Our beautiful stone cottage was not to be. Sigh.
The process of buying a property in Scotland is a wee dilly, like lots of things oover here.
When you've found the property of your dreams, you have to contact your solicitor and through him/her, either make an offer on the place, or register a note of interest. Sounds straightforward so far? It's not.
Houses are advertised as either 'Offers Over...' or fixed price. If you and 15 other hopefuls like a place, and say you've all put in offers or notes of interests, the sale moves to a closing date. And on the day of the closing date - everybody by this time has put in an offer - the seller decides who gets the prize. Charming. And once you've put an offer in, you have to wait to hear whether you've got the house or not, because, if your offer is the lucky one to be accepted, you are bound by law to buy the place. Except if your mortgage is not approved or five million other things that can still go wrong.
In effect, you bid on a place and hope for the best, like gambling. And don't think if you put in a monstrous offer just because the abode is your heart's desire, it will necessarily be accepted. The seller can choose anybody's offer, so if he/she doesn't like your name or solicitor, tough.
But the sun is shining today, always worth a mention!
Monday 23 July 2007
Thursday 12 July 2007
Hoose hunting
How does one buy a hoose in Scotland?
1. Search for a property. We have big dreams, and had a look at this.
It comes with its own island, which is handy, but alas, we lost all our money betting on Floyd Landis last year.
2. So onto something more modest.
This was perfect, within our price range, but unfortunately I would have had to commute 4 hours per day to work.
3. A more realistic proposition for our part of Scotland was this:
But we felt faint at the idea of committing ourselves to suburban bliss at this tender age.
4. We decided to make an offer on this.
Please, please please, let it be ours!
1. Search for a property. We have big dreams, and had a look at this.
It comes with its own island, which is handy, but alas, we lost all our money betting on Floyd Landis last year.
2. So onto something more modest.
This was perfect, within our price range, but unfortunately I would have had to commute 4 hours per day to work.
3. A more realistic proposition for our part of Scotland was this:
But we felt faint at the idea of committing ourselves to suburban bliss at this tender age.
4. We decided to make an offer on this.
Please, please please, let it be ours!
Wednesday 11 July 2007
More tales
I am managing to tear myself away from Facebook for long enough to update this blog. Back to ol' Scotland. We went to the Bruce Festival in Dunfermline, and it took place in Pittencrieff Park. This park is most beautiful, somebody is keeping it in a mint condition, and it has a nice tale. Apparently Andrew Carnegie, as a wee lad, wanted to enter the park, but because he came from a poor family, he was not allowed in. His revenge was to become super-rich, purchase the park and open it up for everybody, entrance free.
For more on the park, please click here
The Bruce Festival was modest, with volunteers parading around in medieval costumes. This lady explained how the poor folk were mostly vegetarian during those times. You were lucky if you could afford a piece of cow or chicken! These days only the rich can afford to eat veggies.
Even though the jousting event was a re-enactment, it still quite took my breath away. The horses are huge, and the knights imposing and deadly in their armour. Here are some pics.
This is the parade beforehand to goad the masses into wild excitement:
And we cheered for the red knight, who won.
The band, Soar Patrol.
Duan having a haggis an' neeps burger. Local is lekker!!
For more on the park, please click here
The Bruce Festival was modest, with volunteers parading around in medieval costumes. This lady explained how the poor folk were mostly vegetarian during those times. You were lucky if you could afford a piece of cow or chicken! These days only the rich can afford to eat veggies.
Even though the jousting event was a re-enactment, it still quite took my breath away. The horses are huge, and the knights imposing and deadly in their armour. Here are some pics.
This is the parade beforehand to goad the masses into wild excitement:
And we cheered for the red knight, who won.
The band, Soar Patrol.
Duan having a haggis an' neeps burger. Local is lekker!!
Sunday 8 July 2007
It's raining again
Last year was apparently a fantastic, sunny summer. This year, however, we've been blessed with an abundance of clouds and rain. Karen, my hairdresses says, 'Last year the sun shines and everybody blames it on global warming. This year, it's raining and cold all the time, and again people say it's because of global warming. Make up ye minds!'
