Carrot Power

I remembered today why I gave up conveyancing: I couldn't stand the strain. It was curious that Carol left me after I stopped doing it. She said that I was too difficult to work for and that she wanted an easier time.
The farmers round here rotate their crops. In our firm we rotate our secretaries. To be absolutely correct, our secretaries rotate us. It was just over a year ago that Carol sacked me and decided to run my vegetarian partner. Curiously she and he get on fine, though until the last 24 hours I could not see what excitement she obtained from him or from conveyancing.
But then, like the enlightenment that is brought by a certain brand of Vodka, I discovered Mr Macaroni. Mr Macaroni had been undertaking a perfectly ordinary move from his present home to another one a few miles down the road. He was selling for about £65,000 and buying for £70,000. One of those friendly building societies which keep interrupting our television viewing agreed to provide the loan.
Mr Macaroni found a buyer for his house, and by securing his next house, he planted himself in the midst of a chain of transactions with four links on either side of him.
It all started off as smoothly as butter which has been left out of the fridge overnight. It is good to be back to eating butter again. It had been banned in our home for several years, on the ground that it increased the risk of dying of a heart attack. Now that it is widely accepted that the alternative simply does the same - except that the chosen cause of death is cancer we are all gladly back to coronaries.
But let us return to Mr Macaroni. I was entirely (and blissfully) unaware of his existence, let alone the excitement Chez Macaroni when they decided to move from Blackacre to Whiteacre (as those imaginative gentlemen who set our examinations would put it. Apart from those owned by nostalgic solicitors, has anyone ever called a house by these dull names?)
Then suddenly, while I was having a relaxing time parrying an extremely snotty letter from a defendant solicitor, my vegetarian partner appeared in my doorway, a half eaten stick of celery dangling limp from one hand. His face was the colour of lettuce.
"We have a problem." He mouthed. I put down my Big Mac.
The problem was quite simple: a second mortgage. The solution proved far from simple, because the second mortgage was given to secure a business loan to the bank.
Completion was the day after tomorrow and the settlement figure from the bank was £300,000.
"Just pay us a draft for this sum and £5 sealing fee and we will discharge the mortgage" said the bank manager cheerfully.
Mr Macaroni, like most people who sign away their houses, had not appreciated that it was for real.
"Eeet ees justa leedle beesness loan" He spluttered. And I hope you don't mind if I give up the unequal struggle to reproduce Mr Macaroni's voice phonetically.
My vegetarian partner downed three carrots, dialled the bank manager on the fourth (which he mistook for our new slimline telephone) and demanded common sense.
Common sense is a matter of perspective. The bank manager (being a rugby player) was familiar with short and curlies and knew when he was holding them. To him it was common sense to seize the opportunity to encourage Mr Macaroni (and his partner Mr Tagliatelle) to catch up on their loan obligations.
"I'll release the mortgage for £50,000" he offered. The fact that after paying the first mortgage there was only £15,000 equity in the house did not faze the bank manager in any way. He said he would be prepared to take his chances.
My vegetarian partner was sorely tempted to throw down the cucumber and let the bank manager do his damnedest. The trouble with gambling is that whilst it may be acceptable to gamble with your own money (not freshly drawn out of client account please - I shall be having something to say about this in a future article), it is definitely very dangerous to gamble with the assets of your client.
Nevertheless it is amazing what you can do on vegetables. My vegetarian partner went into overdrive.
He would not take no for an answer. Little by little he persuaded or eroded the greedy bank manager until at length he agreed to transfer his charge to the next house for, if not a pittance, at least not as much as £300,000 or £50,000. Of course that meant that the bank had to appoint its own solicitors, Mrs Macaroni had to be separately advised (helpfully by the next solicitor in the chain) and my vegetarian partner and the estate agents were doomed to wait for ever for their modest and exorbitant respective fees.
Fortunately (and unexpectedly) the bank's solicitor was co-operative. He had his own problems. To the backdrop of the sound of sirens he announced that one of his bigger clients was being investigated by the fraud squad, who were at that very moment on their way to collect the files.
It was cutting it fine - final agreement was not reached until the afternoon of completion day. Nonetheless Mr Macaroni is now installed in Whiteacre.
A week after the Macaroni mishap, I was constrained to visit my vegetarian partner. Pale as a veal and ham pie I had to confess to a new litigation crisis. My vegetarian partner hurled his apple core out of the window before settling down to provide comfort for a carnivore who could not cope.

This article first appeared in Solicitors Journal in September 1994