Hospital bills etc
Donation protected
My name’s Steve Pafford and I need your help.
Christ, you wouldn’t believe how hard it is to write that.
In fact, this is something I’ve been putting off writing, admitting to, agonising over, embarrassed about, you name it… for many, many months.
As those of you who have known me for a number of years, particularly readers of the regrettably short-lived Crankin’ Out, I’m pretty hopeless at admitting failure or defeat, preferring to bury my head in the sand and hope it’s all blown over by morning. Some morning.
I can also be as guilty as the next person of living a slightly imagined life through social media, papering and glossing over the cracks and pretending everything is hunky dory.
OK (swallowing of not inconsiderable pride begins), where do I start?
How about I’m completely skint?
Or to be precise, asset formerly rich, cash poor.
Don’t ever buy a property with a partner you aren’t already married to because unless they’re the salt of the earth you will get used, abused, ripped off, taken for granted and cheated.
After I was ripped off by a certain boyfriend for over twenty thousand pounds, the same one who stopped playing his share of the rent for the Manly apartment we shared in 2015 and 2016 just a week after moving in, and then stole a number of personal items as he fled to Melbourne (is it any wonder my oldest friend Joanne ended up calling him Michael Robme), I bought a house in France.
It could have been anywhere, I just needed to get away from Australia. From memories of him and anything associated with him.
I tried to learn my lesson, and in the summer of 2017 the house in France became my first ever property purchase on my own. It started out as a potential full time proposition but quite honestly, it’s the kind of place you’d be mad to try and endure in the desolate and bleak winter months. At least I tried though.
With my remaining savings/proceeds from a previous property sale I invested 50 thousand pounds in a business investment scheme in Britain, with 79th Element. I did this because a) there was little hope of buying an investment property with the remaining funds and b) I, like many, was seduced by the interest rates which are no longer available to savers and owners of bonds etc: a 10% return every month, ie £500. £6k for a year. Not bad considering.
Despite knowing full well the risks involved, I decided to take the plunge largely because that aforementioned oldest friend Jo recommended it and had already personally invested in the scheme, arranged through her mortgage broker Shaun Ginley.
Yes, I know. Doesn’t sound legit, does it?
Well, it’s legit (of a sort) but its unregulated and outside of Financial Services Authority control.
All was fine until January this year. The monthly payments suddenly stopped without warning. As investors, Jo and I received an email a few weeks later that suggested that the company was about to be sold and that all interest payments had been paused until the sale had gone through, and that once they have completed with the new owners all capital and owed interest payments shall be paid to investors.
Ten months and numerous angry exchanges of emails and phone calls later nothing appears to be happening. I’ve raised the prospect of the police and even the BBC programme Watchdog getting involved, and in response have been told to calm the communications down because “if the directors are antagonised and close the company no one may get anything.”
Seriously?
Something else happened to me this year.
On May 21 I suffered a heart attack while driving on the freeway from New Hampshire to Maine.
You know, the cliché is ‘don’t ever get sick in America’. I already kinda knew that when my beloved aunt died from cancer in February, and I’m certain the stress and trauma of that and the money situation all contributed to my ticker trouble.
I had a comprehensive multi-trip travel insurance policy with Covermore, but, alas, each section of the cover was capped. The health section was capped at £1,000. The bill from York Hospital is many, many, many times more than that. In fact, I promised my mum I wouldn’t publicise the final bill to spare her worries. Needless to say it’s HUGE, despite my discharging myself early and opting for taxis over ambulances.
To try and get a grip on the financial situation I realised I had to do something with the place in France. I investigated letting it out with an agent but, alas, its countryside location seemed a bit too remote for renters.
So a few months ago I put it up for sale.
So far a fair few viewers but not a single offer, even with a reduced asking price.
I am barely going to survive the winter. I have rent in Sydney to pay and these hospital bills earning into what little money I have left.
Please help in any small way you can. Please support your creatives, your freelancers, your journalists who at the bottom of the food chain when. it comes to being paid for what they do.
stevepafford.com
Christ, you wouldn’t believe how hard it is to write that.
