"I ring them only to discover they've been taken by a bunch of fucking psychic flat hunting wankers!!"

Your first flat hunt is a rite of passage. This is what we are told. Baptism of fire, Hail Mary, nothing for it but to grin and bare all and throw yourself into it until you just want to weep then throw up and die.

They do not tell you that the same is true of all house hunts you will ever to in your life. It does not get any easier. This is my third and the third time is NOT the charm.

Oh we will find somewhere. We might even find somewhere halfway decent that makes me want to tell people about my gap yah and bake scones (rhyming with stones) and point out the period fireplace. And we might even find somewhere quickly, within a week of intense hunting so when we try to explain to the dwindling number of friends who have not flat hunted how stressful it was they look at us with glassy infuriatingly uncomprehending eyes and with furrowed brows say, "It was just a week..."

"JUST A WEEK! You little (rhymes with flat hunt). The crucifixion was just six hours, Katrina took a day, Hiro-bloody-shima took fifteen minutes, don't you sit there and toss around time frames like fucking sweeties and tell me it only took a week!"

I don't say this, but I think it incredibly loudly.

Flat hunting makes you feel all irritable and itchy, like your clothes have shrunk in the wash. And it makes me tired and I get fussy when I'm tired. I do a lot of incredibly loud thinking.

"You know what I love sir? I fucking love it when you stop in the middle of the street, I can't get enough of that shit. That stumblebumble text walk? I will stick Barry White on my fucking iPod and ENJOY the view as you walk away from me. I hope the thought doesn't make you uncomfortable but if you think as slowly as you walk you're still wondering what all these bright lights are and who's shouting "It's a boy!!!"

Sometimes I don't even think it, I will say it. There was this gem from the first solo flat hunt and thank God I'm doing it with lovely people this time or I would crack.

Rewind six weeks. I was standing in the shittest flat I have ever seen in Mile End. Mould in the shower. Kitchen falling apart. Closed locked doors to other bedrooms I was assured were home to the sweetest students in the world. A man screaming at his "lazy fucking useless bitch" in the next flat over.

Standing beside me was an estate agent who looked me square in the face, like he had neither eyes nor ears nor a sense of smell, and  told me:

"Now little places like this go like hotcakes so you need to let me know now if not sooner if you want it or you'll miss out big time."

The little shit.

So I looked at him square in the eye and said, "You know what, I'm not actually that desperate yet so if I miss out I'll try not to cry myself to sleep."

There was no applause and no wolf whistles...except in my imagination. The truth is I needed somewhere quick so I was getting pretty desperate. As is everyone who flat hunts for longer than two days in London. And the estate agents have us over a barrel.

The quote in the title is from Spaced and it encapsulates everything horrible about the flat hunt. Speed is the key. You need to be on the line and feeling fine. In it essence nowadays the flat hunt is done online and the viewing should really be to tell you if the area or the house is everything promised online. It is a reassurance, not an extra step. After the house view it WILL be a yes or no within half an hour. There is no room for maybes in the London market.

I am writing all this in a Starbucks (yes I know, I do have proper internet but I do not have proper chai lattes) and all the couples in the world are here. Every other table in this place people are looking into each others eyes doe eyed or doing that smile with one side of the mouth crooked up. Couples. You all do this smile and you don't notice. I think it's a special thing. I am making a study. It's a sort of wryly amused look.

The only other single person here has answered a phone with "Hi honey, where are you?"

Bleurgh.

I met the most laughable man on the night bus yesterday. Well. I didn't meet him, he merely made an impression. He had been sitting in the back of the bus talking to two young women. One a stunner in bodycon and stilettos, you know the type, and one plainer and homelier (and yes plumper) but still in jeans and a nice top and they were both clearly out for the night. They hopped off at Old Street roundabout and a minute later he came rollicking up the bus and approached the driver and asked,

"Sorry mate, which is the next stop the 78 pulls in at cos I've gone and missed the last one."

"Central Road mate."

Then, completely voluntarily,

"Right, right. Cheers. You know how it happened? I was talking to this absolutely gorgeous woman, I mean she was just stunning and I went to jelly I forgot what I was doing, like a school boy again, you know. I wish I'd asked her her number because I know she would of give it to me."

And I wish I could have caught the bus driver's eye because he and I I'm sure raised an eyebrow and gave a Scrubs Laverne "Mmmmmm-hmmmmm" at exactly the same time. And we burned to ask this balding middle aged man, "What was it sweetie? Was it that the last time a pretty woman spoke to you she said "Tall, grande or venti?"

And some of the more hopeless romantics out there will boo hiss boo at my meaness, but his story made me all annoyed. And though I'm the best wing woman in the world and though I am appreciative of fitties and our quest to get with them I got all annoyed because of her friend. Her lovely friend with the lovely smile doing a third of the talking who didn't get a look in.

