As I am now a fully employed member of the world and wear a suit to work on some days I thought it only right that I flee the nest of my mild to severely affected family in order to seek alternative lodging in the grand and grey city that is London Town.
In fact I had made this decision. It was made. I was to be off. Immediately.
I then began the search for a homestead in London Town and faced a wallop in the face of unprecedented proportions as I came to the crushing realisation that it is not possible to find a house in London.
No, that’s right, all houses in London already have people living in them. There are no empty ones. I don’t even know why they have estate agents in the city. I imagine they spend all their time playing scrabble and miniature golf because they certainly aren’t selling any fucking houses.
You are probably thinking this a ludicrous suggestion, for London is a place of many houses. Some must be empty and looking for inhabitants, you are assuming.
Your assumptions are misguided. There are no houses. In order to prove this let me tell you of the progress of my house hunting thus far:
- Viewing No. 1: I traipse round a flat. The flat is new and has builders bottoms all over the place. They are cheerful chaps but I am not cheerful as I quickly realise this is one of those homesteads which would be described as ‘cosy’. This is estate agent for ‘suffocatingly small’. The flat is shown to me empty. I assume this is because if you had wanted to put furniture in it you wouldn’t also be able to fit people inside. I feel this is a flaw in a house. I wonder if I am expected to purchase novelty dolls house furniture and live out my days in an Alice in Wonderland style facade. I don’t want this house. I go away with a glum look upon my face.
- I find another flat. It is nice. I want to live within its humble walls and cook spaghetti of a night time. I make a fine offer to the illustrious landlady of this home. She says yes. I think Oh good, this is easy, I am soon to have a home. I receive forms and am contemplating signing all future monies away when oh – I receive a phone call. Who can it be? Thinks I. Goodness! It’s the estate agents who have no houses to sell. And what news does estate agent woman have? She has the news that it is not to be my home. It is to be given to another who has offered more money than I. I am shunned and cast aside. I feel I should be offered compensation or a lollipop for my disappointment. No such offer was made. Another person is now living in that flat that was nearly mine. It is a melancholy situation. I continue the search…
- I arrange a viewing of a flat after work. It is now winter time so the phrase ‘after work’ means only two things. Cold and Dark. I battle through the Cold and Dark to find said flat. I am optimistic. I approach friendly looking estate agent. Evidently I have had a momentary lapse in concentration. I have started to believe this man may actually have a house to show me. He doesn’t. He kindly informs me that the person who viewed the flat before my arrival has taken it. I don’t even get to see the flat. Flat-thief is sat in his car smugly signing forms. I am sent home. I wasn’t given a fair chance. Can you believe this? I cannot believe this.
- I decide to view another flat. I realise I am setting myself up for more disappointment. I arrange to meet the estate agent at an underground station. I worry slightly that he may be a psychopath. I’ve been warned not to get into cars with strangers. Nevertheless I cast my fears aside and appear at the station to wait for the estate agent and/or psychopath. The estate agent does not show up, obviously. He has no houses to sell. He is busy with his scrabble. I go home.
No further progress to report. I am yet to find a flat. I need one. I can no longer wake up at 6am every day. I believe commuting is inhumane. The situation is becoming more desperate. I feel it ripping away my soul one day at a time. By this time next year I’ll start to look like a Dementor. I’m sure of it.