Dig if you will a picture... of the last five days chez moi

Think back to the last time you didn’t have a television in your house.

And for the smug Billies about to scroll down and press publish on their “actually, I haven’t had one for years and I quite like it. Anyway, got iPlayer for the snooker, innit” comment, please think back to the last time you didn’t have the internet, either.

Now, I think I’m right in saying that this situation alone will put most of my techy, culture-savvy readers back to circa 1995. But if you, by some stretch of the imagination, have neither of these things in 2012 and enjoy a spot of conversation in your silent abode instead (there’s no radio either, before you start on the joys of Radio 4’s evening schedule), kindly think back to the last time you had no TV, internet, radio or chit-chat over the kitchen table.

In fact, put the sources of any usual conversation abroad. Lets say Spain. Or Cuba. Also, remove any cats, dogs or parrots from the equation.

(Quiet in here, isn’t it?)

Oh! I forgot to mention. You’re single, without a flicker of interest from any corner, so don’t go imagining any spontaneous “hey you, watcha doin? i’m bored :)) xxxxxxxx” text messages will be arriving any time soon.

Actually, you’re right. Something’s missing from this picture.

Can we add in some rain? Make it the constant, dreary, near-torrential stuff that puts paid to any form of socialising after work, because not only are you watching the pennies anyway, but it's windy and cold, so all anyone wants to do is go home and watch the Apprentice instead.

And don’t go on Twitter via your phone! Your phone is a nightmare anyway, but you can't even resort to that now. No, no. Because everyone’s talking about the TV programmes you’re not watching – and that’s really annoying.

So there you ha… wait. I almost forgot the knee. The knee! You also have a gammy knee which has chosen this very week to take on all the characteristics of a particularly rickety elderly person and send lots of fun pain whizzing around whenever you try and bend it, for no apparent reason.

Blimey. Don’t forget the knee. That hurts.

Tell you what. Go to work. Come home. Cook your dinner (it's pasta, again). Read a book, have a bath. Take some pain killers. Go to bed. Listen to sirens. Fall asleep.

Sounds nice, doesn’t it? It is!

Now wake up and repeat this process again the next day. And the next. And the next.

I know what you’re thinking. “Is it the weekend yet?”

No. There are still 24 hours to go until the working week meanders to its spectacularly quiet, slightly soggy conclusion.

But soon it will be Friday, and your housemate will be back from holiday.

Then, and only then, may you permeate the silence and join in with a rousing chorus of “HIYA! You’re back! Woo! Shall we get the internet sorted and buy a telly? Yeah. I’ll get the wine in."

And not a moment too soon.

All change, please.

Urgh, change. What a hassle.

There you are, trotting along nicely when all of a sudden in comes change; expensive, shocking, annoying change, ballsing up your finely tuned plans with the latest startling revelation.

Change is the friend who lets you tell your happy news, before dropping in their own and stealing your thunder. It's that idiot who walks in the room and makes everyone say "Oh, God, not you again. Haven't you done enough?"

In short, change is a bastard.

But you know, as much as change gets in the way of an otherwise happy life, I'm struggling to think of a time where something good hasn't come out of it.

Break-ups lead to a better social life and new, improbably brilliant friends.

Change makes you realise that your parents will never say "I told you so" when you crash, burn, and return home (again). The neverending search for employment - weirdly - always seems to lead to a better job than all the ones you coveted along the way.

Previously reliable friends might suddenly call time on your living arrangement, but then you find yourself living in an area of London you've liked for ages, with a new, equally single housemate and a commute that takes you on a daily bus tour through your favourite parts of the city.

Change can cost more money per month, but it can also give you an original wood floor and massive windows. It can leave you without internet or TV for a while, but give you conversation over a glass of wine instead.

When you think about it, change isn't out to piss you off, it's just showing you another way to do things.

Change isn't that bad, really.

But if things could just stay like this for a little while, then I'd really rather like it.