But back to the vile spawn of Satan masquerading as ordinary humans. Estate agents. We dealt with an estate agent called Harris who took us to a house. A really nice house, four beds, two baths, lovely jubbly. And Harris was as cool as a cucumber. Well, according to my sources I was actually in work at the time being sweet talked by an aging banker from Barcelona. Time is ticking...

So this Harris character tells us to "noooo, relax, don't even worry about it, there aren't any other viewings today, everything's fine"

And we like the look of the place, leave, decide we're going to take it, get all excited, call the agency back and they tell us "We literally just got a holding deposit..." And Harris is mysteriously uncontactable. In this day and age? I think not...

To put it mildly we were all extremely cross with Harris who had to have known of the serious interest. So I devised a wonderful scheme of revenge.

I get dolled up, head out to the West End and find Harris in a group of his smarmy cheap suited friends and buy him a whiskey and smile winsomely. And I shall notch up the charm to 11 and make the poor bastard fall in love with me. Boy won't know what hit him.

We shall court for three years or so, going slowly because I am a classy lassy. We shall marry on a clear, chilly October day when the leaves are turning coppery and drifting to the ground.

We shall have two children, Harris Jr who is just like his dad and a little girl who shall be his princess, We shall have picnics in the park and go to his mum's at Christmas.

And then one day, one ordinary unremarkable day he will wake up in our Egyptian cotton streets and I will be gone. And the kids will be gone. And a letter will inform him of the sale of the house. And of his car. And detail unauthorised payments made from the deposit scheme his agency uses to his own personal bank account.

Aha.

But I really don't have the dedication for such a long term plan so now I'll just drink a fifth and sob angry incoherent things down the phone at him. "HARRIS! I hope you f**k your wife as well as you f**ked over us you schelfish bassshhterrd..."

Much better, pithy and and witty and nicely noir.

But even as we speak I hope to have good news to tell you for lo a hope is born...but sometimes in life horrible and inexplicable things happen and as I don't want to risk a stillbirth I shan't say a word.

Instead I shall wrap myself in a woolly blanket at Jenny's and drink hot chocolate and listen to jazz.

And email her contact at Reuters...

xo

"Would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill?"

To best enjoy this blog post you must recline. You must pour yourself a glass of wine and you must put on a very specific playlist. One that begins with Bastille's Pompeii then segues neatly into Daft Punk's Harder Better Faster remix. Then the Dartmouth Airs remix of Remix to Ignition. Because you deserve smooth RnB lovin'

Jesus, the shit I have to tell you lot. And I'll do it too, the minute I figure out how to extricate myself from a smug gentleman purring on my lap.

No kiddies, it's not about to get R rated.Yet. I've had several thoughts in that direction but I think my mother reads this blog sometimes. Not that she'd disapprove. No indeed, there are fouler and more terrible things than your mother disapproving.

Your mother cheering you along, that's far worse. Once she wanted to talk about "50 Shades" and the enigma of Christian Grey in a Starbucks. Not him being mysterious in a Starbucks, when we were Star... never mind. Suffice it to say she's like Stella getting her groove back.

Enough about my beloved smother! We're back to me balancing a cat and a laptop at new landlady's who we shall call Jenny. We like Jenny, there is Internet at Jenny's house. There are warm duvets and squishy pillows at Jenny's house. There is TV, there is every good thing. And a cat, just to be a bit more Dr Seuss. I like the cat. I hope it doesn't die. Not like the last pet.

There is also me being utterly fabulous. I say utterly fabulous, I'm eating Victoria Sponge that Jenny has baked and drinking orange juice that Jenny has poured. I feel like little orphan Annie at Daddy Warbucks'.

Life goes on in the wide world. Let me tell you about it.

The quote in the title is from Charles Dickens himself and it is to his local that I went last Tuesday night, "The Olde Chesire Cheese" hidden away in a little alley off of Fleet Street. The stone step was so worn down that there was a metal grating over it to let patrons in and out. There was no question of replacing that step. Because that step was worm down by the tread of Hemingway and Dickens and Twain and Tennyson. It has been eroded by history. I went there with people from work. People from work are massively dead on.

Second reason for the dinosaur in the title, I went to see Jurassic Park at the IMAX and I loved. Every. Single. Moment. They do not make them like that any more. They simply do not.

I love Dodson, we got Dodson over here!! You see, no one cares... That was a childhood staple.

Mind you the biggest laugh was not at any of the still hilarious gems. (Example, what do you call a blind dinosaur? A Do-You-Think-Ee-Saurus!" Ah, classic) The biggest laugh was reserved for "Oh my God, an interactive CD-ROM."  Touch screen darling. It's gonna be big...

And Dr Grant, don't get me started on Dr Grant because I would. And you would too. Mind you I also would Robert "Clever Girl" Muldoon. But never Ian Malcolm. Girl have standards.

