It's Friday afternoon. I've now been calling people, following online rental boards, and running through London for a good 48 hours. I am near-death exhausted. But I don't have a place to live yet.
In the morning I looked at a shared flat. There was so little space that I'll probably have to scrap the idea of sharing to save entirely. I simply have too much stuff – even if I sell me sofa and my mattress. But the guy offering the flatshare was good to talk to, very friendly and funny. I got so drawn into chatting that I almost missed my next appointment, which was with what must be London's poshest average joe real estate agency. All over town, they've got modern styled offices full of extremely smart looking furniture and matching agents. I was taken from apartment to apartment in a little Mini and, not surprisingly, everything I was shown was outside my budget.
I might still break down and submit an offer for one incredibly stylish studio apartment that was, besides the ludicrous rent, entirely without flaw. The kitchen had everything, fridge and freezer, washer and dryer, even a dishwasher, entirely useless for just one person. Everything had just been redone and tastefully and sparingly filled with design furniture. Wouldn't it be fair to reward myself for the last two years' frugality with something extravagant for a year or two?
The problem is that I'm really a cheapskate at heart, and this is more of a problem in London than anyone who has never looked for a home here can possibly appreciate. I've seen dumps, and I was asked to pay a thousand pounds per month. I've seen one very nice place with a bathroom in need of work and a unique kitchen setup. It could be mine for eleven hundred pounds. The best value was a tiny studio for about eight hundred pounds. This is the third option that I'm seriously contemplating.
A mere three possibilities, all far from perfect. With the sun setting and another beautiful though very windy day coming to an end, this doesn't sound a whole lot to me, especially considering I contacted about forty people, have my ear burn hot with telephonitis, and saw a good dozen places. With every person I call, with every message I leave, with every screen full of offers that burns into my retina, I get a little more depressed and doubtful about the whole operation.
I'm burned out enough to say I'll need to make a decision by the end of tomorrow, be it to sign something or to defer the search to when I get here in two weeks. I don't have the strength to spend Sunday chasing luck and stressing all day. For once I want to enjoy London at daylight – and not just at night in the gastropub. Which reminds me, my host has just come home from work. What's for dinner, and where?
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