Following on from that episode of coldness, wetness and lookalike 'tip' sales, this afternoon I went with Newby to check out house number 1 on our viewing schedule. And WHAT A JOKE it was! I think I must be beyond the past of exhaustion that I actually spent the whole time trying to stop myself from rolling on the floor in hysterics whilst crying in desperation and leaping round the house like a lunatic. Fact numero uno. It was like a half-way house, or an in-patient psychiatric unit. No, WORSE. The main room (eating room) consisted of a bucket-sized freezer (no joke), a table, and a notice board. A NOTICE BOARD. I was expecting an office with a house mistress in, or a wall of tuck lockers (oh, those are still to come!). And there was a door 'forbidden to housemates'. There's nothing quite like home sweet home then, is there?! Then through into the 'kitchen', or rather, a corridor with a mish-mash of kitchen facilities, would have been horrendous for a group bigger than ONE to cook there in one go (considering that there are seven house mates living there...), and cupboards with room numbers and LOCKS along the wall. Oh, how I miss boarding school! (Do we get evening activities and a canteen as well then?)
Nombros deux. The Lounge? BARREN. The aftermath of a crime scene. Or a very dull waiting room. Two sofas, and nothing else. Not even cushions, let alone a coffee table, rug, pictures, wall hangings, TV, music facilities, books, magazines, pictures, frames, paint, plants, corner lighting (lamps, lumieres, candles, lanterns, lava lamps, chandelier, reading light or candelabra), bean-bag floor cushions, a pole-dancing pole, a karaoke set or George Clooney standing in the corner with roses. NADA. So onwards and upwards. (Do we dare?) The rooms were bathroom size. And not the sized bathrooms from The Whitehouse. Or even Cheryl Cole's bathroom. Prison cell size. Claustrophobic. The landlord knocked on cell 3 upstairs (sorry, ROOM 3) and after a good 5 minutes appeared a dorky guy with spiky hair and glasses, who looked about 40. We bundled into his room, and all stood hunched in the door frame peaking into his cramped bedroom, which smelt oddly of weed. *More laughter inside my head. Could this get anymore hilariously worse?!* it turns out, the bathroom (the only bathroom) was bigger than even two bedrooms put together! I had to leave the house clutching my sides and trying to save all my jokes and puns for my blog instead of hurling them full-pelt at this landlord who seemed to think it acceptable to have everyone confined to their cells (ROOMS goddamnit!) and have 'Forbidden Rooms' downstairs.
We left. We walked. We talked. I was glad to hear Newby had exactly the same thoughts on the house as I did - I would have happily put up a tent inside the Terrestrial Army shooting grounds than have signed an application form for that house. Turns out, it is actually a half-way house for some (OH MY LORD!) and so are the two houses either side. WHAT THE HELL. Walked back home with Newby close to tears with the stress of it all. I told him he had to see the funny side of this, or I'd have gone completely insane living in France with no comical output from all the chaos! i'm sure if worse came to worse, we could live in the tower by the Stratford bridge?!
No comments:
Post a Comment