As per my previous post, we are back in the housing market.  Between the previous search and this one, our viewing total has reached something in the range of over 40 properties.  Luckily, there seems to be better stuff on the market this time around, and we found a few places we really like: one being a three bedroom house right across from a great primary school.

This little house was one my faves because it had an outdoor garden, three bedrooms, and was in a great location. The school, literally directly opposite, has fantastic ratings and would be a great place for Maddie.  The house is well kept and would require little upon moving in.  And the location was close to local shops. Mark and I went to see it, and we scheduled a second viewing for his dad just four days later.

On a separate property viewing excursion myself, my mom (who is in town for 3 weeks!) and my stepmother-in-law Brigid drove by to have a look at the outside of the property.  Brigid’s only concern, and rightfully so, was what was going to happen to the unused shop next to the house.  As she pointed out, it wouldn’t be very desirable if something like a liquor store were to go in there and be open into the wee hours of the morning, selling booze to late night patrons.  Jokingly, I added “or a porn shop.”

Yesterday my mom, Simon, and I went to view the property for the 2nd time.  Simon noted the drawn curtains above the shop and the possibility that someone rented the space.  He then made his way over to the local video store to inquire about the neighborhood.

The 30 something year old guy behind the counter was very helpful, he described bits of the neighborhood, what it was like, and what could be expected.  Then, Simon asked what the unused shop across the way used to be.

“It’s a brothel.” The store clerk replied, unphased.

Mom and I laughed, thinking it was a joke.  Apparently not.  Apparently, the “unused shop” and the flat space above it has been and continues to be a house of ill repute.  The clerk knew the guy who ran the brothel as well, as he was a patron of the video rental store.  Apparently, pimps also enjoy renting movies when they are not… you know… pimping.

The clerk even knew the couple who owned the prospective property on a first name basis, and knew that they knew about the hookers next door as well.  This was infuriating.  How dare they let me fall in love with their house, only to simply forget the fact of mentioning “oh, by the way, there is a whore house next door.”  What the fuck?

My question was how could such a thing exist across from a primary school?  The clerk replied that occasionally new people move into the neighborhood, find out what it is, and bring around a petition to be signed in order to try to get rid of the brothel, but nothing ever becomes of it. So there it stays.

We humored the estate agent by looking a second time nonetheless and, when prompted about the unused shop, he claimed the planning permission stated it was to become a “washing machine repair shop.”

Cue eyeroll.  He knows, how could you not?

At the end of the day the place was in a great location and right across from a school that would’ve served Maddie well. But, in raising a child and especially a daughter, it was all moot thanks to the whore house operating right next door.  And as Simon pointed out, it wasn’t so much the girls and the sex but the types of men the place would attract, as well as the other things that tend to go along with such a business… such as drugs and violence.

At the end of the day, it really is all about location location location.

Back to the drawing board, but hey… we got a funny story out of it.

It’s been a frustrating week, which is why I probably haven’t gone into labor yet.   We were set to close on a property, and it should’ve been done mid June, end of June at the latest as agreed upon by the vendor… just in time for the baby to arrive.  Everything was in place, the survey done, the mortgage ready.   We had even begun to pack up little bits around the flat in preparation for the closing.  Then, without warning, the vendor stopped responding.  The estate agency could no longer get ahold of him, and the property sale came to a halt.

Yesterday we received the news that the estate agency dropped him as a client, on account of the fact he could be heard in the background saying “Tell them I’m not here” when they called his place of employment as a final effort to get a hold of him.  Turns out, he never had any intention of selling his property.  It came to light there was a lean on the property with a debt collection agency and, in order to prevent repossession of the property, he had to at least appear to be trying to sell.  In reality, it was a game he was playing to avoid the collectors… a game which has cost money in solicitor and survey fees, and four months of our time.

But this isn’t over.  We called the collection agency and let them know of the scam.  They agreed quite openly they were holding off waiting for our sale to go through.  Now, he will have the collectors at his door once more. And that’s not the end of it.  He will rue the day he fucked us about.

