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storm

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  1. I have long doubted Mark Carney’s independence. George Osborne hand picked the governer, and for good reason. Osborne’s golden goose was /is help-to-buy, which has pushed up property prices, probably by the famous 35%. Carney, in turn, has repaid Osborne - long since gone but ever present, it seems - by keeping interest rates audaciously low. We can see what has happened and can imagine what will happen. Apart from interest rat rise (like opportunist retailers blaming brexit for all the prce increases) Carney will hide under the cover of ‘no deal’ and blame brexit for interest rises. He has a pount, but he also has a lot to answer for. Apart from that, he will get his British citizenship, and eventually become a lord. Nice work, the Tories will live on long after our collective debt death.
  2. I’ve noticed how housing associations regard themselves above, or beneath, the current house prce caution. While sellers may, despite local estate agents pushing for ever higher values, are accepting that they may need to rein in their asking prices. Not so housing associations. They contnue to have their new and resale properties valued often way above conventional sale expectations. Why? For new sales, the proportional rent can be higher, and for resale, the staircasing is still high, and their nvestment secure. Makes me wonder about the independence of the RICS valuer. Iniquitous that help to get on this rickety housing ladder should be so much more expenisive, and therefore risky , than the normal route. Should SO now be reviewed for its viability?
  3. Well, you're pretty vile, as well. You have a collective, if negative, point, which would have been better made if you weren't speaking from the sewer yourselves. Elevate your comments to something more productive.
  4. Hi Altho I'm not new to this forum, it may look like, with the divvy or best, obscure questions. This one is concerning shared ownership (sorry,) but may also concern other categories of social rent. I have it in my head that, after 33 years, a rent set by the fair rent act can be reviewed and increased in the light of current values. The reason I'm so interested, is that I'm buying a lease, which is 31 years old, (built @1982, and therefore very short). I remember a while back researching when a rent can be substantially increased, and that figure came up, but can't find the original article. I know that Thatcher changed the tenancies in the 80s, but does anyone out there know of this rule? Is a protected rent liable to open market values after 33 years, or it just a bad dream?
  5. Mm m, that sounds like the sort of plot the government may want to us to house those who are fleeing persecution in foreign climes - mentioned on R4, last night. Some punters have no shame!!! Anyway, not that anyone takes any notice of this invisible Storm, but I predict a boom. Oh, yes indeedy. Around about February H/Ps will not go down for 2nd month.(gales of laughter) - the provident and cautious buyer will scratch the collective head and then jump. The result will be an orgy of buying, yes, an ORGY. Rush, rush rush. Estate Agents will appear as if they've never really gone away, or like the: 'just add water' advert. they will expand, take form, and be ready to serve 5 in 8 mims. The BOOM will last about three months. Then you'll have to worry. And it'll just be Mr. Darling's silly walk to keep you amused. (does he realise, d'you think?)
  6. Snatching failure from the jaws of success I live in Deptford, and was there when the BBC were filming it. Let me tell you few things about Deptford: It is a wonderful place, river, Georgian frontage, easy acess to over-priced studios in Canary Wharf, a catamaran to the City, views across to the ghost of the Cutty Sark at stifling Greenwich, and, people don't judge you. They're in no position to. Insanity is all about. So in this sense SE8 is an urban free for all. Creativity abounds, but there's the rub. Another thing about Deptford - they do ISSUES on a grand scale. They oft back losers, not winners. And there is, up til now, a lot of money to be made in povery, social issues, illiteracy (better be careful here) innumeracy and the general lack of alignment with the world and its demands. So, what did the BBC focus on? The junkies, the crack heads and the wide boys. Deptford is picked clean of any of the grace and dignity it has mustered over the last decade. I recall the refurbishing of that tower block. But more particulary I recall dodging the falling fridges, black bags, nappies, and so on when traversing its piss drenched windy quarters on my way to the 18th century local resource centre. (Another complete