We had a grand old day wandering around the South Bank and the posh people's market. We knew it was a posh people's market because of the non-segregation of the vegetables. They were artfully arranged in a sort of Bacchanal mess. And nobody was looking at me flicking though racks of knock off dresses, squinting one eye appraisingly and opining unasked-for "Sorry, dahlin' we ain't got nuffin' bigger than a meed-jum in with that lot." The indignity. Anyway, yes posh people's market.

It took me quite a while to distinguish actual posh people from my Southern English friends who had just grown up anywhere south of the imaginary line from Wolverhampton to Kings Lynn. All southern English people were de facto posh where I come from. Well, they were called a lot of things before posh, but I promised we'd keep the blog relatively clean.

Speaking of market stalls all those "pale ales" and "slow roasted peppers" were not a patch on Notting Hill Carnival. Oh yes.

We did that shit right. Dragged ourselves out at 8am on a Saturday morning and got on the Tube to Westbourne Park and arrived there before everyone. When the port-a-loos were still spotless and the streets gleamed and all the stall holders were just setting up.

Now the first thing I wanted to do before finding a suitable place to watch many scantily clad women and men parade by in wild abandon, a genuine Bacchanalia, I wanted me some jerk chicken, rice and peas and fried plantain.

I am not actually talking to you at the moment because if I was rest assured I would immediately and unapologetically launch into full "Yu'know I grew oop juust a stone throw awai from Windward Ro-wad" mode and I have yet to ascertain whether that has a happy ending. We got spectacularly pissed at last Friday of the month/pay day drinks and I ended up telling everyone about Notting Hill in that accent. And just when I though I would finish there would be a "Haaaaaaaave you met my friend" moment where I was presented to more people who now only know me as "the girl who does voices." They all came out. Sean Connery, Bernie Mac, Pitbull, Tevye the Dairyman, and the lady from the Caribbean food stall at which we rocked up.

I was so excited for food. Let us face reality, I am always excited for food. But this was special because I had never had plantain and jerk chicken before and it did not disappoint.

"Can I have some plantain too please?"

"You don' worry duhlin' I'm a puttin' a bit of everything on y'here. You don' mind spicy? Then I give you sum jerk sauce on the chicken there."

It was delicious. You pulled the chicken apart with your hands and found the good mouth watering meat and the jerk sauce tasted like all it was ever made for was to be shaken liberally over hot chicken to the jaunty rhythm of  steel drums.

And in the way of the world Pooh decided to find himself a smackerel of something sweetly...alcoholic. So I tried to buy a coconut full of rum.

Mind you these things are heavily heavily policed. I saw more Metropolitan police in five hours than I've seen all day on the 12th July at home. But the point is that they ID-ed like a bitch and because I lost my drivers license to the last Cindies ever (don't ask, just think stampede by the Ganges or at Mecca, last Cindies was our pilgrimage) and wasn't carrying my passport so when refused I shuffled my feet and said awkwardly to the dreadlocked purveyor. "Can I just have a coconut?"

Now because we had come early and because we had had a chance to do more wandering that everyone else had lo it came to pass that I was the only person there sipping from this massive green coconut. And those things are full of water, just like Castaway! Or, in fact, just like real life. I desperately wanted to find paint, slap a handprint on there, lob the coconut onto the crowd and cry "WILSON!!" as it drifted away. But I resisted.

Others were not immune to the lure of the coconut.

"Daddy, daddy, that lady has a coconut."

"Yes she certainly does."

"Daddy, daddy...<whisper, whisper, whisper>"

"Excuse me, where did you get your coconut?"

Elsewise work takes up most of the week and now flat hunting does as well. Estate agents. Four bedrooms means four bedrooms. It does not mean lounge that could be converted. Do not lie to my face.

But there is writing! There is the odd little moment that happened in a Vodaphone shop when I was topping up my Dongle for the last bittersweet time. There was a nice chap there who was having trouble setting up a business line and for the last fifteen minutes (slow slow service day) me and him have been doing that odd "Are you in line, ah you're coming back into line, oh no you need to sort something out over the phone, oh yes sorry I'll move along" silent dance with shakes of the head and apology smiles. He comes off the phone and returns to the queue, smiles and reaches out his hand and says "Hi, I'm Manolo, what's your name?"

I suspect this is called flirting. I understand this happens sometimes. But I am not entirely sure and am not able to distinguish this mythical business from being nice. People are often nice to me, I think its the glasses...

And he talks for a little bit more and he's been here for an hour already, silly Vodaphone, and he has to go soon as he's meeting friends it's a Friday and what do I do for a living?

"Me? I'm a writer. The paid stuff's not all that exciting."

But I am. Under my email signature it says my name and Junior Writer in italics.

Calloo-callay.

Mind you he leaves thinking my name is Lily (because of my natural suspicion of that uncertainty) and I haven't seen him since. If I do your all to be my wingmen and swear I've been known affectionately as Lily since birth. Because that sort of stuff's on the list as well. Practice makes perfect.

Until I get a minute my friends

xo