Hunting for a home

The month of June has been a medley of awfulness so far. It started going downhill on May 20, when I had to work until 3 in the morning before getting up at 9 to drive to Suffolk for my boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend’s wedding (I looked terrible and compensated by drinking all the champagne, which then ran out, so not an ideal occasion). I then made the presentation from hell on the Monday morning after that, and have pretty much not left the office since. To make matters worse, this period of 80 hour weeks has coincided with having to move out of our lovely flat.

As I write this I feel abject panic rising (the same panic that’s stopping me sleeping night after night). We now, as of today, have twelve days to find ourselves an abode before we’re forced into (i) living with M’s parents on a sofa bed, or (ii) camping with kindly friends.

Both of these options are less than ideal, as I fear that M and I have become so used to living with each other that we’ve developed heinous habits which would horrify and revolt family and friends in equal measures. I, for example, have taken to coming home after work in the early hours of the morning, making myself a round of peanut butter and honey toast x4, and playing the video of Marina and the Diamonds ‘I am Not a Robot’ on repeat and, erm, quite loud. M is tolerating this for the time being (he has the patience of a saint) but I’m not sure what others would think. Anyway, you get my drift. We need to find somewhere to rest our heads, of our own, ASAP.

My desperation means that I’m having quite a few conversations a day with estate agents, most of whom are lovely (I’m being polite, over half are terrible, pushy and selectively deaf). However, one in particular sticks out. I’ll call him Roger. Roger calls me ten times a day, leaves messages sounding like a lost little boy (“Basil, where are you?”) and takes it personally when we don’t like a flat he recommends. We have had lots of conversations, Roger and I, each of which end up with me hanging up on the verge of tears (of frustration and rage) which go along the lines of:

Roger: I have a perfect, absolutely perfect, flat for you. The living room is unusually large, there’s an unusually large bathroom, bedroom one is unusually large. Etc.

Me: [Foolishly, I believe him and my hopes start to rise] Oh Roger that sounds lovely. Is it within our price range/within walking distance of Clapham Junction station?

Roger: Yes, absolutely. It’s absolutely perfect. The living room is unusually large….etc etc.

Me: [So happy, just picturing how well my basil pot will thrive on the sheltered, west facing balcony) Roger, it sounds amazing. Can we book a viewing for the weekend?

Roger: Yes, just wait while I find my pen…

Between five and ten minutes pass. We book the viewing.

Me: Perfect. Thanks Roger. We’re really so grateful for your help. Could you remind me how much this property is a week, and where it is, so I can tell M?

Roger: Here’s the thing - it’s £495 a week and in a wonderful new development south of Vauxhall. But I’m sure the landlord will accept less. A bit less, anyway.

Me: [And here’s where I wish I could tell you that I lose my temper/shout/curse/scream at the man who seems hell bent on crushing me, but instead I clench my teeth and say…] Thank you Roger, but that’s significantly over our budget and I have told you quite a few times that we must be within walking distance of Clapham Junction. Please cancel the viewing. Goodbye.

I then waste more time calling M in frustration, who’s in the first two weeks of a brand new job and really has better things to do than listen to me huffing and puffing about stereotypes and whatnot.

But anyway. Enough of my moaning - I’m about to slink out of work to do another viewing. Maybe, just maybe, this one will be “the one”…

Basil