Like having ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife, I’ve had several ideas for vaguely sensible posts. However, as ever, real life predicates against me being able to have the time to write anything. So instead here’s another update as to why I’ve been too busy to blog, at which point everybody reading this leaves to play scrabble on Facebook. If Alanis Morrisette could have fitted that into her MOR lyrics, I’m sure she would have. She’d have also been able to tell the future, and may have been burnt at the stake as a result. You can’t have it all, I suppose.
The reason for inactivity here is London. You know, that big place I’m moving to in a few weeks time and don’t have anywhere to live yet? Well, I’ve been attempting to rectify that. Spare moments are spent desperately scouring websites for spare rooms, flats, houses or cardboard boxes. Having a list of a dozen potential sites isn’t enough. You always need one more just to be on the safe side. Truly, moveflat.com is the equivalent of a very large hit of opium for househunters. Soon people will find me rocking in a corner, eyes rolling, muttering the words: “But it has NO TUMBLE DRYER.”
This weekend I attempted my first, and hopefully last, traipse of rooms in London. I say traipse. It’s more like a job interview, which the difference that at least if I don’t get the job, I still have an existing one to fall back on. If I don’t get a house, I better find a darn sturdy cardboard box. The interview can be imagined something like this:
“So, Mr. Andrews. We see you’re looking for a flat or house. Why do you want this particular one?”
“Well, I’m moving up to London soon and I really don’t like the idea of being homeless. Can I have this one?”
“Not yet. We have more questions for you. What will you bring to the house?”
“Well, I can cook. And I’m reasonably quiet. And tidy. But I’m not a hermit. At least I don’t think I am. I like normal things like sports, doing down the pub, watching TV and films and other things. I’m like the Danny Murphy of the flatmate world. Not spectacular, but average and largely trouble free, and I won’t hanker after a move to Chelsea because, frankly, I’m not good enough for there. They all wear their jumpers over their shoulders and I could never carry that look off.”
“I see. We’ll be in touch. Maybe.”
Anyway, I’ve seen all kinds of houses. Big houses, small houses, flats above shops, flat-pack furniture, mould-infested houses, so-neat-if-your-breathe-they’ll-whip-out-the-disinfectant houses. And one really lovely house that would be absolutely perfect, with housemates who seem lovely.
I was called back for a ‘second’ interview last night, during which I completely forgot to mention my Olympic-class tea brewing skills, which I’m hoping hasn’t counted against me. But I like the house, I like the people and hopefully they think I’m lovely enough to join their house. And I am lovely. Well, mostly. If a bit misanthropic at times. Essentially I’m a stuffed toy version of Charlie Brooker.
So, time will be spent fretting, and brewing Olympic-class tea, and praying to all the Gods of Housing that I get the place until I get the phone call, or email. Although I’d happy buy them all champagne dinners or even hack off my left arm (face it, I’m majorly right handed and useless in goal, so it wouldn’t be a great loss) for this place, I didn’t say that. Because then I’d appear like I was a try-hard. And nobody likes a try hard.