trouble

This story begins 11 years ago. Three neat brick units are erected on the large strangely-shaped block behind my original 1920s wooden cottage. Unit 4 is Mike’s first investment property and he comes round to rig up a sprinkler system in our shared driveway, our common territory, our body corporate. He’s having a whale of a time with his new toy.

Gerry invests in Unit 2 right behind me and Jim in Unit 3 in the far back corner. Jim already has other investment properties. I’m the only owner occupier. Tenants move into the new brick units. Doing the dishes, I observe them all coming and going from my kitchen window. We never speak: we all mind our own business.

   

Our first body corporate meeting is at Jim’s manicured palace in the nouveau riche sector of Mooroolbark. Mike, Gerry and I want to self-manage but Jim bulldozes us into appointing a manager. He bluffs and blusters and hectors us into appointing his man, Brendan. We cave in to the strength of his conviction that proper property management is necessary.

Brendan turns out to be a pathetic manager, complying with almost no legal requirement: no common seal, no plaque at the entry to the property with our BC number and contact details, no annual meetings, and meagre financial accounting.

In time Dan and Joyce buy Unit 2 from Gerry and Fio and Alvena purchase Unit 4 from Mike, whose passion for investing in property has curdled. They live on site like me and we all want to self-manage. I am delegated to ring Brendan on our behalf with some curly questions. Before I get one out he offers to resign. His management fees barely cover his costs, he says.

I accept his resignation, but we don’t tell Jim because we know we’re in for a fight, and we want to fore-arm ourselves. But out of the blue Jim appears last evening. He calls first on a bewildered Fio who speaks little English. Then Jim and Dan almost come to blows: they hate each other. Dan claims Jim owes him money and won’t pay.

I know none of this until Jim rings my bell. It’s almost dark and I’m on the couch in just a sarong. Jim disparages my taste in evening wear before sounding off about ‘the mad old bastard’, saying he’ll ‘tip him up’ if Dan lays a hand on him again. I’m in the dark.

I detest this man and feel sullied for hours after he leaves.

Things are all out in open now and trouble is brewing.

Rock on.