This is an open letter, a desperate one.
I am given ten minutes to view a flat, which end up being less, because the estate agent struggles to open the door for a couple of them — to be honest, if I had extra-long manicured nails like hers I would too.
The person scheduled after me is also already here, walking up and down the street. I do a swift check of this gorgeous flat. I ask whether the neighbours upstairs are fine, the stage agent responds:
“I have no clue, sorry”.
I ask whether the back part of the patio (the garden bit) is shared with the people upstairs, the estate agent swiftly responds “no, it’s all yours” But then notices the upstairs neighbours’ laundry hanging in the sun, and backtracks “Oh I guess no”.
The estate agent knows nothing about the electrics or gas installation in the flat. Because the place is light with a modern kitchen and wooden floors I instantly want it.
Since I am the first one to view the flat, my hopes are up. I express interest in renting, but I’m told: “Well, this is how it works: today we are doing several hours of viewings and we collect the information from everyone who expresses interest. Then we present all of this to the landlady, and she picks whoever she prefers.”
As I exit the flat, the guy after me is still there. I cannot make out whether he is giving me the stink-eye, or whether it’s a faint smile but he’s just as jaded and broken as me from playing Brighton’s version of Battle Royale: Finding A Decent Place to Live.
Less than ten minutes after the viewing, I am on the phone with the agency managing the let of the flat, being asked all sorts of questions:
“Why are you moving?”
“How old are you?”
“Are you willing to pay one year in advance (£12,000)? Because that would help”.
I say yes to everything, shaking, eager to be picked. I am like one of those guys on dating apps, “ask me everything, I am an open book”. Four days later I am told the landlady chose someone else.
This is renting in Brighton.
There are flats I don’t even get to view because, as I am literally walking to the appointment, I get a call saying someone has just put down a deposit.
I’ve seen tiny one-bedroom flats that are available to rent for upwards of £1,200 a month, with cracked window frames and patches of damp on the walls.
There are places estate agents won’t show me because the viewing slots filled up within minutes of the place appearing on the market.
There are places that some estate agents won’t show me even though I can afford them, because the mathematic formula they use to deem me eligible suddenly becomes more demanding when you’re self-employed. I recently watched a friend of mine spend four days making calculations, contacting guarantors, despite the fact they work full time during the week, and hold three extra jobs at the weekends. The agents had agreed to show them the flat as part of the process, but on the day of the viewing stood them up because they “believed” they couldn’t make the numbers.
This is renting in Brighton.
I am a single, hard-working professional with a small dog.
We currently live in a tiny, studio flat with several leaks, the biggest one right above an electric cooker and oven. The flat’s original oven exploded while I cooked pizza. The electrics behind it were loose and partly burnt, hence the sudden fireworks. There is also mould everywhere.
This flat is not only a safety hazard for my lungs, but it is a fire hazard. If the fridge or the electric kitchen unit underneath that huge leak, and that are next to my front door, were to catch fire, my wee dog and I would be toast. Our only escape, the one window in this flat, does not open.
My landlady is increasing my rent, despite having made no improvements.
After I sent her pictures of my belongins covered in mould, she sent some guys who were clearly unlicensed and unexperienced to “fix” the roof. All they did was move debris around. She sent another guy to take one look at my window and said it needed replacing.
There are patches of mould that reappear after scrubbing them down two days prior. I talk so much about mould and leaks that Instagram began targeting me with ads about miracle products to tackle this issue. I bought said miracle products. My bathroom now looks fantastic.
Apart from demanding more money, my landlady has asked me to sign a new lease tying me down to this property. She came to my flat giving no prior notice three weeks ago — legally, she has to inform me in writing, 24h before intending to visit me. She slipped the new agreement under the door, even though I told her I would not sign anything. The new agreement states that the flat is in “good condition.” It also says “no pets allowed” even though she knows I live with a small dog, and the previous lease agreed to this.
I need a new home.
But it isn’t happening, despite being a wonderful tenant, having rented for years and never once damaged a property. Despite coming with a tiny dog who is house-trained, and who comes with me everywhere when I am not working from home.
I am responsible, hard-working, successful content manager and writer, pay all my bills, have never been in debt. I pay my credit card fully each month. I have a fantastic credit score.
Desperate, I even applied to the share-to-buy programme, since paying a mortgage plus the monthly fees is actually cheaper than renting. It is aimed at people who do not earn enough to buy, but because I am self-employed, the math, once more, works against me, meaning I actually need to double my earnings to be elligible.
“Well that’s what comes with wanting to live in Brighton.”
Yes, yes I do want to live in Brighton. It is my home, and it is my human right to choose the one place that is convenient and works for me. Just because “the market” states this city as desirable and private landlords use this as a reason to hike prices, it does not mean we are asking for the moon. It’s like the rhetoric reasoning that millennials who pay for streaming services or avocado toast should not complain about not being able to get on the property ladder. It is rhetoric like that that is used to mask the fact that unless you have parents with disposable money, you can’t afford a decent home, no matter how hard you work. I work an average of 9 hours every day, and still cannot find a safe, healthy, bright home for me and my dog.
The are no words to express the levels of stress I’m currenlty under. I cannot sleep, my body physically hurts, I cry every day out of sheer exhaustion. I have no energy despite being a physically fit, active person. The heart palpitations I got during my late mother’s sickness, have returned.
I don’t need therapy, I don’t need to follow a healthier diet — I am vegetarian and barely even drink. I need a home. I have the right to a decent, leak-free roof over my head.
And this is where I need your help.
If you know of any leads, if you can be of help, hit me up. If there is nothing you can do, please share this post.
Send it to everyone you know. Thank you so much for reading.
*** EDITED ****
Thank you to everyone who read, shared, highlighted this post, sent it to their friends, contacted me to say how it had resonated with them, especially those who recognised me and stopped me in the middle of the street (!!!).
Jarvis and I have a new home, a safe, leak-free, mold-less, comfortable home… and most importantly,it comes with windows that open :)
THANK YOU ❤