Good decisions made on bad hangovers

It was 11am last Saturday morning when myself and the Future Housemate viewed our fourth flat of the morning.

Whether it was our hangovers, the time of day, or both - the previous three places we'd seen were almost instantly discounted on the grounds of smell alone.

While the communal corridors and private spaces of the first two flats contained a pungent whiff of this morning's bacon and last night's dinner, the third hit us with a thick wall of cigarette smoke; a suffocating smell that permeated every inch of space and followed us out the door within minutes.

The fourth, we liked.

It was modern. It had good transport links nearby. It was over budget, but we wanted it anyway. I put down a deposit there and then.

With the first of my housing problems taken care of, there remained one more thing to sort out: myself.

When you're unhappy with a situation, you always have two options: you can either stay unhappy and complain to anyone who'll listen, or you can do something about it. Realising that I was fast falling into the former category, I chose to take action.

Firstly, I called up my friends and got drunk.

Then, the next morning, with another hangover dictating my actions, I started packing up my things at the old house, despite having another two weeks remaining on the rent. By the afternoon, the contents of my bedroom - the only space in the shared house that felt mine, really - were packed into plastic bags, boxes and rucksacks and ready to go home.

By the evening, I was sitting on a sofa in a warm, clean house with a large, grateful dog on my lap, in the company of my new 60 year old house mates - my parents.

And after a week of getting in from work to find dinner on the table, there remains only one problem left to face: the challenge of moving back out and cooking for myself again in six week's time.

Just so you know, this is what we're up against here.

Every time I get an e-mail alert about a new property, I do a few checks before calling to arrange a viewing.

1. Price 
Is the flat at the top end or bottom end of my budget?

2. Description 
Is the flat above a commercial building, a.k.a, a rancid kebab shop?

3. Pictures
Is there cat shit on the carpet? Is there carpet?

4. Map of area
Because sometimes, they say "Islington" when what they really mean is "Essex".

And when I'm satisfied that it might be what I'm looking for, I do one final thing.

5. Google Street view

Technology: Saving you time since 2007.

Experience the joys of flat hunting in London

Flat hunting in London is a very special experience. 

In fact, if you've never felt your hope deflate, melt, and accumulate slowly into a pool of disillusion at your feet in the space of 30 seconds, then I highly recommend you try it.

Because 30 seconds is usually all it takes, and I'm not talking about that "oh, you just know" instinct that buyers harp on about. I mean literally: you walk through the door and within 20 seconds you've seen the living room, kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms of wildly varying proportions, which leaves another few seconds to pause and take in the damp using only your nose.

And because the estate agent's standing there while you open various doors looking for the secret Narnia cupboard that £650 per month would probably get you up in Newcastle, you make the best of it.

You find yourself saying things like "Without that bed, you could probably fit a desk in there", and "Oh, well it's not like I'd need to get to the kitchen much anyway", before shaking hands and leaving, stepping over the puddle of despair on your way out.

It also doesn't take long to realise that basements are good for a lot of things; storing bicycles, hiding boyfriends, even raising children you fathered with your daughter, but they seldom make for light, airy, sweet smelling living spaces.

Likewise, when even the "enough room to swing a cat" cliche would be pushing it in the bedrooms of the split level maisonette you're viewing (n.b. fish-eyed cameras lie), it's all you can do to cease wondering where the second level got to and quip to your Future Housemate, "Well, on the plus side, the bedrooms are the same size".

And ah, Gumtree listings; where Marylebone means Edgware Road, Camden means Holloway, "shabby chic" means your bed's in the living room, and £240 per week means you're the wrong side of Finsbury Park Station.

Samuel Johnson said when you're tired of London, you're tired of life.

I say when you're tired of flat hunting in this city, you're probably only just getting started. 

The redefinition of "good news"

"...the good news is that we have until the 24th March" continued Tuesday's text message, thus confirming Monday's surprise announcement.