So the situation has left us at square one just as the baby is due to arrive.  We have to begin the property hunt all over again, only this time with a newborn.  Our current tiny, one bedroom flat will be good until Maddie outgrows the moses basket and needs a proper crib (which we have, collecting dust at Mark’s father’s house).  Given the property size, we have nowhere we can put a crib.  All the baby and nursery stuff I had bought now collects dust instead of being used, and the beautiful nursery I had in mind for Maddie is no longer within reach.

But I am going to try to remain positive and simply think that perhaps there was an even better property out there we were destined to find, and all of this had to happen so that we would be in the right place at the right time in order to find it.

We had 14 property viewings scheduled today.  We’ve seen 10 thus far and have 4 more to  go later this evening. I am exhausted and, to top it off, had a midwife appointment this afternoon among viewings.

I’m 5 days past due now, and my midwife attempted to do a membrane sweep on me in order to hopefully get things to kick off, but was only able to do a partial sweep due to the fact my cervix is still high up.  Yep, high.  And doing nothing I might add, I am not dilated at all. Not even one lousy centimeter.  It’s disheartening, because it feels like my body is a lame duck, unable to go through with this on it’s own, naturally.

So I am scheduled in at the hospital next week to begin other induction techniques.  If the inserted capsules they will try next do not work to soften and open the cervix, I will have to go in for a c-section.

What. The. Fuck.

I feel like the whole situation is being taken away from me.  I wanted a natural birth, I wanted to give birth vaginally, and it feels like the power (so to speak) of the experience is being stolen from me.  I don’t want to recover from major surgery on top of learning how to care for a newborn.  I don’t want to risk being paralyzed for life from an epidural.  I wanted to do this on my own and unless I go into labor in the next 6 days it’s all going to be taken from me.  I know the positive, at the end of the day, the baby will come out and I will have this beautiful, perfect newborn of my own.  But you know what? I am 41 weeks pregnant, I am hormonal, emotional, and crabby and it’s just how I feel right now.

So there.

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Drinks (not mine, obviously) in the country.

(yes. I am still pregnant)

This week has proved to be a trial of patience as our letting agency has decided that NOW is the time to begin repairs on our flat.  When they became aware we were moving, they took a sudden interest in addressing a number of the issues we brought to their attention previously, some from when we moved in TWO YEARS AGO.  Suddenly, our phones are ringing every morning with some contractor or maintenance man asking for an appointment to be made, as Leaders letting agency has told them they need to fix something in our flat.

Yesterday morning Mark called me and told me to be up and dressed as someone was coming around to check something in the flat , despite insistence it wasn’t a good time.  Let me ask you: have YOU ever stood in the doorway, having a contraction, while trying to carry on a conversation with a maintenance man about damp?  No. No you have not.  It’s not pleasant, by the way.  But at the end of the day, it’s not the maintenance man’s fault, and being rude to him would prove nothing.  So last night I emailed Leaders letting agency.  I don’t believe I was over the top rude, but I did make it clear that, chances were, we would still be here when the baby arrived and I was not going to work a newborn’s schedule around noisy and intrusive maintenance.

What really burns me about the situation is we gave them a long list of things that would need attending to when we first moved in August 2008. In fact, it was a list produced AT THEIR REQUEST.  Nothing ever came of anything that we listed for them.  Then, every 3 months or so when they come around to inspect the property, we brought up our concerns again and again, most of which were never addressed.  Now that they know they have to con someone else into renting the flat shortly, they have a bug up their collective asses to finally do something about the issues we outlined almost two years ago.

To this, I say no.

This seems to be a huge problem with a lot of businesses in the UK: sheer lack of customer service.  From what I hear from other people, they too are not happy with their letting agencies and the service they’ve received as well.  It’s almost as if certain industries got together and decided to just suck equally instead of actually trying to get renters / clients via good service.  And that’s where Leaders is: they don’t need to be the best, they just need to suck less than the worst in the industry.  Such an attitude towards people who throw hundreds of pounds a month at you for a service is piss poor, to say the least.

