When buying the wrong house could literally take years away from your life

Ticking Time Bomb — The Hidden Cost of Buying a Pre-2000’s home

I was twenty-five when my ex-husband and I set out to look for our forever home.

Young and naive, we had just enough deposit to embark on a fresh chapter. With a mortgage approved in principle, all we had to do was find a home that ticked all the right boxes.

Browsing through property sales websites, magazines and local estate agent brochures became a daily ritual we both engaged in together. Looking back now, it was about the only thing we had in common at the time. (and throughout our whole relationship, but that’s a tale for another story)

The burning desire to find the ‘one’ place we could call home was exhilarating.

Living in the heart of the English Riviera in the enchanting South West, we are spoilt for choice when it comes to architectural styles. (especially if you have deep pockets)

My favourite — quaint and quirky cottages with a thatched roof, exposed wooden beams, a statement fireplace in the heart of the home, surrounded by mature orchard gardens, and climbing roses enveloping its walls.

Oh, what a sweet dream.

At the time, my ex was a data analyst, earning £25K a year, and I, well, I was a nursing student, also juggling full-time work as a Healthcare Assistant for the National Health, making a staggering £18K in annual salary.

Despite our modest budget, there were plenty of properties to choose from. Although none of them had a thatched roof and an orchard attached to it (not that we could have afforded it anyway); it was a roof over our heads, and that’s what mattered the most.

However, after half a year of relentless pursuit, the initially thrilling house viewings turned into a soul-sucking chore.

After exploring close to a hundred properties, reality hit hard.

Fast forward eighteen months and 167 viewings, we finally found the ‘one’. The place that we both fell in love with.

It was a charming little detached cottage, tucked away on top of one of our seaside town’s most sought-after streets. We couldn’t believe our luck.

Our little cob cottage, built in the 19th century, quaint, quirky, and it even had an orchard – although there wasn’t much left of it. (The previous owners were developers who bought the house with the intention to divide the one-acre land the orchard sat on into two separate plots and build two modern houses on it.)

The cosy little cottage was slightly out of our budget, but the owners who were in their early 70s, tired and exhausted from renovations, were desperate to sell.

After our second viewing, the deal was done.

Let the fun begin.

We cherished our little hut.

Despite the cottage originating from the reigns of Queen Victoria; built in 1875 as a servants’ residence for a stately Grade II listed house 2-minute walk from our little heaven, our cosy pad didn’t have strict listing rules applied to it.

Not surprised it escaped the grand title of ‘listed building’ as it had a small, somewhat unattractive extension in the rear that served as a kitchen and a front porch that resembled an architectural mystery tour and a precarious platform for daring chipmunks.

Delighted to be free from needing listed building consent, we made grand plans for our cosy cottage.

As our family expanded, our cottage began to feel snug. Ten years after we first moved in, we finally had the money to go ahead with our ambitious plans and revamp the original layout, expanding the kitchen and the top floor, giving much-needed space for our new arrival.

The day we discovered the unexpected

I was 28 weeks pregnant and was looking forward to starting my maternity leave.

The thought of holding my baby girl in a mere twelve weeks filled me with immense joy. To top my excitement, we finally had the builders starting work on Monday, beginning the long-awaited transformation of our home. The vision we had since the day we first laid eyes on our charming little abode was about to materialize.

Life was good.

As my ex was working away, I became ‘chief executive building inspector’ and tea lady. I had no clue what I was doing. Busy being pregnant, looking after a mischievous three-year-old and a hyperactive Border Collie, doing the two-hourly tea rounds, the responsibilities were overwhelming.

Still, everything was going according to plan.

Three weeks into our renovation, we had no kitchen. The dining room table with an electric hob became our new food preparation area, and the spare bathroom had turned into a washing-up zone.

I was playing a game of fetch with my Collie in the living room after dropping my little boy off at nursery when a sudden thud caught my attention. Before I could get up from the floor to investigate, dust began to cover our cream carpet.

I could barely see my dog from across the room.

“No worries,” shouted one of the builders, urgently pleading, “Don’t come in!” Meanwhile, my dog, caught up in the excitement, went into a frenzy of barking, eager to investigate the racket.

In a matter of minutes, our cream, shabby chick dining room turned terracotta, with half a centimetre of dust covering the carpet, the furniture and walls.

“We have to go get something.” — said one of the builders. If I had to paint a picture of a ghost, he would fit the bill perfectly.

I was left with strict instructions not to touch the crumbled mess from our 143-year-old collapsed wall that the builders have covered up with bin liners. “Open the windows to ventilate the rest of the house!”- was the last thing the builders said before they walked off.

As every responsible homeowner, I quickly got to work. There was no time to waste. My little boy needed picking up in a couple of hours and I couldn’t have had a three-year-old come home to such a mess.

I got our Dyson out, hoovered up the dust, wiped the surfaces, aired the house out and removed all the chunks of plaster the builders left behind.

After three hours of non-stop cleaning, our house was cleaner than ever before.

The next morning

I spent the night restless. Something didn’t feel right. My temperature had risen and my chest was feeling tight.

The next morning, I gathered all my energy and dropped my boy off at nursery, but things were not improving. I called my GP and managed to drive myself to the surgery, only within half an hour, I was escorted by an emergency ambulance to our nearest hospital.

I was diagnosed with severe pneumonia. But that was good news compared to what followed.

While I was at the hospital, the builders came forward with the devastating revelation — they suspected the collapsed wall contained asbestos.

Asbestos is a naturally occurring fibre that was widely used in construction and other industries until the late 1990s. There are three types of asbestos fibres most commonly used in the UK — blue, brown and white. — Reference: Ashtmaandlung.co.uk

The doctors insisted that my exposure to the material was severe. Being 32 weeks pregnant added further complications to my already gloomy situation.

Before its dangers were known, asbestos, a naturally occurring mineral, was widely used in buildings for insulation, flooring, ceiling and roofing. The use of asbestos is now banned in the UK, but buildings constructed before the year 2000 are likely to have asbestos in them.

Asbestos is the greatest cause of work-related deaths in Great Britain. — Reference: hce.gov.uk

While I was in hospital, a team of specialists took care of the remaining mess. Samples were taken and had to be sent off for further investigation. The building work came to a halt. Our dream of having a new kitchen and a spacious nursery for our baby girl became a distant memory.

We waited almost two weeks for the test results to come back for the material the specialist team found in our collapsed wall.

I was back home from the hospital, free from pneumonia, but the wheezing was predicted to last for another two months.

Then came the news we’d both been eagerly anticipating and dreading to hear at the same time.

The results

We received a call from the specialist lab informing us that, after careful examination, the tests had revealed no asbestos.

Finally, a sign of relief.

I went into labour that night and my baby girl was born the next evening at thirty-four weeks gestation.

I learned many valuable lessons from this experience that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

Firstly, I realized that starting any building work while heavily pregnant is not a good idea.

Secondly, there are so many hidden dangers in life that we often overlook.

And finally, it’s always better to ask for help or clarification when in doubt.

Thank you for reading.