Needless to say, my response was short, polite, but to the point, and began with the suggestion that the sender reassess his definition of the term "good news".

As well as putting the wheels in motion to relocate myself, this week has also been an exercise in trying to work out whether the annoyance I feel about having to find a new house so soon after moving in to this one is justified.

While the responses of friends, family and you lot seemed to suggest that this was indeed Crap News Delivered Badly, unfortunately there remained two people who didn't (and, I expect, still don't) quite see the problem.

Suffice to say, it came as a bit of a surprise to have to explain, in detail, to the blank, uncomprehending faces of those responsible that my "not all that great, to be honest" mood on Wednesday morning wasn't down to the onset of the common cold.

So instead of wasting any more time being annoyed, I think maybe there is some good news in all of this. Because what this whole saga really confirms is that my own views, priorities and expectations - both in life, and of others - do not match up to those of an engaged couple.

And for a 27 year old who spent Tuesday evening in a friend's kitchen with eight other single girls, drinking cheap fizzy wine, doing shots of Glenfiddich and regaling the neighbouring Kings Cross residents with a loud, not altogether tuneful rendition of Beyoncé's Love On Top, I have concluded that this can be no bad thing.

Adjusting to life, piles of dishes, and odd toilet habits

When you think about it, life is just a series of adjustments.

You've got the big, major life changing ones that are worthy of celebration, fanfare, emergency rescues or expensive legal fees. I'm thinking break-ups, divorces, illness, having babies, getting married, buying a dog, or changing your god-awful career.

Then there's the changes you don't know you've made; the slow, barely perceptible adjustments done without realising: abandoning friends for a boy, the clawing back of self-confidence, a day passed with no thoughts of an ex, or lasting a whole day in high heels.

And finally, there's the "little and often" adjustments you make everyday, usually as a result of the bigger ones.

Case in point:

The biggest thing to happen this year, bar getting royally trampled on in the heart department (you'll notice omitting this from all blog posts is an adjustment I haven't yet made) is finally getting my sheet(s) together, moving out of home and into central London. 

This was the big adjustment, the one I've hankered after throughout my twenties. It heralded a life where coming home (or not) is done on my own terms, where the last tube home can leave without me on it, and meetings with either sex aren't answerable to the flagship of all parental questions: "Who's that then?".

And so, as with any big change, minor adjustments are inevitable. For example: allowing dishes to pile in the sink for longer than the time it takes to eat a meal, although granted, not to the height they did at university. Putting loo seats down without a dramatic slam and yell of "Fa' god's SAKE", and accepting that your sleep may be disrupted by someone stumbling in later than you, running the shower and promptly vomiting all over it. 

All these little things are now a part of life without parents, and readily accepted - vomit and all - as being par for the twenty-something course. 

But in between realising that no one else is going to mop the floor by the bin and entering into the quirks of shared living, there has been one, distinctly coupley thing which might not be so easy to accept. 

Because as long as the wall between my bedroom and the bathroom remains thin, I'm not sure I'll ever get used to the sound of one housemate weeing, while the other brushes their teeth.

Call me prudish, or worse - single, but it's just not cricket.

For I will de-hair a sink and put aside all OCD thoughts when sharing my toothpaste, but couple or not -  toilet time will always be a single endeavour. 

Onwards into the unknown, otherwise known as housesharing.

In the past, the idea of living with friends has never struck me as being a particularly good idea.

Yeah, it worked at university where you're all as downright dirty and disgusting as each other, but when you grow up a bit and start pretending to be a proper adult 'n' that, living successfully in a shared house can mean putting friendships to the test.

Even the PIB and I, in frequent discussions about the perils of living with parents, often flirted with the idea of renting a place together. But it was something I always stood firmly against: being one of my very best friends, the last thing I want to do is start stressing out because she left a cup on the floor and forgot to stock up the loo roll.

