2014-01-11 | 9:17 a.m.
Sometimes I feel like I've spent nearly all of my 20s in some Groundhog day-esque reverie where I constantly have to look for somewhere to live. Slight exaggeration perhaps but I've been in London five years now and am currently looking for my sixth place to live in the capital. This time the excitement factor is ramped up considerably since Ollie (who I love an amount consistent with trying to describe how big the Universe is) and I will be moving in together. Already seen a few houses of horror, the worst being a maisonette which was kind of actually just one big room - an open plan kitchen/living room with a bizarre mezzanine level for the bedroom, with terrifying balcony I would no doubt topple over, weird cupboard containing a freezer and microwave and a washing machine sat proudly in the middle of the bathroom.
I have also made a new friend in the form of Christian, a slimy estate agent who loves to plague me with answerphone messages, whom if you were to Wikipedia "estate agent" there would just be a page with a photo of his slimy estate agenty face. My initial meeting with him was the worst - on our introduction I caught an aroma of the inside of a beer keg (not me for once). He walked me to his car so we could drive to the property he wished to show me and said, "Excuse the mess," as he scraped all manner of debris off my seat, revealing it to be punctuated with cigarette burns. I climbed in anyway and was horrified to find that in his cup holder was a half drunk bottle of Stella Cidre. I thought about jokingly asking whether he'd been having a car party but, really, what are you meant to say to that?!
Anyway, it's Saturday and we have more flat viewings on the agenda today, perhaps with the reward of a trip to the floating pub the Wibbley Wobbley afterwards, and it's a sunny day and I really am quite very happy with life right now.
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