In fact, this is something I’ve been putting off writing, admitting to, agonising over, embarrassed about, you name it… for many, many months.
As those of you who have known me for a number of years, particularly readers of the regrettably short-lived Crankin’ Out, I’m pretty hopeless at admitting failure or defeat, preferring to bury my head in the sand and hope it’s all blown over by morning. Some morning.
I can also be as guilty as the next person of living a slightly imagined life through social media, papering and glossing over the cracks and pretending everything is hunky dory.
OK (swallowing of not inconsiderable pride begins), where do I start?
How about I’m completely skint?
Or to be precise, asset formerly rich, cash poor.
Don’t ever buy a property with a partner you aren’t already married to because unless they’re the salt of the earth you will get used, abused, ripped off, taken for granted and cheated.
After I was ripped off by a certain boyfriend for over twenty thousand pounds, the same one who stopped playing his share of the rent for the Manly apartment we shared in 2015 and 2016 just a week after moving in, and then stole a number of personal items as he fled to Melbourne (is it any wonder my oldest friend Joanne ended up calling him Michael Robme), I bought a house in France.
It could have been anywhere, I just needed to get away from Australia. From memories of him and anything associated with him.
I tried to learn my lesson, and in the summer of 2017 the house in France became my first ever property purchase on my own. It started out as a potential full time proposition but quite honestly, it’s the kind of place you’d be mad to try and endure in the desolate and bleak winter months. At least I tried though.
With my remaining savings/proceeds from a previous property sale I invested 50 thousand pounds in a business investment scheme in Britain, with 79th Element. I did this because a) there was little hope of buying an investment property with the remaining funds and b) I, like many, was seduced by the interest rates which are no longer available to savers and owners of bonds etc: a 10% return every month, ie £500. £6k for a year. Not bad considering.
Despite knowing full well the risks involved, I decided to take the plunge largely because that aforementioned oldest friend Jo recommended it and had already personally invested in the scheme, arranged through her mortgage broker Shaun Ginley.
Yes, I know. Doesn’t sound legit, does it?
Well, it’s legit (of a sort) but its unregulated and outside of Financial Services Authority control.
All was fine until January this year. The monthly payments suddenly stopped without warning. As investors, Jo and I received an email a few weeks later that suggested that the company was about to be sold and that all interest payments had been paused until the sale had gone through, and that once they have completed with the new owners all capital and owed interest payments shall be paid to investors.
Ten months and numerous angry exchanges of emails and phone calls later nothing appears to be happening. I’ve raised the prospect of the police and even the BBC programme Watchdog getting involved, and in response have been told to calm the communications down because “if the directors are antagonised and close the company no one may get anything.”
Seriously?
Something else happened to me this year.
On May 21 I suffered a heart attack while driving on the freeway from New Hampshire to Maine.
You know, the cliché is ‘don’t ever get sick in America’. I already kinda knew that when my beloved aunt died from cancer in February, and I’m certain the stress and trauma of that and the money situation all contributed to my ticker trouble.
I had a comprehensive multi-trip travel insurance policy with Covermore, but, alas, each section of the cover was capped. The health section was capped at £1,000. The bill from York Hospital is many, many, many times more than that. In fact, I promised my mum I wouldn’t publicise the final bill to spare her worries. Needless to say it’s HUGE, despite my discharging myself early and opting for taxis over ambulances.
To try and get a grip on the financial situation I realised I had to do something with the place in France. I investigated letting it out with an agent but, alas, its countryside location seemed a bit too remote for renters.
So a few months ago I put it up for sale.
So far a fair few viewers but not a single offer, even with a reduced asking price.
I am barely going to survive the winter. I have rent in Sydney to pay and these hospital bills earning into what little money I have left.
Please help in any small way you can. Please support your creatives, your freelancers, your journalists who at the bottom of the food chain when. it comes to being paid for what they do.
stevepafford.com
Organizer
Steve Pafford
Organizer
England