Also, given my tendency to be rather easily irritated (which, by the way, is not just a throwaway blog title, but in all likelihood an actual mental condition, ref this NY Times article  - thanks @Voneron), there has always been reticence on my behalf about living with people to whom I couldn't say "Mate, although you are on the other side of the room and the TV volume is high, the barely audible sound of you picking the skin around your finger nails is giving me enraged thoughts. Please cease immediately." or, more likely, "OHMYGODCAN'TTAKEITANYMORESHUTTHEHELLUP".

Then there's good old instinct. Any niggling doubts in my mind, unless temporarily blinded by the glare of glorious love, are usually taken fairly seriously. Like, if you think someone is showing signs of being a tad unreliable now, then chances are when you've got a £100 utilities bill about to go out and they're stalling on transferring the cash, that teeny little trait might implode and really start to get on one's tits.

All this could be negated - I supposed - by living with people you don't really know that well, whose feelings are a bit more disposable when you decide to call it a day. Or by living with a boyfriend, who will probably save you the effort when things go a bit nuts, and declare his feelings for a 30 year old woman from work after three weeks anyway. Ho-hum.

Yet the minute the text message arrived from these two friends "We have a room. Would you be interested?", the response of "Yes! Definitely!" was something I didn't even have to think about. No warning bells chimed, no worries nipped at my heels, despite the fact that the living situation would be something I'd previously, vehemently, actively discounted - living with two good friends, from my immediate social circle, who are also a (whisper it) couple. I know. Don't say it, I know. I always thought the same. But somehow, this time, it didn't really bother me.

At five days in, things are obviously still great. But having turned on the shower this morning and found the water running cold, my pen was soon poised over a note that read "Hi guys, have a lovely holiday, see you when you're back. Oh and there was no hot water this morning - hope you have better luck!", before I pausing and re-writing it, leaving off the last sentence.

At the moment I feel more settled than I have done in a long time.

And given what happened the last time I moved out, I'm not about to start guessing what little shared-living nuances lie ahead.

But one thing's for sure: as blog as my witness, passive aggressive notes will not be one of them.

Please be upstanding for the 27th Annual International Jo Day

Today is International Jo Day. 

This year I am celebrating by dragging mostly unused kitchenware from a shed at the bottom of the garden, washing it, and placing it in bags. Then I'm going to get all my clothes, the vast array of toiletries I seem to require daily, some choice photos and a selection of my favourite electronics, and pack all them up too.

Today I am 27. And I am moving out.

(Second time lucky, yeah?)

Two months til the end

"I don't see much sense in that," said Rabbit.

"No," said Pooh humbly, "there isn't. But there was going to be when I began it. It's just that something happened to it along the way."

Exactly two months today, I left work with an overnight bag and went home to my new flat. My boyfriend had been calling me all day, excited, asking if I could come home sooner. Then I was there and he was waiting inside, the heating was on; just us and some furniture, overnight things and a bottle of champagne. We went up onto the roof terrace (it was bloody cold and windy, but I insisted), popped the cork and drank to our new flat, before hurrying back downstairs into the warm.

A week and a half later we were watching a relationship fall apart in Blue Valentine. I curled up on the sofa, leaving enough room for him, but he sat on the floor in front of me. When you know someone, everything they do means something. Even the little things. Why didn't he sit next to me? Well, because something was up.

***

Yesterday I went back and cleared the rest of my belongings from the flat. Left on my own with my sister waiting downstairs in the car, I had one last look around. He would be coming to pick up the last of his things in the evening, so I wrote a note, "Thanks for fucking everything up". I walked out, then reconsidered and screwed it up. Then I turned off the lights, locked the door and posted the keys back through the letter box. His problem now.

And that was that.

Contact: wanted and unwanted

The worst thing about this break-up has been keeping in contact with someone who I would much rather banish to the fiery pits of Hell (and my Deleted Items).

