Harry Balls
01-16-2014, 05:44 PM
From the WSJ:
The London housing market is hot. One way to cool off rent payments? Live in an empty office. Hired to guard buildings from squatters, property guardians can save a lot of money. But the unadventurous need not apply.
LONDON—Nicole Vloeimans, a 31-year-old worker at an NGO, lives in the very center of this expensive city. She has a 755-square-foot floor to herself. She pays Ł389 a month, about $635.
"I don't really know what to do with the space," says Ms. Vloeimans. "I don't have that much furniture."
There are some hitches. No parties are allowed. She needs permission to go on vacation. There is a hole in the kitchen ceiling. She had to paint over a swath of graffiti. The four-week notice to move out can come any time.
But so great is the demand for a reasonable flat that Londoners like Ms. Vloeimans are lining up to live in empty office buildings.
London's housing market is soaring. The average price for a home in the capital was Ł396,646 in November, Land Registry data show. The average rent for a one-bedroom apartment in central London was Ł1,368 in the 12 months ending in September, according to data from the U.K. government's Valuation Office Agency.
The boom has attracted growing throngs to a cheaper option: being a guardian.
Ms. Vloeimans's home is an abandoned office building once inhabited by squatters ("WE CALL IT EVOLUTION, U CALL IT A CRIME" reads graffiti in her kitchen). Squatters were evicted from her building last January. In exchange for the discounted rent, Ms. Vloeimans is meant to keep them from coming back.
The need for guardians is in part a consequence of Britain's peculiar laws on squatting. It isn't a crime to squat in an empty nonresidential building. It is a crime to remove a squatter without a lengthy civil-eviction court procedure.
So developers looking to rehab—or tear down—a building will fill it with guardians to keep the squatters away before work begins. The presence of guardians is often enough to deter squatters, because it is illegal to squat in an occupied building.
John Durkin, 55, lives in an old police station overlooking the River Thames. The condominiums next door sell to celebrities for around Ł2 million. He pays Ł450 a month.
"It's like being 17 years old, and your father tells you that he has a flat in London. 'And if you don't tell your mother, I'll let you keep it,' " said Mr. Durkin, a psychologist.
The living room has Wi-Fi and a stunning view, but his bedroom overlooking the train tracks has no electricity, meaning no heating. "I'm OK with a cold nose," he said.
Squatters were kicked out of an old brick building near Liverpool Street Station, one of London's main train hubs, in August. The front door opens to warped flooring, one dusty table, stained chairs, drums, a keyboard and amplifiers. A brown couch with yellow stuffing sprouting from its back sits against the front windows.
"They've done it up nice. You should have seen it before," said Arthur Duke, owner of Live-In Guardians, which supplies guardians for building owners. This place, at Ł250 a month, sits far below the usual properties he takes on.
Becoming a guardian isn't easy. "Demand is just out of control," said Mr. Duke. Live-In Guardians has about 2,000 people on its waiting list—by far the biggest backlog he has had since starting the business in 2009, he said. When a new property comes along, says Mr. Duke, 50 people will come to the open house.
Hip neighborhoods go fast. "If we put a property up on the website in Hackney, it's gone in five minutes," said Zoe Oakes of Ad Hoc, one of the largest guardian firms in London.
Enlarge Image
Once occupied by squatters, commercial buildings in London are now lived in by 'guardians.' Art Patnaude/The Wall Street Journal
Guardian companies, which have guardians' fees as a source of revenue, tout themselves as cheaper alternatives to traditional security firms. Guardians need to be employed full time and can be subject to background checks.
In the city's gentrifying East End sits an "unremarkable three-story brick clad building" for light industry firms, according to a 2011 document of design plans. The building is set to be torn down. Meantime, guardians live there.
Oreste Noda, 46, is a Cuban percussionist. After moving into the building two years ago, his massive apartment became a hub for jam sessions.