In my purse I carry with me a piece of paper.  The paper is ragged, worn, and dog-eared at the edges.   I received the letter on the 28th of November, 2009 from the UK Border Agency, confirming they have received my Indefinite Leave to Remain visa application, and the letter told me my reference number.  I’ve had this letter with me every day since then, every day for the last seven months.

Numerous times I called to check the status of my application, and the paper would be wrought in my hands, or scribbled upon as I anxiously waded through the options on the telephone, hoping to get through to the right people… hoping to have an answer.

The nerves came from a payment issue.  By February my application still had not been processed.  At this time, a fraudster took it upon himself to withdraw hundreds of pounds of my money from my bank account via paypal, and my bank instinctively canceled my debit card… the same debit card whose details were in the unprocessed application.

I called to give them new details, only to my horror they stated they would not be able to amend anything on my application.  So I was left to ask the only question which mattered:  What will happen when you try to process the payment?  The answer?  The application would be failed.

It was at this point I had to hand the phone over to my husband, as I could no longer breathe.  Image after image ran through my mind, scenarios of what my life would look like if I was suddenly not allowed to stay in the country legally.  I thought about losing my job and with it, my right to maternity leave. I thought about having to leave the country in order to apply again, and spending time away from my husband.  I thought about what it would look like to lose the flat in which we lived, because we would no longer be able to afford the rent if I lost my job.

The stress was unlike any I had ever felt before.  I cried on the couch, shaking with fear over what this meant for my future, and the future of our budding little family.  At the same time, I felt the overwhelming guilt that the stress I was feeling wasn’t healthy for the baby, at the time 4 months along.  But I couldn’t stop.  I couldn’t compose myself long enough to answer any of the questions Mark was trying to ask, I couldn’t even hear them being asked.  It felt as though this little life I had managed to built for myself and Mark over the last two years was going to be taken away from me.

Once I was able to, I messaged an immigration advisor I knew through an immigration board.  She gave me her number and I called, crying, that this was the worst case scenario.  But it wasn’t, as she told me.  She told me what I needed to do, that it would be sent back and I would appeal it, that it happens all the time.  I don’t honestly know what I would’ve done that day had I not had that conversation, for someone who knew the ropes to tell me it would be okay, that I wouldn’t lose my job or have to reapply.  The thank yous I have given do not adequately describe the gratitude I feel for having someone out there say it was all going to be okay.

I sent a letter.  I sent a letter to the Border Agency with a money order for the fee amount, explaining the situation and begging them to attach the money order to my application.  I then waited.  I waited several months, calling them to try to get some kind of update, any indication my money order letter was a success.  And in my hands was the original letter they sent me months ago.  Names and call dates written on it, the paper thinned at the creases where it had been folded time and time again, my application number standing off the page, a number I practically knew by heart.

May rolled around and I had still not heard anything.  My husband and I contacted the local Member of Parliament, who agreed to contact the Agency on our behalf.  We wrote two letters of formal complaint, and I sent half a dozen emails.  May turned to June, and still nothing.

Then today, as I went to the door to open it for a friend, I noticed I had a package.  I brought it inside and sat it down as we talked.  Glancing at it, I saw it was postmarked from Croydon, and suddenly I knew what it was.  I ripped it open, and inside was the binder containing everything I had worked so hard to collect and assemble over the last two years.  It was a record of my life, my marriage certificate, proof of where I lived and mail throughout the two year period proving it. It was a declaration: I exist, I live here, I have made a life for myself.

I opened the binder and found my passport beneath a letter from the Border Agency stating the application’s approval.  Nervously, I found the large stamp they placed in the back: Residence Permit.  I was granted the ability to remain in the country for an indefinite period of time.  The song and dance was over, the music stopped playing, and we could all finally go home.

Now I’ve removed the original letter from the Border Agency, dated the 28th of November, 2009, from my purse.  I no longer need to carry it, no longer need my application number close to hand, no longer need to stress the already worn fibers of the page between my fingers in yet another blood pressure raising phone call.  I finally have the visa.

I finally have it.