Relocation, relocation, relohforfuckssakegetonwithit

Right. Ok. Take three

One flat was in a basement, and had no light. The spare room advertised was literally a walk in wardrobe. Seriously. There were steel barred gates with nine locks on all the windows, which the details called ‘excellent security’, and I called ‘terrifying prison house weirdness’.

In the master bedroom (or possibly ‘mistake bedroom’ – ‘master’ may have been a misspelling), one wall was covered by a brown smoked glass mirror, while the rest of the house was merely covered in smoked brown. The overbearing landlady, who showed us around, had clearly been sitting in the house smoking with the heating on full for around 9 days. Or perhaps 500,000 years.

Oh, and the winning factor? When the landlady buzzed us in, the resident ‘strange old man in string vest’ who had set up his recreation area in the entrance hall almost hit us square in the ear with not one, but two darts. Who Throws Two Darts At Once? WHO?

Another flat, also on the ground floor, had mould growing downward in grey green clouds from the bathroom ceiling. Its kitchen was seperated by a fence from the living room, and the ‘spare bedroom/study’ in the details was actually a hallway leading to the back door. Those who don’t live in London, prepare to scoff – this was being offered at a bargain 250 a week. Oh, that’s nothing, the first one was 275. A week. A ha ha ha ha ha. Why (how?) does anyone live here?

So when we saw our brand new (or ish) world’s most beautiful two bedroom flat for a negotiably even more beautiful amount of rent, we were very very happy. Still are very happy. Only now, we have to wait. And Annas don’t do waiting.

Still, I can content myself with other things, little projects, ideas. I might do a minute-by-minute report of the Eurovision Semi Final tomorrow night, just for kicks/practice/warm-up.

And planning moving days, and trips to Ikea and arrangements of shelves and where each piece of colourful tat should go.

It’s a lovely flat. I’m so excited. It’s five minutes round the corner from where we are now, even closer to the bus route, and with a beautiful kitchen that I won’t be afraid to go into. And yes, before you ask, we *could* get a cat, but we’re not going to, because the poor thing would have no outside to be in.

And there’s enough room to have our personalities in, and books and things and stuff and people to stay, and I’m going to shut up now, smug married London middle-class bastards. Been railing against them for bloody years. Now I bloody am one. A big one. Piss.

Anyway. It’ll be mice. Nice, sorry. Not mice. No mice. No mice at all. It’ll be nice. but then anywhere without mice would be… No, Anna, no talking about the mice. No talking about the mice that have overrun my lovely little flat, the mice that mean I spend weeks avoiding the bloody kitchen that takes up one third of the bloody the flat, the mice the scuttle and wee, and scuttle and hide and then the bastards… and …. breathe. Oopses. I broke the don’t mention the mice rule (see below) (oh bother, no, don’t, I mention the mice) (no, do) (oh, I don’t know). *ahem*.

Ignore that last para, will you?

Anyway. New flats, eh?

Mmmm, lovely.