They say that the two most stressful things in life are divorce and moving. May I add to this list the trials of finding affordable property in London which doesn't resemble a crack den and isn't located in Essex?
It seemed pretty straightforward from the outset; ring a few agencies, leisurely browse Gumtree, create a Facebook group. I never imagined that the search for accommodation would result in heavily bitten nails and RSI from repeatedly refreshing email alerts from findaproperty.com, as well as a growing sense of nausea as you realise the extent of the task ahead of you. Expectations grow narrower and more cynical as you ponder the necessity of living space or access to transport links or even whether one really needs furniture in a house, all for the ultimate aim of saving a few precious pounds or even landing on somewhere vaguely suitable.
Once you've received this unpleasantly realistic wakeup call that life in the capital isn't all Notting Hill montages and cheery, ruddy-cheeked Cockneys strutting the side streets, it's time to roll up your sleeves and get stuck into property viewings, held to the mercy of whichever lettings agent you've sold your soul to. In this respect I lucked out with a sister and future flatmate already on the ground and on the prowl; just one viewing for a flatsharewith a very sweet Sri Lankan named for a Catholic hotspot proved to be less than fruitful. Located on the ninth floor of a tower block out of a Casualty castings director's dreams, ech room was crammed with Virgin Mary-shaped holy water containers, walls trimmed with flowery Biblical language, and to top it off, a Poirot boxset crowned the DVD player. Somehow, I don't think my still-very-student-lifestyle would sit compatibly with quiet Sundays spent solving murders with a flamboyant Frog.
With induction week dates looming and floods of 20-somethings invading the capital in search of somewhere to rest their heads, viewings went into lockdown. Having compiled an extensive list of all and any suitable-ish properties, our flatmate to be went once more into the breach. At the close of a day spent trawling all kinds of abodes and jostling with other groups also being whored around by the estate agents, she struck lucky with an ex-council flat in North East London with enviable secure-entry and transport links to die for. Just one obstacle stood between her obtaining the flat and hence housing heaven: a Swedish girl with an equal desire for habitation.
It came down to a coin toss.
We won.
Joy abounds.
So London life begins, a million miles away (or 2hrs3mins thank you Richard Branson) from luscious Lancashire, as evidenced by the leaflet carelessly tacked to the eeny kitchen corkboard, informing all local residents of the implementation of "Operation Crackdown" in a flat below, aka an ex crack-den.
We're not in the Ribble Valley anymore, Toto.
P to the S - have changed Spotify playlist to reflect massive move and the tensions encapsulated can only be best experienced through the joyful thuds of a Guetta beat. Soz.
© Miranda Thompson 2010.
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