Emily Olle: Inspections and rejections, SA’s rental crisis is like a bad Tinder date

Photos too good to be true, hundreds of applications, obscure inspection times and rejection texts. The renting process is like a bad Tinder date, writes Emily Olle.

Every day a new story emerges about this state’s crippling rental crisis. A couple forced to pitch a tent in Mannum or a single father of four copping an almost $200 per week rise to keep a roof over his children’s heads.

Sadly, these are far from the exception. They’re very quickly becoming the rule for those in the rental market seeking the basic human right of a place to live.

With a lease ending and a staggering rent rise on the cards, I recently found myself back on the house hunt for the first time in four years.

Like my past forays into the world of online dating, I naively asked myself: “how bad could it really be?”

And much like online dating, the answer was bad. Very bad.

Let’s talk through the process.

Applications. Like filling out your dating profile, you go through dozens, if not hundreds of them, and spill your deepest, darkest secrets to a complete stranger.

Name, age, income, references, dating history, first pet, where were you on the night of 17 December, 1967?

At this point I’m convinced agents will know the name of my first born before I do.

Then you have to make time for the date. Can you make it at 11am on a Tuesday?

Rental heartbreak is almost worse than the real deal.

Interestingly, Amber from the real estate agency, I cannot. Because I am at work. Which you are aware of, because I’ve sent you a document outlining every job I’ve ever had.

But unfortunately, if I want to be considered for a property, I will not be at work. Because I will be at the inspection.

When you arrive at said inspection, you are greeted by 30 to 100 similarly desperate prospective renters looking for the love of their property lives. You scope out the competition.

With each open home, a certain humanity is stripped from you piece by piece as you start to exact joy by seeing others you’re sure you can beat.

A couple with three children and two dogs? Three uni students looking for a share house? “Oh, we’re on here,” you think, aware of your inherent privilege and ashamed at who you’ve become.

You walk through. Like the man who claims to be six foot three on his online profile, the agent describes the house as having “great bones”.

What they actually meant was the shower was condemned in 1913 and the living room is the size of a prison cell, but with slightly more mould and slightly less structural integrity.

The “great bones” at one of Adelaide’s rental properties. Picture: Supplied

But, you remember the market you’re in. “It’s perfect,” you say to the agent with a smile.

Now, after all that, you walk out of the property and hear over your shoulder: “Now, I’m not going to be putting in an application. I’ll offer you $100 more per week. We’re renovating and my investment property brings in more than this place.”

You turn around. It’s a businessman in his early 60s. Empty nesting, of course. More equity in his pinky finger than you have to your name. You’re done for.

A thrumming knell of rage begins pounding in your head.

At this stage you begin to lose any semblance of sanity. And then, perhaps three or four days later, the death blow. A rejection text.

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“Hello [INSERT NAME]. Your application has been unsuccessful. Good luck in your search.”

The hunt continues, with the pile of applications growing and an unnerving sense of despair rising with it.

Finally, you get the call. You’ve found a home.

It’s $50 more than you are realistically able to pay and is so close to the train line the carriages might as well be running directly through your brain, but you’ve found a home.

And, like your love life after scouring the apps for months on end, you think: “good enough”.

If this is my experience as a young professional with no dependents, my heart aches to think of those with less privilege fighting the desperate rental fight.

The renting process is flawed at best and dehumanising at worst, and it’s time for something to change. Let’s leave the heartbreak to Tinder.

Originally published as Emily Olle: Inspections and rejections, SA’s rental crisis is like a bad Tinder date