This was published 4 months ago
Opinion
Not all landlords are low rent. I should know
Jo Stubbings
Writer and reviewerLandlords have copped a lot of flak lately. The landlord – or “property baron” as certain Labor MPs call those with more than one property – is evidently akin to a modern-day Shylock; someone who fleeces tenants, negatively gears and positively lives it up on sparkling white Benetti yachts.
I’d like to evict that stereotype tout de suite.
Most landlords are good-hearted.Credit: Jessica Shapiro
Many landlords are property owners for the sole purpose of shoring up enough loot to live out a happy retirement, without government support. Some even have a heart, some a mortgage, and in some cases, wretched rental dramas worthy of an “R” rating.
Here’s what happened when I became a “property baron”.
I first met Lennie when I placed an ad to rent out my newly renovated one-bedroom flat. Of course, I’d heard all the arguments before. “Don’t rent out the property yourself.” “Agents are experienced professionals – let them handle it.” “Agents take all the worry out of late rent and leaky taps.” Yeah, and they take 5½ per cent commission.
I knew that Lennie was a superior bod the moment I met him. After all, he’d managed to decipher: “1 brm flt, lge c’yd, WW carp, OSP, HB, CAC”. He came into my life after several prospective tenants had dashed in and out of the place in three minutes flat on the day of the inspection.
Prospective tenants can be so hurtful. “Where’s the rest of the flat?” one of them asked. “You mean that’s a kitchen?” someone else said. Most painful was the bloke who stuck his head through the entrance and started laughing. Didn’t they understand that this flat was made for smallish people like myself who look on kitchens as a function and would much rather gaze from the bedroom onto a grt c’yd w LU sec gte?
Lennie had none of these objections. He liked the place. He liked the idea of standing side on to open the fridge door. He liked the idea of edging past the shower screen to get to the toilet. He liked that he could make it from the bed to the front door in three easy bounces. A deal was struck.
They say in the real estate game, with misty eyes and a hand placed firmly on the belly, that you get a gut feeling about tenants. I had that feeling myself when Lennie produced a wad of $100 notes to pay for his bond and rent. He signed the 12-month lease without hesitation. And then told me he couldn’t read a word of English.
We fell into a nice routine. I’d visit the property on the sixth day of every month. He’d hand over payment in a discreet white envelope and ask me if I would care for a coffee. I would say no.
Eight months into the lease, my tenant rang and told me that he’d run out of money.Credit: Leigh Henningham
The thing I liked about Lennie was his few possessions. Realising the flat wasn’t exactly the Taj Mahal, he didn’t clutter up the joint. I couldn’t help noticing the lonely futon in the bedroom. And the sparse but elegant wall-hangings. A fan from Spain on the wall. Good, I liked Spain. And a poster of a bullfight. Oh!
Doubts crept in a few months later when Lennie began to accumulate certain items. Small ones at first, like fish ferns in tubs and woven footstools. And then came the lounge suites and wobbly bookshelves that brushed the ceiling. Suddenly, old furniture was spilling out onto the patio.
I wouldn’t have worried so much if I hadn’t noticed that the bedroom had been converted into a thriving gymnasium. The futon had vanished and in its place stood a sprawling steel horse, dumbbells saddled for the ride. And then men in singlets started to appear. And then Lennie bought a puppy – a rottweiler.
Eight months into the lease, my tenant rang and told me that he’d run out of money. From now on, he would be using the bond as rent. “But you can’t do that!” I squeaked, hoping to convince him. I didn’t.
Lennie left unexpectedly when his bond was exhausted and the series of nicknames he’d been using to buy second-hand cars was beginning to catch up with him. In return, he left a dust-buster and 25¢ in the bedroom, a dead chop in a frying pan and six pairs of wet undies in the bathroom sink.
And here’s the kicker. Following my tenant’s departure – did I mention that he’d bolted the security gate with a dirty big chain and thrown away the key? – I bundled up all his possessions (minus the chop) into a black plastic bag and left it in our garage for a couple of years.
I did this not because I’m a mean old property baron hot off the yacht. I did it because I’m a sentimental old sucker who thought he might like to claim it in his next life. As a model tenant.
Jo Stubbings is a freelance writer.
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