11am. The real estate agent handling my current place just rang. They wanted to know when I’m moving out, and what date notice had been given. I didn’t have it in front of me, but I had written the due date in my diary.
"It was just after ANZAC Day, and it was 90 days, so I’m due out on July 25th."
"I thought it was 60 days."
"No, it was 90 days."
"I’m sure it was 60." For someone who doesn’t know what he’s talking about, he sounds pretty forceful.
"I’ll double-check it and call you back."
Now look here, fucker, you might think you’re squeezing me out early, but it ain’t gonna happen. Ninety days is what I got, what I was entitled to by law (since the notice specified no reason), and at the rate I’m going is going to be pretty much what I’m taking. The new owners might be keen to cash in quick and get the place renovated and back out on the market pronto, but that’s their problem.
6pm. Well I rang back and quoted their own notice back at them. 90 days, just as I said. And get this, he asked me to fax a copy to them! They don’t know what their own office has sent! What a bunch of jokers. Remind me next time I need a real estate agent not to use these clowns.
Still, it clarifies one thing for me, if I wanted to ask for an extension, I doubt it would be forthcoming.