and utter waste of an opportunity) No one wanted to live in Arragon Tower with its mice and cockroaches. The council tenants wanted out. If the flats were going cheap a few years earlier, then so be it. Grab it Thatcher style. But the truth is, they hated the place. It was Pepys, and a sink in the great grimy kitchen of South London. Barclay Homes arrives, wadded up and wants to buy. Overnight, residents are at one, the fridges, like reason, defy gravity and cease mid fall. Now, we all LOVE Arragon Tower. We want to protec the right for people to lo live there. So you get the picture. Deptford will elevate and prosper into self respect when it allows itself to be part of a good thing and outlive its hard and often scurrulous history. Programmes like these are looking for fisures, to create divisions. No need, division is what Deptford thrives on and wallows in - that's how we get the funding. House price crash? Values will change. My belief is that we will become less peripatetic - we will have to choose a place and stick to it - that transport links will crumble due to excessive cost and breakdown in infrastructure. We will reform into small connurbations and be locally run. I think there will be a significant change in 2010, for some reason, and I don't why. But I think we are heading for a re-evaluation of how we view our homes and our local environment. Civic pride revival, and the great urban regeneration funding scam will be a thing of an feckless and expensive past. here's a bit of creativity from Deptford's blujah Red jacket on. To the river, the cranes of Aragon Tower on the left Past the new builds: Deptford's Neo Glasgow school. On the second floor of post-tenement irony, soft grey bulk in a window pressed against the glass, a woman holds her baby. Pale dough cheek and winter glass. A kiss in the frame of new builds, Hope, and brushing her baby against her skin. Back wide and happy. Red jacket on. Black boys kiss their teeth and sing low. Don't understand the architectural hymn and make up their own Praising space and acoustics of breeze blocks. Red jacket on. I dream of bikes, of American beach bikes, of not being hungry. By my side, wind dances on the curl of the river. Water curls like 50s hair held neat by a grip. Moon high. Ripples combed. Coiffure fetched up along with long stemmed pipes. Narrative unfolds across on the opposite bank. They should have left Canada Tower to its singular erection - Now it's crammed uptight with short-arsed, square-shouldered bankers And we have lost our vicarious view. Red jacket on On my way to the place I have lived longest since . . . The hoarding of the old tower block are graffited But Deptford's new penthouse will be accessed from another county. Beached. Fetched up, bloated corpse of council wretch. Or hanging, swaying in the ancient breeze on Peninsula Way SE - Chip &pin. ‘D'you know your number?’ Red Jacket on - plump with feathers, it keeps me warm while I dream of not being hungry. White, middle-class woman in promising Deptford. Going home and dreaming of not being hungry. Deptford’s a whore. Her eyes are smeared with boot polish from Canary Wharf’s nouveau shoeshine And she’s coloured her hair bright business. She smiles a lot, but her teeth, though bleached, are rotten. Staggering away, then towards, she proffers a can or syringe, and bows low as I pass. I can feel her sneer, because she knew Grinling Gibbons when he made voodoo dolls for the sailors And Kit Marlow before he got an agent. And whispers: ‘Nothing ever gets better than it was.’ So now has shares in Atavistic Gilt. Red Jacket on. Smoothing nearer home. In Deptford Wharf, some neighbours have turned their car on and are dancing to it. Stop. Noise off, sudden as lights. Distant lullaby of sirens. Poverty, prospect, quick enterprise, the washed-up rumours of European funding, all twist silently in the latch. Final trickle of commuters from the ferry at S.E.16’s Greenland Pier, spill like mercury from a broken barometer. But they go the other way. Storm
  7. I've moved so many times and always missed out on reaping the benefits of bust to boom. Not lucky in love, either. I'm thinking of investing in Westgate on Sea, a suburb of Margate. No reason, except it has the ocean, sandy beaches, Edwardian canopied villas, seems to crop up in my mind all the time, and you can buy a 2 bed for @125k I think the first places to tip will be in the provinces. I don't know whether these small places may not be the first to go for the jugular. You might find London is a shelter. Where can you hide in macclesfield or Somerfield on Sea? I might just stay put. Interested to hear of Ireland's swooning. Was in Wexford - the rents are ridiculous. 900 euros for a one bed flat. Where DO they get the money?
