I keep reading everywhere that a man’s true character can best be glimpsed by the way he treats his inferiors. Of course, there is the difficulty of gender in this statement but if we disregard that for a second I find the assumption that any of us have “inferiors” reprehensible. Who lives in that sort of world? I don’t consider anyone my inferior — and I am quite proud. If I did view the world in this way I would think I had very little character to speak of whatsoever. As an idea it is ugly and guilty.
And yet I was treated as an inferior this week and it was horrible.
After Christmas I rented a studio in which to write for six months, a small bright room with a wonky fireplace where I could forget I am someone’s mother, someone’s child. To write fiction you have to sweep most of your unwriting self out of the picture. You need freedom of thought and few responsibilities or things that remind you of your responsibilities.
In my little office I kept my props provisional: a 5ft plastic catering table and a metal banqueting chair. There was no phone and no internet, just a kettle, a tin of tea and a box of After Eights.
In this room there was privacy, secrecy even. When I got into difficulties with plot or characters, instead of googling the latest antics of the Swiss country-and-western star who shares a name with my husband — oh look, there he is on YouTube duetting with Johnny Cash — I kept chipping away.
The breakthroughs tended to come about at three-ish, when my brain was limp and past caring, undefended possibly.
As the moving-out date approached, the checkout correspondence from the agent arrived. I was told exactly when I was to hand back the key and the bad things that would happen to me if I failed to comply with this time and date. I was informed of the penalties I would suffer if I had the phone disconnected (there was no phone). I was told that on no account must I expect the landlord to take the last month’s rent from the deposit (I had already paid it months before). I was told I would be informed of deductions from my deposit for damage caused once these had been assessed, as if it were impossible that no damage had been caused.
It was a standard letter, evidently, but it had a nasty tone, as if addressed to a notorious troublemaker. It read like the last in a long line of correspondence, an exasperated final demand, when it was the first communication. I couldn’t help thinking that they wouldn’t send these sorts of emails to people renting large flats with terraces and gardens. They wouldn’t dare. I walked down the street bleating pathetically: “But I have been an excellent tenant, done everything on time, made no fuss about anything, asked for no help, been wholly undemanding.”
I drafted an email to the estate agency. I wouldn’t send it; it was designed to lift my mood. I outlined my strong points as a tenant. Why was I regaled with the penalties involved in missing the checkout meeting instead of their suggesting a date and saying: “Let us know right away if this isn’t possible”? Why the threats about the phone and the rent that did not apply?
“I am sure this isn’t your fault personally but your company should think about the tone of its standard letters,” I wrote. It isn’t necessary in life to be that punitive and aggressive before anyone has done anything wrong. I had already signed a lengthy contract that made it clear there was no wiggle room. If I, a homeowner, felt intimidated by its communications, how anxious would a young person who was just starting out feel?
Treating people roughly has never made them behave better, it seems to me. I grandly stated that if anyone renting a property of mine (I have no property to let) received such a letter, I would feel ashamed.
I read back over what I had written. The worst thing you could say about it was, well, that it was . . . nuts. I imagined people in the office reading it and doing their “crazy lady” face. How dare they, I thought. I pressed “send”.
Immediately I had that old feeling of having swallowed a concrete mixer. I couldn’t settle to anything at all. Could the agency hold back a portion of my deposit because I had spoken out in this wild way? Would some high, overarching judge swoop down and tell me some home truths in revenge? Next morning — an answer.
They thanked me for my comments. They were sorry their email had made me feel bad. They used formal letters designed for clarity but they could see where I was coming from. The agent would discuss with his colleagues whether their letters could be modified to be more tenant-friendly.
I was stunned. Stunned, and delighted, and right.
— Financial Times
