CALL off the search party. You can stop wondering. I am the one. It was me. Last month, as the rest of the nation switched off the lights to keep down the fuel bills, and families huddled around televisions showing non-stop coverage of 'The Biggest Crisis Since 1929' (which had nothing to do with a lost remote one minute before the start of Coronation Street) I was the Scot who moved house.
As others sat on their hands I, and I alone, had the confidence to step into the faltering property market. I await my call of gratitude from the Prime Minister or at the very least his Chancellor of the Exchequer.
At least, that's the official ve
rsion. What really happened is that we agreed to buy the new place several months ago. At that time, the credit crunch felt like something happening in a far-off land. House sales – and prices – were still holding up in Scotland. We were, the experts predicted, well placed to weather the storm. So much for the experts.
As the weeks rolled by between agreeing the price and moving-in day, our confidence fell daily along with the FTSE 100. Like children hanging on to a rising balloon, we wondered if we should let go and jump to safety. But we really, really wanted the house. And by the time the balloon popped we were in the ever-thinning air of a full-on property slump. The missives were concluded and the house was ours. So was a much bigger mortgage.
Just six months ago, people were elbowing each other out of the way to get their money into property. But we found out last week that in August mortgage lending fell by a staggering 95% compared with July. Then came the news that Scottish house prices had fallen, by 7.1% year-on-year. The property ladder is starting to feel pretty lonely and rather rickety.
You can stop sneering, by the way. Economic-collapse-leaves-journalist-stuck-with-larger-house. It's hardly a tragedy, I know. I won't be vying with Third World children for your charity donations this Christmas and JK Rowling is unlikely to dip into her £3m a week income to bail me out. (Though if you could see your way clear, Joanne…)
The downturn would be a lot easier to take if the new place wasn't in need of so much work. Every carpet needs lifted. Every wall needs scraped of wallpaper, which, being gold and embossed with Latin phrases, is more retro than Rick Astley. The kitchen would reduce Kim and Aggie to tears.
No problem, consoled my mates. With the economy in freefall and no one (sane) moving home, tradesmen will be falling over themselves for the work. I wish. In case you hadn't noticed, the Poles have all gone home, their pockets stuffed with enough used tenners to build Matka that gas pipeline she always wanted.
The result? Even if demand has declined, supply is even further down – and it is being provided by hundreds of native joiners, plasterers and sparkies, all of whom have dusted off with glee that telltale intake of breath, shake of the head and muttered "costya…" that once before greeted any attempt to obtain a rough estimate of the likely price of a job.
And if you play the credit crunch card in an attempt to get a discount they inform you that, actually, they can pick and choose their jobs because in these straightened times everyone is spending a few thousand here and there on home improvements rather than forking out a fortune on a big move. Except for yours truly, of course.
All of which unfortunately heralds the return of Bodger Jones. He was the hero of a small, jokey column I wrote some years ago for this newspaper's property magazine. Bodger's weekly tales of his latest DIY jobs and the messes they got him into were usually based on my own cackhanded efforts. When my last house was finally in order I put away my toolbox and killed Bodger with some glee (or, rather, Mrs Jones did).
But, like Bobby Ewing stepping glistening from the shower, it is time for Bodger to return from the grave, one hand holding his trusty hammer, the other bandaged after his latest mishap. First up, there's the hall to re-plaster and paint. Then the cornice to repair in the kitchen. Then a new wardrobe to fit in the master bedroom. Then… well, you get the picture.
Again, I don't expect your sympathy. And hopefully I won't need it either. Like most of the endangered species that is house-buyers, I view a home as a long-term investment. Somewhere to go grizzled and grey as you watch your kids grow up, before they pack you off dribbling to a home and sell the place to raise enough money to buy a tank of petrol. That'll hopefully be at least 20 years off, which should mean I have time to re-paper that last wall and possibly even pay off the mortgage.
For, despite the current gloom, the economy will pick up and the house market will recover. The downturn may seem uniquely global, but we have been here before. When I hear the experts (them again) banging on about the country stumbling into the worst recession for 80 years I wonder if they've forgotten the three million who were unemployed in the early 1980s and the mass repossessions of 10 years later. Whisper it, folks, but the value of your home can go up as well as down.
And if that isn't enough to increase confidence in the economy, we can surely rest assured now that Peter Mandelson is back on the case. Now, there's a man who knows a thing or two about paying back a mortgage.
The full article contains 994 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