"People would just come up from the street and be like, 'Man, this is great, what's the name of this club?' " said Michael Angelov, who lives in the same building. "I'd have to tell them it isn't a club, it's a home."
Mr. Angelov, a 31-year-old filmmaker, lives with his girlfriend in what he reckons was a media company's office. It is clean and has hardwood floors, nice desks and sofas.
His two bedrooms have glass walls. When friends stay over, "they're a bit like, 'What's this?' " he said. "But when it's just me and my girlfriend, it's fun."
For London's young professionals, guarding is a respectable alternative to squatting. Sam Golden, 24, who works in public relations, says he learned about property guardians from a longtime squatter—who was griping about capitalists edging in on squatters' turf.
Mr. Golden signed up with Guardians of London. Squatting "was on the fringes of the law, which is not viable for young professionals," he said. Now he lives in a once-empty building, one tube stop away from Wembley Stadium.
Other than having to take two days off work to clean the place, which included clearing a dead pigeon off one of the two pool tables, "it worked out perfectly."
Guardians do occasionally have to do some guarding. Once, the front door of a building in the southern city of Brighton managed by Oaksure Property Protection was smashed. Guardian Andrew Faley, 26, heard the sound and went down at 5 a.m. to check it out. He called it in to Oaksure's owners, and the door was fixed, he said.
Mark Ovenden, 50, has five oak-paneled rooms overlooking a central-London park. The bedroom is "about as big as any flat in Paris," said Mr. Ovenden, who lived in the French capital for six years. In the office Mr. Ovenden, a freelance television producer, has a wall-size world map detailing locations of major oil wells—a perk left over from an oil brokerage.
Getting around parts of the building without electricity requires light from his iPhone's flash. His two bathroom sinks lack hot water. And like all guardians, Mr. Ovenden is well aware that his time in the large, centrally located apartment for a discounted rent is fleeting. "I know we'll get moved out eventually. I'm prepared to make some sacrifices."
Write to Art Patnaude at art.patnaude@wsj.com
The London housing market is hot. One way to cool off rent payments? Live in an empty office. Hired to guard buildings from squatters, property guardians can save a lot of money. But the unadventurous need not apply.
LONDON—Nicole Vloeimans, a 31-year-old worker at an NGO, lives in the very center of this expensive city. She has a 755-square-foot floor to herself. She pays Ł389 a month, about $635.
"I don't really know what to do with the space," says Ms. Vloeimans. "I don't have that much furniture."
There are some hitches. No parties are allowed. She needs permission to go on vacation. There is a hole in the kitchen ceiling. She had to paint over a swath of graffiti. The four-week notice to move out can come any time.
But so great is the demand for a reasonable flat that Londoners like Ms. Vloeimans are lining up to live in empty office buildings.
London's housing market is soaring. The average price for a home in the capital was Ł396,646 in November, Land Registry data show. The average rent for a one-bedroom apartment in central London was Ł1,368 in the 12 months ending in September, according to data from the U.K. government's Valuation Office Agency.
The boom has attracted growing throngs to a cheaper option: being a guardian.
Ms. Vloeimans's home is an abandoned office building once inhabited by squatters ("WE CALL IT EVOLUTION, U CALL IT A CRIME" reads graffiti in her kitchen). Squatters were evicted from her building last January. In exchange for the discounted rent, Ms. Vloeimans is meant to keep them from coming back.
The need for guardians is in part a consequence of Britain's peculiar laws on squatting. It isn't a crime to squat in an empty nonresidential building. It is a crime to remove a squatter without a lengthy civil-eviction court procedure.
So developers looking to rehab—or tear down—a building will fill it with guardians to keep the squatters away before work begins. The presence of guardians is often enough to deter squatters, because it is illegal to squat in an occupied building.
John Durkin, 55, lives in an old police station overlooking the River Thames. The condominiums next door sell to celebrities for around Ł2 million. He pays Ł450 a month.
