Going, going … passed in
Being fifty-something, I love the simple thrills in life.
For me, auctions are one of those simple delights. I love a spirited ebay auction, a hard-fought clearing sale, a bidding war over an antique lamp and, most of all, a property auction.
There is so much at stake at a home auction … the expectations of the vendor versus the hopes of the buyer. The real estate agent has invested time and effort (and the vendor’s hard-earnt) in a marketing campaign and his/her reputation is very publicly on the line. A sale on the day means kudos (and commission). A no-sale equals fail (and settling for the auction fee for now).
We regards house auctions as “Saturday sport” and often head out hoping for a close match, where two (or more buyers) go head to head, dragging each other beyond their limits, bidding with their hearts instead of their heads and reacting to the prospect of losing their imagined future life in the house.
It’s nerve-wracking, adrenaline-generating stuff. You know it’s been a great auction when the crowd applauds on the fall of the hammer.
Getting ourselves into the downsizing groove has meant we’re back out attending auctions often, familiarising ourselves with the set-up so we’re uber-prepared if and when the right property hits the market.
Our latest auction experience was a flop …. a lack-lustre crowd of less than a dozen punters (half of them were probably neighbours) and no excited young couples clutching copies of the contract. Wearing their hearts on their sleeves.
The auctioneer tried everything and couldn’t extract a single bid from the gallery. His vendor bid didn’t even get things rolling.
Eventually, he passed the property in.
It means we get to have a serious think about this one. It’s the first property we’ve inspected lately that we (Mr P and I) agree on … we can both see ourselves living here.
That’s a watershed moment.
This two-bedroom fairly new build is far enough away from surburbatory to be regarded as inner city, close to the CBD, the railway station, and the footy ground. Two bedrooms, an office space for me, a man cave for he and not a centimetre wasted in the floor plan.
It’s sleek and modern. Very shiny. Very grown-up.
Now that it’s back on the market, there’ll be more viewing days and we’ll be able to go along and crunch the carpet while we dream a little (and negotiate with the bank).
And I’ll be able to get another look at this stunning cowhide stool that I’m now coveting in a giggly-girlish-boy-band-way.