So it begins. I know that I am allergic to morphine, but of late find myself allergic to Estate Agents as well. Who knew? Not so much of late, have had to deal with them for some time, but lately, and especially since one cretin chose to play the underhanded game, I am not a fan. Yet, like morphine, there are times I need them and in the next two weeks I am going to have to rely on them even more. Cue in the ‘Phantom of the Opera’ music.
As a result of the one who underhandedly led to the demise of my current home, I find myself having to enlist the help of others to find my new abode. Today was the day. It requires, as you know, endless, wasted time on the internet, looking at properties to rent within the said budget. I could be planning a trip to Barbados but no, I am looking a photos of properties to rent. In the winter, in grey light, in the mood of caved bear who wants to sleep and eat rather than engage.
There is something so wrong with this picture. Rather than have to ask for a new address from college leavers, I should be smiling at the last mortgage payment on my home bought a few decades ago. Not this gal, she is the ‘all over again’ kind of gal. And they think Dry January is a good thing.
Anyway, to the front I went today. To be fair, some were lovely, patronising and sweet. Others smelt of too much aftershave. My first visit resulted in the Estate agent, not pitching up. Ok, gave up a work day for this and rather than the coronary imminent, chose to Zen and move on.
Let’s talk about some of the properties seen shall we? First one. Could not see out of the windows. The windows that were filmed with years of London pollution came twofold. Original windows of sash (pretty) did not keep out the cold and noise, so landlord put in other windows that resemble those of bus drivers, or the ones you find in the cockpit of planes – shift and small. No air here, but at least it cuts out the noise. Dark blue walls, lovely for the winter months. Depression acute guaranteed. The bedroom was that of a hamsters cage, but some may call it intimate. Bathroom – um, blinked and it was fuzzy and gone. The advantage of this place was the bus stop right outside – with the entire London traffic close behind.
Moving onto two. Quaint, lovely outside. Quiet location and I thought, let this be the one. It was the one and only place I am sure long inhabited by mould. Black along the window frames. There were lovely remnants of past lives, on everything, even the picture outlines on the walls. Imagine the rush hour on the tube and spaces between people – that was the size of the kitchen. Can I work with this I kept thinking, can I work with this as the boiler stared at me and the gas meter plonked under the sink, sneered at me. Oh my Lord … this would be punishment still.
Third. Not even going there.
Fourth – already dark so the black bedroom doors, in the kitchen, did not appeal. Where is the taste I wondered? Where is the modicum of decent living, and at the price of a five bedroomed mansion of past living?
But in fairness, the agent was lovely. Thought I would be lovely, and I was, and when we parted, the nausea was kept at bay.
Not their fault on my budget. Perhaps if I move to the island of Orkney, I will find something suitable. But am not daunted, am resilient and have a million more viewings to do.
No more Dry January. Champagne is cheaper than these stupid options.
The search, as Alan Sugar says, continues. Watch this space.
Image: Cartoon shock.