  8. I live in Deptford, and was there when the BBC were filming it; let me tell you few things about Deptford: It is a wonderful place, river, Georgian frontage, easy acess to over-priced studios in Canary Wharf, a catamaran to the City, views across to the ghost of the Cutty Sark at stifling Greenwich, and, people don't judge you. They're in no position to. Insanity is all about. So in this sense SE8 is an urban free for all. Creativity abounds, but there's the rub. Another thing about Deptford - they do ISSUES on a grand scale. They oft back losers, not winners. And there is, up til now, a lot of money to be made in povery, social issues, illiteracy (better be careful here) innumeracy and the general lack of alignment with the world and its demands. So, what did the BBC focus on? The junkies, the crack heads and the wide boys. Deptford is picked clean of any of the grace and dignity it has mustered over the last decade. I recall the refurbishing of that tower block. But more particulary I recall dodging the falling fridges, black bags, nappies, and so on when traversing its piss drenched windy quarters on my way to the 18th century local resource centre. (Another complete and utter waste of an opportunity)No one wanted to live in Arragon Tower with its mice and cockroaches. The council tenants wanted out. If the flats were going cheap a few years earlier, then so be it. Grab it Thatcher style. But the truth is, they hated the place. It was Pepys, and a sink in the great grimy Barclay Homes arrives, wadded up and wants to buy. Overnight, residents are at one, the fridges, like reason, defy gravity and cease mid fall, we all LOVE Arragon Tower. We want to live there(not me, I live down the way). So you get the picture. Deptford will elevate as much as it can allow itself. Depftord High St will deelop and prosper into softness when it allows itself to be part of a good thing and outlive its hard and often scurrulous history. My belief is that we will become less peripatetic - we will have to choose a place and stick to it - that transport links will crumble due to excessive cost and breakdown in infrastructure. We will reform into small connurbations and be locally run. House prices will have a dire and significant change in 2010, for some reason, and I don't why.(weather?) But I think we are heading for a re-evaluation of how we view our homes and our local environment. Civic pride revival, and the great urban regeneration funding scam will be a thing of an feckless and expensive past. here's a bit of creativity from Deptford Red jacket on. To the river, the cranes of Aragon Tower on the left Past the new builds: Deptford's Neo Glasgow school. On the second floor of post-tenement irony, soft grey bulk in a window pressed against the glass, a woman holds her baby. Pale dough cheek and winter glass. A kiss in the frame of new builds, Hope, and brushing her baby against her skin. Back wide and happy. Red jacket on. Black boys kiss their teeth and sing low. Don't understand the architectural hymn and make up their own Praising space and acoustics of breeze blocks. Red jacket on. I dream of bikes, of American beach bikes, of not being hungry. By my side, wind dances on the curl of the river. Water curls like 50s hair held neat by a grip. Moon high. Ripples combed. Coiffure fetched up along with long stemmed pipes. Narrative unfolds across on the opposite bank. They should have left Canada Tower to its singular erection - Now it's crammed uptight with short-arsed, square-shouldered bankers And we have lost our vicarious view. Red jacket on On my way to the place I have lived longest since . . . The hoarding of the old tower block are graffited But Deptford's new penthouse will be accessed from another county. Beached. Fetched up, bloated corpse of council wretch. Or hanging, swaying in the ancient breeze on Peninsula Way SE - Chip &pin. ‘D'you know your number?’ Red Jacket on - plump with feathers, it keeps me warm while I dream of not being hungry. White, middle-class woman in promising Deptford. Going home and dreaming of not being hungry. Deptford’s a whore. Her eyes are smeared with boot polish from Canary Wharf’s nouveau shoeshine And she’s coloured her hair bright business. She smiles a lot, but her teeth, though bleached, are rotten. Staggering away, then towards, she proffers a can or syringe, and bows low as I pass. I can feel her sneer, because she knew Grinling Gibbons when he made voodoo dolls for the sailors And Kit Marlow before he got an agent. And whispers: ‘Nothing ever gets better than it was.’ So now has shares in Atavistic Gilt. Red Jacket on. Smoothing nearer home. In Deptford Wharf, some neighbours have turned their car on and are dancing to it. Stop. Noise off, sudden as lights. Distant lullaby of sirens. Poverty, prospect, quick enterprise, the washed-up rumours of European funding, all twist silently in the latch. Final trickle of commuters from the ferry at S.E.16’s Greenland Pier, spill like mercury from a broken barometer. But they go the other way. Storm
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