Ah, the joys of being a landlord in New Zealand. Where every week is a new episode of “You Just Can’t Make This Stuff Up.”

Meet Crystal (no pun intended, but fitting, you’ll see why) and her boyfriend Dylan—young, sweet, and utterly clueless. They rented my house, and things were fine… until Uncle Meth moved in. Yep, turns out Uncle had a bit of a P habit, and soon enough, so did my house.

I did the responsible thing: tested the property, confirmed contamination, and sadly had to ask Crystal and Dylan to leave. To their credit, they didn’t trash the place, but the yard and garage looked like a rummage sale collided with a hurricane. Oh, and they stopped paying rent. By the time they left (a few weeks later), they owed me about $1,800.

Fast forward a few days, and I get a call from Crystal. She’s breathless with excitement:
“Dylan let me down on the outside, but I cleaned the inside real good! And guess what—I borrowed the money to pay you!”

My hardened landlord heart softened. She arrived at 7 p.m. with the rent. We shared a cup of tea. I thought, Maybe I’ve misjudged her. Maybe there’s hope here.

Nope. Hope is a dangerous thing.

Half an hour after leaving, Crystal calls again.
“Can you call this property manager, Joy, and tell her I paid you? She said we can have this new house if we clear our rent!”

Wait, What? Did I just get used as a rental reference?!  There’s a Property Manager who is going to give her a house, knowing she has a history of rent arrears and ‘P’?  Seriously?

The next morning, I ring Joy, an Aussie with no-nonsense charm who’s seen it all. Joy laughs and says,
“Yeah, I told them that. We just wanted to get you paid. But no way they’re getting the house. This would never happen in Australia! Tenants get away with murder here!”

And she’s right. In NZ, the rules tilt so far against landlords, the Tenancy Tribunal hands tenants a few extra weeks' rent free on the way out the door.  Compliments of the Landlord! Thank you very much!

Moral of the story? Even when you get the rent, you might still be the punchline.

Some tenancy disputes test your patience.
Others test your faith in humanity.

This one did both — and then some.

It began simply enough.

My commercial tenant, Honest Tom, a hardworking man who just wanted to get on with life and avoid unnecessary drama, sublet part of his rented property (with our blessing) — the office space, which was semi-liveable.  It had a kitchen area and toilet.  We later added a bathroom for his tenant.

Enter Tallulah Twaddle: all smiles, stories, and the kind of creative imagination that should have earned her a spot writing fiction, not tenancy agreements. Oh that’s right, there was no written agreement, there wasn’t even a legible rent book.

Unfortunately, when Honest Tom reduced the size of the commercial area he was renting off us, we unintentionally inherited the squatting, non-rent-paying, abusive and entitled Tallulah Twaddle and it was up to us to get rid of her. Had she agreed to sign an agreement and pay the rent she could have stayed.

So, Off we headed to Tenancy Tribunal, thinking “She’s not our tenant. Tom gave her notice when he was leaving. She’s not paying rent. I have all the supporting evidence in writing. Should be a walk in the Park.” WRONG.

Thus began a four-year saga that could have been avoided with a little honesty, a little integrity — and perhaps several adjudicator’s ability to see through her well-rehearsed performance.

Here is one little gem worth the share and a chuckle …

Shortly after moving in, Tallulah sent Honest Tom a now-infamous text:
"Hi Tom, I'm off to WINZ today. In case they phone you before I speak to you, I’m telling them the rent is $380 for a 3-bedroom house."

 Reality check:
There was no house. Technically, there were two bedrooms. She was paying $250.00 per week. 
There was, however, a substantial misrepresentation designed to deceive a government agency.

When this little gem surfaced at the Tribunal hearing, Tallulah didn’t deny it.
She simply shrugged and said:   "I know, but I'm dealing with that and WINZ at the moment."
As if fraud were a minor speed bump on the way to a payout.

The adjudicator, who by this point looked ready to take up meditation or whisky-tasting full-time, asked the obvious:   “That being said. How can I believe anything else you say in your statement?”

Tallulah, without missing a beat, assured him:   "Oh, but everything else is true!"

Four hours later,  after more circular arguments than a roundabout convention,  the adjudicator said the case was to be ruled in my favour.

Tallulah cried out:  "But the other adjudicator said I would get my money!"
(For the record: NOT. He said she could try arguing the case.)

So our current adjudicator said the matter should technically have been heard by the original adjudicator, and therefore the entire 4-hour hearing was struck from the record, and we were to go back to the original adjudicator to cover the same ground in another couple of months.

If there’s a moral to this story, it’s this:
In the world of tenancy disputes, the truth is often stranger than fiction.

And trust, once misplaced, can cost you more than just time — it can cost you years of your life you’ll never get back.

Being a landlord in New Zealand is not what you think it is.

You might imagine someone sipping flat whites in a linen shirt, checking their online banking while tenants magically pay rent on time and houses stay miraculously intact. I wish. The reality? Let’s just say I’ve seen more broken promises than a reality TV reunion episode—and none of it makes for good dinner party conversation.

Over the years, I’ve managed everything from tidy family homes to commercial spaces filled with even less tidy stories. I’ve scrubbed floors I didn’t dirty, forked out thousands to fix damage I didn’t cause, and waited months for the legal system to acknowledge what felt obvious from day one. I’ve met some wonderful tenants, yes—but also some that left me wondering if common sense had quietly packed its bags and moved offshore.

The thing is, I’ve mostly kept quiet. Because landlords are expected to “take it on the chin” while smiling politely and being accused of causing the housing crisis—despite paying the mortgage, the rates, the insurance, and replacing the oven again because “it just stopped working after the flat party.”

And let’s be honest—if I named names or got specific with timelines, I’d likely be served with a defamation notice before I’d even hit “publish.” That’s why this blog exists. A safe space. A storytelling sanctuary. A pressure valve.

Landlord Diaries is where I’ll share the real side of being a landlord—warts, wins, and weary sighs included. Names will be changed, dates disguised, but the stories? 100% true. Think of it as a documentary, if David Attenborough narrated The Bachelor: Property Edition.

I’m not here to throw a pity party (though if someone brings cake, I won’t say no). I’m here because landlords are being backed into corners, and no one seems to care until something burns down—literally or financially.

If you're a landlord, I hope you’ll find solidarity and maybe even a chuckle here. If you're a tenant or just curious, I hope you’ll see a side that rarely makes it to the headlines. Not all landlords are greedy tycoons—some of us are just trying to protect our investment and stay emotionally intact.

In time, I’d love to include stories from other landlords too—because believe me, I know I’m not the only one walking this tightrope.

So here we go.
Truth wrapped in tact, dipped in sarcasm, and served with a side of reality.
Welcome to the dark side.

— Jan Maree