One week. In just one week our flat’s been sold.
Two property agents and our buyer, a big man with a booming voice, just left my place where I was handed a cheque deposit.
What I found most astounding, however, was not that our three-roomer was sold in a week.
What made my jaw drop, was that the man, clearly a property player who has two or three other properties in his pocket and is now living in a private house, had only bought our flat so his daughter would have a listed address within the 1 km radius of Tao Nan Primary where his wife desperately hopes to place her.
His daughter is at the moment all of 20 months, just slightly older than Dee. He repeatedly blustered: “I told my agent I didn’t care which unit, I don’t even care if it’s three or four room, any one will do as long as it’s near the school.”
At that moment, said agent cut in with his own tale of how he had to move house when his child was a wee mite so he could study at Maha Bodhi.
Oh. My. God.
Am I missing something here?
Once again, I wonder if I am colossally stupid in a society where everyone seems to have very specific long-term plans, or if they are just outrageously monumentally unnecessarily kiasu.
Of course I know such people exist, but when my own flat becomes a pawn in the game, I am just left gasping in indignation. Well, I really shouldn’t care why he is buying my flat as long as he pays me the good price he is paying me.
Then I made a call to my Indonesian bachelor tenant to inform him, that it is possible the new owner will not chase him out since he just wants the address. The man could not contain his euphoria as he repeatedly gushed, “Oh it’s such a beautiful place! I love staying here!”
Between my current tenant and the new buyer, no prizes for guessing who I prefer.