Anyone know about letting flats?

This is a bit of a long shot but it suddenly occurred to me that some bloggy people might possibly be able to give us some advice. I wonder if anyone reading this has experience of letting a flat in Scotland?

Our beloved Daughter 2 is now, much to our sorrow, living in London. She lost her Edinburgh job (in architecture - the building trade is in great difficulties) and managed to get one in London, and is also about to marry her chap, who's trying to make it as an actor in London. As you can imagine, they're rather short of money. She has a salary; he doesn't. She needs to rent out her Edinburgh flat in order to pay its mortgage.

On her behalf, I've recently interviewed two letting agents. Each has a slightly different system of charges for the various parts of its services, but these come to much the same in the end, ie they charge for finding a tenant and then take really quite a lot of her money (15% of the rent, plus VAT) for acting as the point of contact for repairs etc. There shouldn't be that many repairs in the flat, which is newly decorated and only twentyish years old.

Alternatively, both agents would simply find a tenant and then leave it to us (one of them would provide the lease as well) but both charge quite steeply for this - presumably to discourage one from taking this option.

And I'm wondering whether we dare sidestep the agents and just do it ourselves.

However, being cautious people, we're uncertain about this - not so much the maintenance of repairs and so on, but the legal side of it: the lease, the credit checks, the salary checks and so on. And getting tenants out at the end of the lease, if necessary. On the other hand, now I'm retired, with more free time, it seems a bit daft to hand over all that money. She's paying far more for her (one-bedroom, rented) flat in London than she'll get for her two-bedroom flat here, even if she got all of the rental money.

Does anyone out there have experience of letting in Scotland? - do you use a letting agent, and if so who, and if not - well, what do you think? I would be really grateful for any advice.

I can't tell you how horrible it is to go down to her flat and see it empty - well, it's not empty; it has the furniture. But empty of her stuff.

Flaming July

British people always regard themselves as being obsessed with the weather. I don't know whether we really are - after all, we don't often get extreme weather that threatens safety. Quite the opposite - it's often coolish or warmish or wettish or dryish. But it's not predictable. You can't plan on having a party or wedding outside. It might be nice. Or it might not.

Yesterday, for example, it was a bit drippy in the morning but in the afternoon the sun shone. You couldn't call it exactly hot, but as Mr Life and I walked home, westwards, from town, it was almost dazzling and he was a bit warm in his jacket.

Today it's dull and rather chilly. One's fingers think nostalgically of gloves and one's nose is slighly nipped. I went to the Co-op and the lady in front of me in the queue said to the lady behind the counter: "D'you think that's the summer over now?"

She nodded gloomily. "And I can't remember which day it fell on."

PS Now, in the afternoon, it's sunny and I've been sitting in the garden. With my cardigan on, mind you. But the washing's drying nicely on the line.

Where the heart lies

I was watching "Gardeners' World" the other day. A very posh lady was showing the presenter, Joe Swift, round her lovely garden in Somerset. They ended the tour at the opposite end of the (enormous) lawn from her (enormous) house. She was telling him how much she loved her planters - and they stopped beside an (enormous) stone urn overflowing with flowering plants.

"And this is the most important one," she said, "because when I die, my heart's going to be buried in it."

I don't know whether he's just a good actor - Joe Swift is, after all, the son of the actor Clive Swift and the novelist Margaret Drabble - but his eyes widened in apparent shock. (Huh? Yuck!)

You really have to imagine the lady's exceedingly posh, drawling, English accent. She went on, "I've asked the butcher" (oh no!) "but he won't do it." (Pronounced "wayoooon't dooooo it".)

She gave the teeniest of posh, you-can't-rely-on-the-working-classes shrugs. "So my son will do it."

A guest post from Cassie

Today has NOT been a good one. In the morning, our servants wouldn't let us out into the garden after they came to release us from our nightly imprisonment in the kitchen. We ALWAYS go out into the garden first thing. We were Suspicious.

After a while, they came with cages. Padded cages, certainly - but cages. The smalller servant picked me up. I squirmed and squeaked and waved my arms and legs, making myself as spread-out as possible. The larger servant came and - well, the word might be crammed - crammed me into the cage. Cheek! By this time, Sirius - who isn't the sharpest cat in the world but isn't a complete fool - was under the table. The larger servant went and rudely grabbed him. Sirius doesn't have my spirit. He submitted to being shoved - cramming was not necessary - into his cage.

Off we all went in the car. I squeaked most of the way, making myself sound as pathetic as I could. I know how to administer the emotional blackmail. Sirius yowled all the way. He's a wimp.