"It's like being 17 years old, and your father tells you that he has a flat in London. 'And if you don't tell your mother, I'll let you keep it,' " said Mr. Durkin, a psychologist.
The living room has Wi-Fi and a stunning view, but his bedroom overlooking the train tracks has no electricity, meaning no heating. "I'm OK with a cold nose," he said.
Squatters were kicked out of an old brick building near Liverpool Street Station, one of London's main train hubs, in August. The front door opens to warped flooring, one dusty table, stained chairs, drums, a keyboard and amplifiers. A brown couch with yellow stuffing sprouting from its back sits against the front windows.
"They've done it up nice. You should have seen it before," said Arthur Duke, owner of Live-In Guardians, which supplies guardians for building owners. This place, at Ł250 a month, sits far below the usual properties he takes on.
Becoming a guardian isn't easy. "Demand is just out of control," said Mr. Duke. Live-In Guardians has about 2,000 people on its waiting list—by far the biggest backlog he has had since starting the business in 2009, he said. When a new property comes along, says Mr. Duke, 50 people will come to the open house.
Hip neighborhoods go fast. "If we put a property up on the website in Hackney, it's gone in five minutes," said Zoe Oakes of Ad Hoc, one of the largest guardian firms in London.
Enlarge Image
Once occupied by squatters, commercial buildings in London are now lived in by 'guardians.' Art Patnaude/The Wall Street Journal
Guardian companies, which have guardians' fees as a source of revenue, tout themselves as cheaper alternatives to traditional security firms. Guardians need to be employed full time and can be subject to background checks.
In the city's gentrifying East End sits an "unremarkable three-story brick clad building" for light industry firms, according to a 2011 document of design plans. The building is set to be torn down. Meantime, guardians live there.
Oreste Noda, 46, is a Cuban percussionist. After moving into the building two years ago, his massive apartment became a hub for jam sessions.
"People would just come up from the street and be like, 'Man, this is great, what's the name of this club?' " said Michael Angelov, who lives in the same building. "I'd have to tell them it isn't a club, it's a home."
Mr. Angelov, a 31-year-old filmmaker, lives with his girlfriend in what he reckons was a media company's office. It is clean and has hardwood floors, nice desks and sofas.
His two bedrooms have glass walls. When friends stay over, "they're a bit like, 'What's this?' " he said. "But when it's just me and my girlfriend, it's fun."
For London's young professionals, guarding is a respectable alternative to squatting. Sam Golden, 24, who works in public relations, says he learned about property guardians from a longtime squatter—who was griping about capitalists edging in on squatters' turf.
Mr. Golden signed up with Guardians of London. Squatting "was on the fringes of the law, which is not viable for young professionals," he said. Now he lives in a once-empty building, one tube stop away from Wembley Stadium.
Other than having to take two days off work to clean the place, which included clearing a dead pigeon off one of the two pool tables, "it worked out perfectly."
Guardians do occasionally have to do some guarding. Once, the front door of a building in the southern city of Brighton managed by Oaksure Property Protection was smashed. Guardian Andrew Faley, 26, heard the sound and went down at 5 a.m. to check it out. He called it in to Oaksure's owners, and the door was fixed, he said.
Mark Ovenden, 50, has five oak-paneled rooms overlooking a central-London park. The bedroom is "about as big as any flat in Paris," said Mr. Ovenden, who lived in the French capital for six years. In the office Mr. Ovenden, a freelance television producer, has a wall-size world map detailing locations of major oil wells—a perk left over from an oil brokerage.
Getting around parts of the building without electricity requires light from his iPhone's flash. His two bathroom sinks lack hot water. And like all guardians, Mr. Ovenden is well aware that his time in the large, centrally located apartment for a discounted rent is fleeting. "I know we'll get moved out eventually. I'm prepared to make some sacrifices."
Write to Art Patnaude at art.patnaude@wsj.com