ambit claim

Just showered after a 52 km ride in the Yarra Valley, I plonk my bod in the comfy red chair in my home office. The work phone rings in the dining room where I’ve set up the work computer. The number on screen means nothing to me, nor the young woman’s voice that says hello, nor her name. The real estate company name is my clue.

Will I be attending this Saturday’s auction of the apartment I inspected last week? Yes, I will. Would I like to know the details: the section 32, all applicable fees and charges? Yes, I would. She says she’ll email the document to me. Indeed it drops into my cyber-inbox the moment she’s off my phone.

Over a toasted tomato, cheese and onion sanger I scroll through it: the encumbrances (none), caveats (none), the rates (higher than expected), the owners corp fees (higher than expected), and the minutes of their previous meeting (interesting).

I need to get off my arse and visit the bank. If I bid at the auction (unlikely), and happen to be successful (extremely unlikely), I’ll need a deposit. I also need to know how much I can afford to bid.

    

I step up to the counter and pose my questions to a rotund woman named Dora. You’ll need to see Kylie, she says, our lender. She waddles off, comes back to tell me Kylie’s having a cow of a day, no lunch yet and it’s after three. Can I come back in 20 minutes?

I trot off to the bike shop for new cleats and a scan of the merchandise for anything I don’t have by the boxful in the bike cupboard at home. On my way back to the bank I spy two desperate women sucking fags in a dank gap about a metre wide between buildings.

I sit on the bank sofa for another quarter hour. Kylie finally appears, moans as she escorts to an office, not hers. She looks a bit the worse for wear. I recognise her as one of the women fagging between buildings, can smell it on her.

I explain my finances and she takes my plastic card, calls up my details on screen. She whacks heaps of figures into her spread sheet; I’ve no idea what she’s mumbling about most of the time. The upshot is that if the bids don’t go beyond the real estate agent’s estimate, I might be a bidder.

The bank is well closed when we emerge from the office that isn’t hers. A blank counter check is drawn up. I fold it carefully, slide it into my wallet. It would seem that anything is possible.

Rock on.