At the Nasty Man's place, we got examined by the Man. Sirius got praised - "perfect" was the word used of him. He hadn't put on any weight (which is entirely unfair because he stuffs his face at every opportunity) and is in excellent health. Then he got stuck with a needle and seemed relieved to get back into his cage. The Man then turned his attention to me and said that I had put on weight! Huh. He did admit that I wasn't fat, though. As if! I'm simply very fluffy. Then I got stuck with a needle.

At last we got home again and we both bolted out into the garden and stayed there. We might have considered coming back to enjoy a well-deserved rest on the sofa but the larger servant started noisily sawing up bits of wood in the kitchen (covering it with sawdust - the smaller servant wasn't totally thrilled either but the large one said it might rain so he didn't want to do it outside).

Eventually he finished making the big noise but by then we were totally offended and had decided to teach them a lesson and hide outside. It was quite nice and sunny outside so it suited us quite well anyway.

But then: all that horrible bangy flashy stuff started up in the sky and it began to rain VERY HARD. Again! The smaller servant has put these photos up on my blog - they may look like yesterday's but in fact the flowerbeds were even fuller of water this time.

We do not approve.

Sirius, who doesn't have my moral fibre, caved in and went back inside when the servants called but I stayed out for a long time. I became very wet. But I think I made my point.

Look, there's the smaller servant waving to you in the puddle after the sun came out again. That really is a very short haircut she got last time. Her hairdresser has a mind of her own - just like me.

By the way, there's another thing: every time the phone rings, she leaps towards it as if she was expecting some news. But so far, there doesn't seem to be anything special happening. We don't like new things. I'm not sure that this bodes well...

Rain rain rain

I was on the point of going to the supermarket when it suddenly started to thunder and pour: the sort of weather that we don't normally get in Scotland. We get rain, yes, but usually soft damp mists of it or random slashes driven by the wind, not these cataracts thumping down in straight lines from the clouds.

Sirius Cat was in the living room with me and was very disturbed by all the bangs and flashes. Somehow the idea of going in the car lost its appeal. "Appeal" - going to the supermarket? Though in fact I should be very grateful that I can do so: go and buy food any time, unlike those poor refugees in Africa.

So I watched the rain. It doesn't look as impressive in the photos as it looked in reality. The rain flooded the flowerbed a few feet from me, threatening to overflow and - surely it couldn't come into the house? See how it's level with the path; the bed is several inches below it, normally.


I was worried about Cassie, who was nowhere to be seen, so I called for her at the front and the back doors; no sign. Then I went back into the living room and she suddenly shot out from behind the sofa and bolted for Daughter 2's room.

There's the rain bouncing on the road, with a mysterious UFO hovering in the driveway. The rain must be the Martians' fault, then...

Both cats are now beneath Daughter 2's bed. The Martians won't get you there, fluffy ones.

And now the sky is brightening so I suppose I have no excuse not to go and gather some supplies for us and my mother. (No one has come to view her flat for over two weeks. Deep gloom. Curses on those bankers.)

Phoning the authorities

I'm putting in the time here while trying to persuade the authorities to take back my late aunt's wheelchair and wheeled walker thing. I keep being fobbed off by people who say that I've been put through to the wrong place, and would I like the direct number for the right place?

And then that number's engaged, and eventually I get through and they say that they're not the right place; would I like the direct number for the right place?

Anyway, on Monday Mr Life took the day off and we went to South Queensferry, a small town very near here. There it is, above. I was trying out my new camera.

This is the Forth Rail Bridge. On the other side of the estuary is the county - or as it likes to call itself, the Kingdom - of Fife. (Ring, ring. Number engaged.)

Looking the other way, this is the Forth Road Bridge. (Ring, ring.. no answer...)

We had a cup of coffee. (Wrong place again. Try another number.)

This was our view while drinking the coffee. (Ah! Hurray! Someone who admits to owning the wheelchair and will come and collect it!)

We strolled along the pier. This is the sort of thing that retired people do, I believe.

Ah! Hurray! Someone who admits to owning the wheeled walker and will come and collect it!

Now I can go and do a bit of dusting. Or I might just have a tiny look at some blogs...

Gifts

Happy Independence Day, United States. As ever, I imagine you've been celebrating my birthday with fireworks and barbecues. Hope you had fun.

Above are the lovely flowers that my department gave me on my (have I mentioned this before, Fran?) last day of work.

On the same day, this wonderful array of gifts for Unborn Grandson arrived from Dianne of A Month of Sundays - http://whatisstarbucking.blogspot.com/ - who with amazing generosity sent them all the way from Colorado. All hand-made and beautiful. She had created them, and a pink set, for her potential grandson/granddaughter, who turned out to be the most beautiful granddaughter. So these things in "boy"colours have come to Daughter 1. Aren't bloggy people so kind?

Here is Daughter 1 admiring the shawl, or as Dianne calls it, afghan.

And the lovely quilt.

Son-in-law models the cute hat.

