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
No comments:
Post a Comment