At twelve thirty the front door
opened for the house inspection. For 30 minutes 30 or so people file in and
out, shuffle past each other into the tiny bathroom-laundry, open cupboards and
wardrobes, stand in front of the gas-log fire, peer out the windows, silver
birches to the south, brick walls and roofscape to the east.
By coincidence I receive an
email last night from Linzee, former Berengarra colleague. I mention I’m going
to an auction in Richmond. She emails back that she’s an aficionado of Richmond
real estate. She and her husband own a Richmond investment property, her son’s
place is nearby.
When I climb the stairs Linzee
is at the top. Her son and his girlfriend turn up a few minutes later. Nice to
have company I didn’t expect or ask for. We chat as we poke about in the house.
Back in the street, the
auction. No second bid. The auctioneer gets to ‘going twice’ so I stick up a
finger, but the 410 bid isn’t mine. Someone on the other side of the street
gets the nod. Suddenly the bidding ramps up and we race by tens to 490—and
stall. At ‘going twice’ the auctioneer retreats to the house to consult the
owner.
The middle-aged woman has the
bid and is not going to be beaten. The auctioneer offers to up the bid by one
thousand only and a new bid comes from behind the fence. We increase now
tentatively by thousands to 495 then suddenly by five to 500. The determined
woman has the bid still. All the time she’s giving running commentary on the
auction’s progress on her mobile.
At 510 the place is hers. It’s
100 grand more than the bank is prepared to lend me. I’m a spectator, as I
expected. Linzee, son and girlfriend and I stand around a while and chat. The
girlfriend thought it would go at 700 plus. The son advises me to attend every
auction going to get the hang of it all.
Rock on.
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