly. Even the carp in the pond died from their neglect. So I sold the house and waited fir the ex to come back from Ireland. He did after a full year. September 11th happened that year and he was sober he said and wanted to get back with me , a fresh start.
So I flew back to Melbourne and he arrived off the plane drunk as a skunk.
My fault, I know, for trusting him.
Stupidly we bought another house, also to be renovated and while I worked and renovated he went out and drank the suburbs dry. He was a legendary drunk, disappearing for days on end, sometimes five days and return sick and repentant. He never picked up so much as a paint brush in the whole time we were there.
I didn't think that much of myself back then or I wouldn't have allowed it to happen, but alcohol won in the end and once again I was homeless. I was working a night shift job at the time and had left him in the house. Men will always cling to the house for some reason, right until the last moment. I crept in one early am to see how he was.
It was bitterly cold and I felt even colder as I crept past the spare room. The faint moonlight shone on broken glass all over the polished wood floor. The polished wood floor my sister in law and I had sanded with a hand held sander one whole weekend. After punching in about a 1,000 nails and me glossing 3 coats by hand after it was all complete.
He, my Irish ex, lay in the bed, comatose and there was what I thought was water all over the floor
which I trod in on with only socks on my feet. I cursed and flicked on the light. He had soiled himself was shivering with cold and when I asked why the window was broken in the spare room, he said he broke it with a brick.
"Why", I asked
" I lost my keys and my car " he replied.
And fell back asleep in the bitter cold and soiled sheet. I realised the "water" on the floor was urine. I returned to my car after locking the front door, stripped off my wet socks and threw them out the window, turned the heater on full blast and drove back to Narre Warren where my daughter lived.
When we sent to sign the papers to sell the house he was drunk and laughing and I was crying. He laughed at my tears and as soon as he had finished signing disappeared to the Pub.
To be continued...........
.
In the economic climes we are in at the moment, it's better to renovate than move. I love renovating, making something new and fresh from something old and ugly. Older style houses are better built with better materials and they were built to last. Something post war can be picked up for a song at the moment and if renovated carefully in keeping with the style can be sold on or lived in very successfully.
I bought a few and renovated them. It's a good idea to pick something on the cusp of a popular suburb. I bought in Clayton, and 2 in Noble Park, one before it was reclassified as Noble Park North. The house in Clayton was only $130,000, a dry neat weatherboard, within walking distance to train station and shops. My old Boss at John Sands, Paul, brought in the local paper one day and suggested I have a look. I went in my lunch time that day to look at three.
The first had a " feeling " to it. And was the one I eventually bought. I did buy it with a partner and I wouldn't do that again. He didnt share my vision of renovating and whinged and whinged about the house until we split and sold.
He whinged and whinged until we had settlement, ringing every day for his money. I was so disappointed as I had found it and bought it with my deposit money. He paid me back half of the deposit within twelve months, but when it came time to sell he turned into a feral nightmare.
Even then I didn't learn the lesson as I ended up buying on my own, and he came to stay with me, was caught for drink driving and went to Ireland for twelve months. I missed him, Gid knows why, I can only say I thought at that time I needed someone in my life. I was diagnosed with depression at that time and took off for pastures new, the Gold Coast.
I let the house to family members who let me down badly, another mistake I learned from and won't be doing that again. They didnt pay the rent, trashed the place badly. Even the carp in the pond died from their neglect. So I sold the house and waited fir the ex to come back from Ireland. He did after a full year. September 11th happened that year and he was sober he said and wanted to get back with me , a fresh start.
So I flew back to Melbourne and he arrived off the plane drunk as a skunk.
My fault, I know, for trusting him.
Stupidly we bought another house, also to be renovated and while I worked and renovated he went out and drank the suburbs dry. He was a legendary drunk, disappearing for days on end, sometimes five days and return sick and repentant. He never picked up so much as a paint brush in the whole time we were there.
I didn't think that much of myself back then or I wouldn't have allowed it to happen, but alcohol won in the end and once again I was homeless. I was working a night shift job at the time and had left him in the house. Men will always cling to the house for some reason, right until the last moment. I crept in one early am to see how he was.
It was bitterly cold and I felt even colder as I crept past the spare room. The faint moonlight shone on broken glass all over the polished wood floor. The polished wood floor my sister in law and I had sanded with a hand held sander one whole weekend. After punching in about a 1,000 nails and me glossing 3 coats by hand after it was all complete.
He, my Irish ex, lay in the bed, comatose and there was what I thought was water all over the floor
which I trod in on with only socks on my feet. I cursed and flicked on the light. He had soiled himself was shivering with cold and when I asked why the window was broken in the spare room, he said he broke it with a brick.
"Why", I asked
" I lost my keys and my car " he replied.
And fell back asleep in the bitter cold and soiled sheet. I realised the "water" on the floor was urine. I returned to my car after locking the front door, stripped off my wet socks and threw them out the window, turned the heater on full blast and drove back to Narre Warren where my daughter lived.
When we sent to sign the papers to sell the house he was drunk and laughing and I was crying. He laughed at my tears and as soon as he had finished signing disappeared to the Pub.
To be continued...........
.