Karen is just one of the good things that's happened to me since we've moved to this charming nook called Fife. After a disastrous, five-second cut at a local salon, the piano teacher at school told me about Karen's salon, tucked away in the most quaint of villages, Aberdour. She took a long time cutting my hair, gave me cappuccino, and after two hours we've covered family, love, sex, and surprisingly, Christianity. And my hair looks great!
It is the start of the long summer holidays and I've completed one almost-term at my new job. (From now on I'll refer to the school as "The School" until such time I can establish what my rights are re discussing my job, colleagues, students and so forth in this blog. Don't want nae lawsuit.) I enjoy the work most of the time, but there are days and moments when I want to run, screeching, from the place, snatching out chunks of hair in exasparation and frustration. What I find hardest is dealing with 13 year- olds who feel they have the right to inform me what they will and won't do in my class. MY class!!!! Of course they have a right to speak, I usually grant them that, but my patience starts wearing thin if they don't get it after the fourth or fifth time of the same discussion.
'I cannae do this. I don't wanna do this, I don't like music.' Big sulk.
'Fair enough, you've said how you've felt and I listened, but unfortunately you don't have much of a choice in the matter. Since you have to be in school - go look at the country's constitution - and since you've decided to come to this school and adhere to these rules - go check your school contract - you have to do the work, as set out in the syllabus, that I am kind enough to interpret for you in as user-friendly a manner as possible.'
But usually I say, 'Shut up and get working.'
And then the whole spectacle rolls on, of having to cajole him/her, mostly ending up handing out a punishment or detention , and so forth and so long, ad infinitum, ad nauseaum, et al. The joys of having to work with teenagers.
But apart from my struggles to establish a dictatorship, these kids are mostly great. As John Smeaton, the hero of the terror attacks on Glasgow Airport, aptly illustrates: Scots are tough, resilient, take things in their stride, and are blessed with a sense of humour as dry as puddle in a heat wave.
Karen is just one of the good things that's happened to me since we've moved to this charming nook called Fife. After a disastrous, five-second cut at a local salon, the piano teacher at school told me about Karen's salon, tucked away in the most quaint of villages, Aberdour. She took a long time cutting my hair, gave me cappuccino, and after two hours we've covered family, love, sex, and surprisingly, Christianity. And my hair looks great!
It is the start of the long summer holidays and I've completed one almost-term at my new job. (From now on I'll refer to the school as "The School" until such time I can establish what my rights are re discussing my job, colleagues, students and so forth in this blog. Don't want nae lawsuit.) I enjoy the work most of the time, but there are days and moments when I want to run, screeching, from the place, snatching out chunks of hair in exasparation and frustration. What I find hardest is dealing with 13 year- olds who feel they have the right to inform me what they will and won't do in my class. MY class!!!! Of course they have a right to speak, I usually grant them that, but my patience starts wearing thin if they don't get it after the fourth or fifth time of the same discussion.
'I cannae do this. I don't wanna do this, I don't like music.' Big sulk.
'Fair enough, you've said how you've felt and I listened, but unfortunately you don't have much of a choice in the matter. Since you have to be in school - go look at the country's constitution - and since you've decided to come to this school and adhere to these rules - go check your school contract - you have to do the work, as set out in the syllabus, that I am kind enough to interpret for you in as user-friendly a manner as possible.'
But usually I say, 'Shut up and get working.'
And then the whole spectacle rolls on, of having to cajole him/her, mostly ending up handing out a punishment or detention , and so forth and so long, ad infinitum, ad nauseaum, et al. The joys of having to work with teenagers.
But apart from my struggles to establish a dictatorship, these kids are mostly great. As John Smeaton, the hero of the terror attacks on Glasgow Airport, aptly illustrates: Scots are tough, resilient, take things in their stride, and are blessed with a sense of humour as dry as puddle in a heat wave.
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