From having him within striking distance at the flat, to getting e-mails in the middle of the working day, or missed calls before the working day has even begun, severing all ties with Bastard Ex has been more difficult than I would have liked. These communications are not "I miss you", "I'm sorry" or even "You absolute bastard, I hate you" (although there are plenty of the latter sitting in my drafts), but the sorting of formalities and ticking reminders that what we once shared is nearly - but not quite - gone.

The contact hasn't been all bad though. One particular email this week told me of an argument he was having with the estate agents over fees. Fees which he had agreed to pay in full, given that this big bloody mess is entirely his fault. Fees that were, to my joy, currently standing at £1200. "Oh, poor you." I thought, ignoring that part of the email and consigning it to Deleted Items, "Ain't karma a bitch?"

The rest of the email checked he was ok to come over to pick up his things that night. Although I was due to stay at the flat, thankfully dinner and drinks would keep me out long after his visit. When I stumbled in around 11pm, it was the absence of belongings that hit me more than anything else. The desk was dismantled, the wardrobe door was open and his clothes had gone. The TV stand was empty, his books and belongings cleared. Worse than being surrounded by his things - albeit hidden - was the void left when they were gone.

Before I left for work the next morning, I noticed two moving in cards that had been left on the side. One from my good friend Boston Girl, which included the sentiment "I hope you'll be very happy together". I folded it up and put it on a pile of my things. The other, frog shaped, from his mum and sister, addressed to both of us and wishing us "good luck in your new home".

Knowing that he'd be back to pick up the dismantled desk before I would, I picked up a pen and turned the card over. I couldn't help it. Contact between us has been so devoid of reference to his utterly stupid actions, that it felt wrong to leave him with no last words.

I scrawled my spur of the moment message* on the reverse, and left it on top of his things. A little keepsake from me to him to remind him that once there was more than just trite messages about financials and logistics.

Then I picked up my bag, and went to work.


* I spelt souvenir wrong. It grates on me, but he won't notice. 

No news is...well, no news

It's nearly ten o'clock and I'm still waiting to hear about the room. An e-mail this morning told me I was one of 20 people who viewed it yesterday, of which they'd whittled it down to three. They would, she said, decide this evening and let me know the outcome.

Add to this the e-mail I had from Bastard Ex making arrangements to collect his things, and today has been a day of jitters. Whatever happens with this house share - and at the moment I'm assuming no news is bad news - the countdown is on for next Monday when the flat can be ticked off my list of things to worry about.

All I want at the moment is to unpack somewhere and stay there for a while. From travelling to home, to the excitement of the moving out, the sudden shift home, back and forth to the flat for weekends...it's all just driving me a bit mad. I feel unsettled and I just want to stop in one place. My room's a mess; my belongings are all in bags ready to be unpacked, or shifted somewhere else.

I'd be happy with either at the moment. Inbetween is crap.

Pick me!

Friday night: three bottles of wine, an XXL pizza from Papa Johns, company in the form of my Canadian friend from travelling. And so began my final weekend in the flat.

Although I'll still have it next week, with most of my stuff now sitting in giant Ikea bags at home all that remains is to collect my duvet and clean the place. I don't plan to be there next weekend when Bastard Ex comes to clear his things, and will insist that he does the inventory check-out. With luck, I'll never have to see him again.

Being there alone doesn't upset me any more; the memories are mine rather than ours. But waking up this morning and hearing the sound of my Uni friend chatting to his mate in the living room was a comfort. He came in, flung himself onto my bed and gave me a hug. It was a reminder that although I'm 26, independent and have an anti-social streak to rival a Hermit crab, I don't want to live on my own.

With this in mind, tonight I went to view the house I'd seen on Gumtree earlier in the week. Having responded to the ad with a bit about myself, the girl had replied with a time for me to view the room and meet the other housemates. It's a nice place. The room is big. The other tenants were all lovely, and I chatted easily with them for half an hour in the living room before I left to come home. There was no avoiding the question which popped up quickly: "So, why are you moving out so soon?" - but I'm getting pretty good at answering that now. The story almost tells itself.

