Repo Man - Monday

The repossession notice always regurgitates an unpleasant reflux of mixed emotions in me. The unwelcome sight of another family who overstretched financially, in the naïve belief that property was the only one-way bet outside of a sporting bribe syndicate, doesn’t add much to the already shabby opinion the public has of my chosen profession – in this case it’s not enhanced by the fact that M our mortgage man tucked them into the secondary lender liar loan only twenty-four months ago.

‘Do you think they’ll still be there?’ Queries trainee F querulously, as we arrive outside the somehow now discredited block of maisonettes. The home we are repossessing identified by a long-established overflow leak, the streaked brickwork resembling a mossy tearstain.

The about to be ex-owners are usually long gone to rented, family, or council accommodation, if they have enough kids to qualify. But just occasionally they’ll still be there, deep in denial, and on one memorable occasion brandishing a lump hammer.

The bailiff greets us with the resigned air of a man who’s seen it all before, which he has, as I remember him when we were both sporting narrower ties and waistbands seventeen years ago, when the last downturn really bit.

‘Ready?’ Asks the bailiff as he checks his watch and paperwork and prepares to bang on the peeling front door, as the locksmith stoops beside me then rather ominously withdraws his own chunky hammer from a tool bag.

Several echoing bangs on the tarnished fox door knocker later, and in the absence of a reply the court appointed official gives the go ahead and the cordless drill whirs, turbine-like, into action.

There’s no doubt the ousted owners are long gone, I realise, as we fight through the junk mail behind the just liberated lock and survey the wreckage. It’s not unheard of but this one involves a level of impotent-rage and dexterity, you can only grudgingly admire.

‘What happened?’ Asks F incredulously as the bailiff and I exchange knowing glances. Every light switch has been removed leaving ominous looking wiring exposed from the plaster. Every socket and overhead fitting has also been stripped bare. Then as we move into the lounge, a raggedy hole indicates where the now appropriately named random stone fireplace used to sit.

‘Not too pleased to be leaving then?’ Jokes the locksmith as he hands me a set of shiny new front door keys and moves to secure the kitchen door. Only it’s not really a kitchen any more. Each unit, base and eye level has been removed and the only indication of a sink are the stubby white waste pipe and twin copper hot and cold feeds thrusting through the concrete floor.

‘Scope for improvement, suit DIY enthusiast?’ Quips the mortice lock mirth maker, as he replaces the rear door mechanism with practiced dexterity.
‘Pretty comprehensive job,’ agrees the bailiff as we move back to the bare lounge and stop in our tracks.

Eventually I ask F if he can spot anything missing, as this is a new one even for me. To be fair to the fool he manages to list; radiators, skirting and those curvy bits round the doorframes – architraves – before I’m forced to ask him where the bedrooms are.

Now I dislike surveyors with a passion. Their nervy valuations jeopardising hard to come by sales, as they try to second-guess litigious hindsight-driven scrutiny by lenders snatch-back teams somewhere in the future. But they do carry stepladders in their car.

‘First time for everything, I guess.’ Speculates the bailiff as we climb the void where the stairs used to be. The bathroom is as long gone as the borrower and a brutal gap in each bedroom indicates where the incoming owner might care to site their new built in wardrobes. The hole where the hot water cylinder sat is so cavernous that in times gone by I’d have been tempted to write it up as a third bedroom/box room.

‘How do I make an offer?’ Queries the locksmith as he leaves.
He’ll need a safe occupation, so with things as they are he’s as good a buyer as any, I reckon.