Where are we in these pictures? We're having afternoon tea in the Roxburghe Hotel in Charlotte Street. Do we do this a lot? No. This is the view from the window beside our table.

When I was a girl, I went to school near this hotel and used to pass it every day on my way to a long, boring bus journey home. As I trudged past, hungry and tired (cue violins...) I used to see ladies sitting by the window having afternoon tea. And I thought: when I grow up I'm going have nothing to do but to sit there doing that.

And of course it never happened. Until Saturday, when Daughter 2, home for the weekend from London, had summoned the troops to foregather there to celebrate (slightly early) my 59bth birthday.

Another view out of the window, on to Charlotte Square with its Georgian architecture. This is part of Edinburgh's New Town ("new" as in built between 1760 and 1830).

The square has gardens in the centre. Look! Sunshine! It was actually quite hot.

Here's Daughter 2 with my mum.

And with her dad.

Son and his beloved.

Daughter 1 with hers. Grandson is due in two days now! I wonder if anyone's told him.

The afternoon tea was rather good. Not perhaps healthy. But delicious.

We managed to eat an impressive amount of it - though did have to admit defeat eventually. However, not before Son had popped a final, thumb-sized éclair into his mouth. "It's just like eating a big vitamin pill," he declared.

Thank you so much, family - and particularly to the world's greatest organiser of celebrations, darling Daughter 2. Now, alas, she has returned to London with a dose of tonsillitis. I do hope she feels better soon.

Endings and beginnings

It was a nice sunny day as I walked from the car park towards the main building, glancing across at the sports department.

Up the steps and through the revolving doors for my last day at work.

Up the stairs.

The door of the workroom, with my name on it, among those of my colleagues. Later in the day, I made a new notice, without my name, for the first day back in August.

Some of the stuff on the filing cabinets is mine, mid-clear. Most of it isn't.

Here's my desk, almost ready for me to leave it. My colleague is going to have it next semester because it's beside the window.

She's in Zambia at the moment, on the Book Bus. Do check out her blog - http://deborah-buscatcher.blogspot.com/

Then my colleagues and I came home and had lunch here.

And now I'm retired. Gosh.

Ten, nine, eight, seven...

I realise that this may seem like a lo-o-ng countdown to retirement (thank you for your good wishes on this momentous development in my life) but... one more day to go. Or in fact, half a day. And then I'll be an OAP.

And the cats and I can sit around all day, snoozing.

Well, possibly the cats may do this more than I do. But still. Freedom. Ish.


Mind you, there's a minor snag. I found the other day that my purse was rather empty. "Oh dear," I said. "I don't have much money."

"Better get used to it, dear," said Mr Life.

Dr Neil's Garden

Yesterday, Daughter 1 and I visited a garden. It's on the shore of Duddingston Loch and at the foot of Arthur's Seat. It looks as if it's in the middle of the country, but in fact the loch and the hill are within the city, towards the east.

The garden was made in the 1970s by two doctors who lived and practised not far away. It was just grassland when they took the land over.

Here's Daughter 1 sitting on a bench. You wouldn't really guess that she's due to give birth in 12 days.

Looking towards the university area of the city.

Looking up towards the hill.

Typical Edinburgh midsummer weather...

The tower to her left was built by the local curling club as a clubhouse. (Curling as in pushing stones across the ice, as opposed to tonging one's hair.)

Yes, you're right; it was about to rain.

Looking over the garden wall. I believe the Irish might call the weather "soft".

Again, looking over the wall at the ducks, Canada geese and rabbits. They looked bigger to the naked eye.

Tomorrow I go back to work for my very last Monday. No more Monday morning feelings for me.

Gulp.

Poor Mr Life labours on for another nine months. Not that he exactly grudges me my retirement. Do you, Mr Life? No, of course not.

Book a flight over, Molly, to give me those patchwork lessons?

The end of the tunnel

One more week of work to go. It's a very very strange feeling.

I really liked Anon's comment the other day: this is exactly how I'd hope that my retirement goes. I'm a bit dubious, what with my mother being about to move in with us, my general weediness and my imminent grandmotherhood (though I'm delighted about this bit). Anyway, over to Anon. I shall stick this to the fridge or something.



This will be the time to grasp the "if only I had the time" opportunities. Approach it in a work-like way. Make lists of all those things you thought about doing. Do you still want to do them? Invest in yourself. The success will be down to how you approach it.

Like, I imagine, most women (and some men) I have spent my entire adult life not doing things I wanted to do because there were too many things that I felt I had to do. I wonder if Anon is a retired person who's actually managed to take her (his?) own advice, or if she/he (but I think it's a she) is gritting her teeth and waiting for retirement, determined to start living the life she wants to.

Now I must go up and spend the night at my mother's house, as I've done three times a week for the past four and a half years.