"Damn", I thought, as I said goodbye and headed to the tube station, "I like that place". Damn, because with several other people also in the running, there's every chance they'll have got on better with someone else. So my hopes are raised. If those hopes are dashed tomorrow, then just like everything else - it probably just wasn't meant to be.

And after everthing this year has thrown at me so far, I reckon I can deal with that.

Hosting duties

There's been a steady stream of guests visiting the flat lately. This, like everything else, has been a learning curve.

First up, there's the constant supply of fresh milk that has to be bought for the visiting tea drinkers, which neither of us actually are. This is a fun game where every weekend we buy a pint of milk, use a splash of it, then leave it festering in the fridge until the next guests arrive a week later; usually just after it's gone off. I am now toying with the idea of offering whisky shots instead.

Next, there was the slow realisation that having people over no longer means just opening the door and shouting "MUUUUUM, WHATSIT'S HERE". There's preparation to be done. This is how I found myself rushing round the flat like a badger on speed, clutching a cloth and a bottle of Dettol cleaning things at 10am on Sunday morning. Not that I mind cleaning, truth be told I find it quite therapeutic. But there's a time and a place for all that shiz...and it is neither morning, nor Sunday. And as we still don't have a Hoover, the bits of Bombay Mix scattered over the living room floor had to be carefully flicked under the sofa, one by one.

That stuff takes time.

But after all effort comes reward. And this, the last few weekends, has been in the shape of gifts. Namely food. For example, Boyfriend's Auntie, Mother and Sister came into my newly cleaned living room clutching a homemade Victoria sponge cake. My disappointment at the tin not containing the advertised Quality Street chocolates was placated by them taking us out for lunch. Having established that the pub down the road did a nice roast, we led them to the same place the Boyfriend's Dad fed us the week before (just after he'd dropped off a brand new Apple Mac and Ikea desk for it to sit on. Can't complain).

Yesterday, convinced that now I'm not living at home, I must be in need of a good meal, my parents met me on my lunch break. "Pick wherever you want to go! It's your treat" they said. I did as I was told and took them to Jamie's Italian - needs must.

So perhaps there is such thing as a free lunch after all. The question is, who can I invite round next Sunday, and what's the quickest way to get rid of them once I'm fed?

Bad things happen when I take time off work

This week has mostly been a holiday.

It was more revenge inspired than actually needing a break. With time off on Friday to get my flat keys and move in denied, I stuck out my petulant bottom lip and thought "Ha! Fine...I'm going to take Monday and Tuesday off the following week, then. In fact. Sod it. Throw in Wednesday too."

And so under the guise of 'unpacking', I sat on my arse all week and acclimatised myself to the wonder that is being 26, and living in my own place.

In celebration, I left my washing up in the sink...overnight. I took my king size duvet onto the sofa. I left empty water glasses scattered around the living room, and drank cider at inappropriate times of day. Without the internet to occupy me, I moved bookcases, stacked books according to size and attempted to untangle the atomic wire-bomb that has exploded behind the TV…before giving up and leaving it in a worse off state than when I started.

It was around that time that I stood up and bashed into a speaker, sending it flying into one of the Boyfriend's revered belongings. An item which happened to be a delicate, one-off, irreplaceable light fixture made entirely of glass, which I'd purposefully placed out of harms way while I celebrated my newly acquired OCD. After it made a rather cool 'thunk-pah' noise, the light shattered all over the carpet. I said "Oh shit, oh shit shit shit", then realised something else. In absence of a vacuum cleaner, each fragment of glass would have to be painstakingly swept up with a £1.99 dustpan and brush. Funtimes for me.

The best bit was definitely calling the Boyfriend at work and explaining I not only done a bad thing, but I done a bad thing to the one item of his that I'd expressed a dislike for not one day earlier. Eek indeed. (But also, in a little, tiny, hope-he-never-reads-this-way, problem solved).

So yesterday I went back to work.

Best for everyone, I think.